Olivier Morel’s film “On the Bridge,” which I viewed on Saturday, October 8, 2011, at the Chicago Film Festival, is a powerful, intense examination of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), based on filmed interviews with many of the veterans, families and friends affected by this “cancer of the spirit,” as it is termed by one soldier in the film.

The singer mentioned in the film (Jason Moon) put it this way in one haunting  lyric:

“Somewhere between lost and alone, Trying to find my way home.

I’m tryin’ to find my way home. It’s hard to fight an enemy that lives inside your head.”

Nowhere is this more true than in those returning Afghanistan and Iraq War veterans who suffer from PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). Olivier Morel, a French-born film-maker on the faculty of Notre Dame, began filming the documentary  interviewing returning veterans in cities across the United States over three years ago. The film, which is showing at the Chicago 47^th International Film Festival is “On the Bridge.” (*Review to follow).

What follows is an exclusive interview from Olivier Morel, the Director, who was kind enough to answer these questions about the documentary, [which I will review in a separate article and in shorter form for Yahoo and Associated  Content.]

Olivier Morel to Connie Wilson

Interview on the film “On the Bridge” (Zadig-Productions/ARTE, 2011)

www.onthebridgethemovie.com

1)  What initially inspired you to start making this documentary 2 years ago? Did you personally know some returning veterans …what?

This film would never have been possible without the fantastic women and men, the Iraq War veterans that I met while starting to develop what was at first a simple curiosity for the “subject:” They are the ones who inspired me. My initial intent was not necessarily to make a “film.” The very reason why I started working on the issue of war trauma among returning veterans from the war in Iraq is that I got really angry: I was stupefied when I learned about the epidemic of suicides among soldiers and veterans. (*8,000 a year, 23 a day).

The first thing I was exposed to, if I remember well, was that cold but gut-wrenching statistic in the news. I was also uncomfortable with the fact that the “news” rarely report on the subject: this is not a “breaking news” story. On the contrary. Like the war itself, it has become a very banal thing: the soldiers who are struggling with war-related psychological trauma “survived” the war, but many kill themselves at home and most of those deaths are completely anonymous. In most cases, those deaths are not seen as are war-related but rather as “personal” matters affecting “individuals” and it tells a lot about how our society relates to the current wars and those (soldiers, relatives, communities…) who are sacrificing for them. I found that unacceptable.

For some reason I ended up re-considering the entire way that the soldiers, or the veterans, are perceived in our society. To put it in a nutshell, I have the unpleasant feeling that, on the one hand, there is a positive perception that “glorifies” the “heroes” who are coming back from the war zones, and that, on the other hand, there is a (very) negative perception, a discomfort, to say the least, a taboo, or worse, a profound and insidious disgust with regard to what the soldiers have been through in combat zones, and regarding the kinds of actions in which they have been involved, the things they have done, etc.

Those representations, if they are connected with a concrete reality in many cases (yes, they are very brave, they deserve a tremendous respect; yes, in some cases that have already been reported. Bad things were done by occupation forces in Iraq, Afghanistan and other places, during the past ten years…), are also, in my opinion, very reducing, if not, very unfair when it comes to the “bad” things, and very disconnected when it comes to the “good” things.

This Manichaeism, this is my point, instead of helping us comprehend what the soldiers have been through, this attitude is, on the contrary, blocking us from understanding in all of the senses of the word, what is going on here. This is not only about understanding what it means that the U.S. is a society at war since 2001, this is also about what happens when, very concretely, soldiers are coming home : they are not understood, not well treated, not well considered and regarded, and the controversial ways in which the soldiers and veterans are handled by an institution such as the Veterans Administration is a paradigm of this lack of understanding[1]. That is what I found the most unacceptable. It affects the soldiers, the warriors, but also millions of families.  I had the unpleasant impression, that neither the families, the communities, were prepared (for their return from war), nor, the soldiers themselves! And that raises enormous questions: about our culture, our culture of the war, our understanding of what it means to be a soldier, to serve a country, to sacrifice, to be a warrior, and of course, to make the highly challenging adjustment back to civilian life when they come home, surrounded with civilians who (in the vast majority) have no clue (even when they think they know, which is complicated…) of what being in a war means. So, the consequences of this gap between the “good” and the “bad” soldier, is just devastating.

That’s why the film is “devastating.” A good friend of mine, who runs a movie theater, after having watched the film, said: I have tried to film in this “in-between” zone, this grey zone, trying to avoid the “good” and the “bad,” guy, this is why this is an observational documentary.

I started filming when I knew I had reached this point with the veterans, when they knew I would never judge them, but also not be a part of the “congratulations, thanks for your service” automatic and pre-formed discourse (this does not mean, I want to make it very clear, that I do not want to “thank” them. On the contrary: they are the most inspiring, bright and respectful people I have met in my life!). I’m not trying to glorify or magnify, and I’m not judging the fact, the war, the actions in which they have been  involved or about which they talk in very raw terms in the film.

The film is straightforward in that sense. No sentiments, no myth, but, I hope, a profound compassion, at the end. This is also what I have done with those mute portraits of the protagonists who are watching the viewer, looking straight into the lens of the camera, at the end of the film. To a certain extent and without sounding too convoluted I am trying to give the impression that this is a film that watches us, that interrogates us, instead of a film that we are passively watching.

So after the initial shock, I started investigating around 2007. Now the subject is less and less anonymous, mostly because the post 9/11 era veterans are organizing themselves and starting to constitute a real “political” and social lobby in our society. Also because there are wonderful individuals who are publishing books or making great films (think about the unexpected recognition of a feature film like The Hurt Locker, great documentaries like Restrepo, Poster Girl, Where Soldiers Come From, for example), that are, very slowly, exposing the general public to these issue. I still do not see a drastic change in the overall people’s attitude toward the issue, but I hope this will happen!

Christopher Kim & Vincent Emanuele, from the documentary "On the Bridge."

My interest in the subject might also be related to the fact that I am  European citizen (born and raised in France) who emigrated to the U.S. in 2005. While I was developing this project, I was also applying for United States citizenship. As a European, I belong to the first generation who never got drafted in a war since the beginning of the 20^th century. And what wars! WWI, WWII, decolonization (the Algerian war specifically…)… all conflicts that had a devastating and profound impact on everyone’s lives, including in my own family. (*In introducing the film, Olivier mentioned his grandfather, who became an alcoholic after his war service and died of a heart attack when Olivier was a boy.) So making On the Bridge was also a very personal journey.

2) How did you first become interested in film, and what is your “official” title at Notre Dame?

I have worked as a radio, print and TV journalist in Europe for almost 20 years (I started when I was just 18…). While I had collaborated on many TV documentaries, I never had directed one before On the Bridge, which is  feature-length.

At the University of Notre Dame I teach as a lecturer and also work for the Doctoral program in Literature. This is a great institution and the level of support and enthusiasm that I encountered at “N.D.” while doing this, is just fantastic: from colleagues and students, from employees, from all different horizons! Notre Dame has a very convincing way to cross boundaries and take advantage of the “trans-disciplinary” dimensions of such a work: from film studies (Film Television and Theater) to sociology, from literature (Romance Languages and Literatures) to “peace building” (Notre Dame has a powerful Kroc Institute for International Peace Studies, http://kroc.nd.edu/aboutus).

In this very dynamic context, most of my recent classes and research focuses on this question: why is trauma such a significant source for creation and writing today, while at the same time trauma is also what leaves us speechless, without words? I faced this question in my doctoral dissertation, which investigates the impact of the Holocaust on contemporary writers from outside Germany (People who live in Berlin, the epicenter of the Holocaust, and who are dealing with multiple religious identities, Jewish, Muslim, Christian and nationalities, Russian, Hungarian, Turkish, etc.) I am also dealing with this in the film, while showing veterans who are carrying the burden of the War in their souls, while writing, composing music, speaking out, building bridges between soldiers and civilians, Americans and Iraqis…

3) We talked a bit about your country of origin. Do you have any insight into how the people(s) of Europe (including France) view the U.S. involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan at this time?

It is very dangerous to generalize. Historians, sociologists, among others, are already investigating this very carefully. Without misrepresenting things here, one can say that in most European countries, including those who joined the coalition which invaded Iraq in 2003, a vast majority of the population was, to say the least, very suspicious about the reasons to go off to war against Iraq, and more specifically, I think there were not many European citizens who believed in the official version(s) provided by the U.S. administration: the existence of WMDs, for example, but more importantly, the fact that Iraq had anything at all to do with the 9/11 attacks, etc.

You probably remember that, on the contrary, a majority of the U.S. population trusted those versions, while there were huge demonstrations against the invasion of Iraq all across Europe. This is not saying, though, that the European people “liked” the Saddam Hussein regime or “hated” America and “supported the terrorists” against the U.S. On the contrary! But Europeans (to just mention the place where I was born and raised) were very cautious and had bad memories of the previous invasions of Iraq! It might sound very far from us today, but for the reasons I already explained, WWI has affected every family in Europe (including mine), and there are still many families in the United Kingdom or France, who remember that their grandfathers or great-grandfathers fought and died in the Middle East, and… in Iraq for example, in…1917, 1918 and that Europeans were militarily involved in those regions during the Second World War, not to mention the wars of decolonization. Of course most of the world leaders who were in favor of the invasion, never put this history up in the front, but the citizens are not as stupid and amnesiac as is often claimed.

Witnessing and facing these misunderstandings made this time (2002-2003) a very painful moment for me. And even with the turnabout of the U.S. attitude towards the war in Iraq, things still have not been processed, and this tension still has bad consequences on the very complex and passionate U.S./France relationship, to just mention an emblematic case of the love-hate fascination that the world (and not only Europe) has for the U.S.

Now, I am only focusing on Iraq in my response. The case of the war in Afghanistan is slightly different in many ways, and it would take me a long time and too much space here to explain why. You probably know that the French are involved in Afghanistan, and that, by the way, more French soldiers died in Afghanistan this year than ever since the beginning of the war ten years ago.

4) I worked with head injury patients at a Sylvan Learning Center I owned for close to 20 years. Your film is about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, another serious mental condition. What do you think is going to happen to all these returning damaged young men and women? More of them were “saved” in these conflicts than in any other previous wars, but saved in what fashion? Do you think the U.S. is equipped to deal with such serious mental disorders as these, and, if not, what would you as an educator and a human being like to see done to help these injured soldiers that isn’t being done?

In his second address, President Abraham Lincoln said that the Nation had to “care for him who has borne the battle and for his woman and orphan.” Unfortunately, instead, the Veterans’ Administration is far from living up this motto.

I am not an expert in PTSD or war-related trauma from a medical perspective. I am not the most competent person either when it comes to analyzing and commenting on the way the health care system has dealt with the enormous influx of traumatized veterans since 9/11. So all the things I might express here relate to the many books and articles I read on the subject, as well as many conversations with care providers, therapists (my dear friend Hans Buwalda, who was a consultant on the film, or Dr. Judith Broder who created the Soldier’s Project), and of course the dozens, if not hundreds of veterans with whom I have spent a lot of time in different parts of the U.S. (West Coast, Midwest and East-Coast) during the past two-three years.

That said, to my stupefaction, my empirical study was confirmed by a few other sources like great books I read. There is  massive agreement in the veterans’ community about the fact there is a shameful lack of preparation and adequacy of the system. The lack of preparation has a strong impact on the epidemic of suicides by soldiers/veterans in the U.S.

This was not only a lack of anticipation, but, I think, also a political choice. Shortly before the beginning of the invasion of Iraq, on February 3, 2003, Defense Secretary Rumsfeld told the soldiers in Italy that the war “could last six days, six weeks. I doubt six months.” (*On the 10^th anniversary of the war, on-air commentator Wolf Blitzer marveled somewhat disingenuously that no one thought the war would last ten years when it began. This may be true for Wolf Blitzer, but some of us who were protesting it as it started felt otherwise.) This is also in 2003, in January, that the Veterans Administration announced that a cost-cutting move would start turning away middle-income veterans who applied for medical benefits. As a result, in 2007, a team of researchers from Harvard found that 1.8 million veterans lacked of health insurance. This is just an example taken among the many cuts that were operated in the VA’s budget in this period[2]. For me, this was extremely difficult to comprehend and I think that it is also the case for the vast majority of our fellow Americans who are aware of the sacrifice that the soldiers of this Nation are making, as well as their relatives, friends, communities.

Now if we consider that there is a whole generation of veterans who are going on multiple deployments (up to 9 now!) it is very easy to understand why this epidemic of war-related psychological trauma, suicide, etc., is unprecedented… Like you say, it might also reflect on the specificity of those wars. I have seen the devastating effects of that situation all the vets I met! For the majority of them, being just able to survive the VA’s hurdles, and bureaucracy, the delays, the complexity of putting together the required elements to make your case plausible, is a huge struggle, that is even worsened by the fact that the veterans are asked to repeat “their story”, to explain their “problems” over and over, with all the consequences that one can imagine: the system is set up in such a way, that it is re-traumatizing them…

As far as I see it today, I think that this Nation is still very far from recognizing and treating its veterans decently. So as an filmmaker and educator (to answer your highly pertinent question), I am doing what everyone should be doing: not accept the disastrous situation of our veterans as a fatality. Things are going to change, not only when veterans organize themselves (and they are doing it beautifully!), but also, when the “civilian” population takes its responsibilities.

5) When you were filming, you mentioned the warm welcome of Chicago residents, and I know you became close with these returning veterans. Have you “lost” any friends from these groups? In other words, have there been any instances of some of the veterans whom you interviewed saying, “I can’t handle this” and, in an extreme case, committing suicide? Conversely, have you seen any signs of recovery in any individuals you, specifically, became acquainted with?

Lisa Zepeda, veteran and Chicago police officer, and Director Olivier Morel.

These friendships that we have built over the course of the past three years with veterans, are among the most inspiring, powerful and beautiful things that happened in my life. And I want to name them, they are my heroes: Wendy Barranco, Lisa Zepeda, David Brooks, Vinny Emanuele, Ryan Endicott, Jason Moon, Chris Arendt, Derek Giffin, Sergio Kochergin, but also my dear friends Jason Lemieux & Kevin Stendal, the veterans’ friends and relatives whom one should never forget when we talk about war-related psychological trauma: Eduardo Zepeda, Louis and Sylvia Casillas, Cecelia Hoffman, Paulina Brooks, Alejandro Villatoro, Aaron Hughes, Pete Sullivan, Hans Buwalda, Nikki Munguia, Sarah Dolens-Moon, Dylan Moon, Molly M. Taylor and of course the parents of Jeffrey M. Lucey, Joyce and Kevin, and his sister Debbie, who are playing a crucial role in the film.

The reason why I am mentioning these names is because when you ask about how the vets could “handle this” one can never forget the great men and women who are behind them: this is not an individual who is being deployed and then comes back to civilian life. For the reasons I mentioned earlier—the lack of institutional care, notably—the first in line who “cares” for the veteran is a husband, a wife, their children, a father, a mother, a brother, a sister, their friends, their neighbors, the overall society… They are the one who are, at first, exposed to the consequences of the war on a soldier’s soul. And when most of these exposures to the soldier’s tormented souls, occur in private, when the first “symptoms” or “crisis” erupt in the middle of the night, or during the Thanksgiving meal, or… on the 4^th of July (you know why… the explosions…), I deeply think that it is not a fully “private” thing, on the contrary! We are all involved, concerned, and this is why I have put these animated “pictures” of mute, immobile veterans, watching straight in the lens of the camera, head on, at the end of the film: to give the viewers the idea that this is not a film that they are watching, that this is not for entertainment, but rather, that this story regards them, that the vets are watching them at the end, asking them questions. I know it might sound like an easy and convoluted affirmation, but I wanted to make a film that watches us, us the society, instead of a film that we watch in the classical sense of the term.

Director Olivier Morel surrounded by veterans, advisors and friends, after the October 8, 2011, screening of "On the Bridge" at the Chicago Film Festival.

In this context, filming those veterans would never have been possible without a long, very careful and dynamic preparation. I did not show up one day with a crew, putting a huge HD camera and lights in their faces to ask them to talk about the most disturbing moments of their lives! I worked hard on trying to find veterans who would be willing to talk about their “stories” but also at the same time, to try to avoid, as much as possible, the potentially strong undesired side-effects of the exposure to their combat-stress that would logically occur as a consequence of the filming, the interviews etc. I was very fortunate to have the support, and tremendous help, of wonderful professionals, like Hans (Johanna) Buwalda who is a therapist who does an amazing job (http://storiesandart.com/), working in Chicago with veterans, fighting for their rights, helping them readjust, and find their way through the complex and discouraging VA system, among many things. It has been the most challenging and extremely stressful thing that I had to handle during the making of this film: I really wanted to do it to address the issue of “PTSD”, but to do so, to share the difficult aspects of the daily life of a traumatized veteran “at home,” I had to put my protagonists in difficult and challenging situations and I did it in full awareness of what could happen. It is still a source of astonishment to me, that they all gave 200% in the project, from the very beginning, and this is not “my” film, in a certain sense, or a film about “them”, but our film, a film about us (in many sense of the term). In other words (and I do not want to say much about that), I also gave a lot of myself in this work.

I really admire the courage that they had, and their relatives and friends, to testify without filter, straight, head on! I could not begin to tell you all the amazing stories behind the film (this would be another film), but for example, this fascinating singer, Jason Moon (http://www.jasonmoon.org/fr_home.cfm): we filmed him in March. Around the middle of July, I received a long email from him. He had not contacted me in a long time, and I did not want to bother him… so I was awaiting a sign from him in great anxiety, furthermore, I was already in the stressful editing room, surrounded with colleagues who were just in tears anytime they had a chance to watch the images of the recordings of his beautiful and moving songs, of his interviews… If you watch the film, you will know that Jason is, was, has been extremely disturbed after is deployment to Iraq, to a point that was debilitating. After he came back, he went through all kinds of phases, from the happiness of being back home, to… hell. The only thing that he could still do from time to time, was take his guitar, write songs, but even that, he could no longer do it after a few months. During this period, he wrote the most powerful, violent, sad and haunting songs I have heard in my life… (Jason had written a few songs upon his return from Iraq, in which he described the different phases of his PTSD, but was unable to “touch” those, because of the overwhelming emotional charge that was associated to those songs…). Now, as said, I get this email in July: Jason explained that it had taken him eight long weeks to “recover” from the filming session (March), that he was starting to feel “better” and that he came out of the post-filming depression, while wanting to finish writing his songs, and that new songs were pouring out of his soul, that he wanted to record an album. While reading this email in the Parisian heat in the middle of our editing room, I was going through all the possible states of mind that are humanly imaginable: anxiety, fear, devastation, but also elation, happiness, joy. Not only had Jason been profoundly affected by our filming session, and had been put at risk, but also, had he been able to beautifully overcome, and come back stronger than he ever was since he had deployed! I was so impressed and proud him… of us! Today Jason is performing every week, he has been invited to perform in all kinds of contexts, including at Walter Reed… And I could mention similar stories of veterans who are today doing much better than when we first met three-four years ago. Not that the film has always necessarily played a role, but I think that it was the case for many of them: the sensation that they would touch other people’s minds, was indeed, very rewarding from them.

That’s why I also deeply hope that this film will reach people out, that we seeing the very beginning of its career. And this is not a selfish affirmation, as you see. This is our contribution, and we want to change things here. It’s urgent.

Chicago! Yes! After many years in the U.S., for reasons that I still cannot fully explain, Chicago remains as my favorite, always close to my heart! By far! And this is not only, for the obvious reasons, due to the beauty of this city, the mysterious presence (especially for an European) of this gigantic Lake, the splendor of its downtown… this is also that in my experience of the city, I have found a level of understanding and support in Chicago. For example, we have had the privilege to film Lisa Zepeda at her workplace, with the Chicago Police. Many people told me that it would be fairly difficult to obtain authorizations, to be able to film Lisa in uniform, etc. We had to work a bit on it, but as soon as they learned about my project, and how I was planning on working, they were not only very welcoming, but even preceded all of my expectations. For example, I have had the privilege to interview Lieutenant Jeffry Murphy, who is in charge of a very original program, the Crisis Intervention Team (http://www.nami.org/Template.cfm?Section=CIT&Template=/ContentManagement/ContentDisplay.cfm&ContentID=94839), a group that is trying to train people in the Police on how to handle potentially traumatized veterans in their daily work, interventions etc. This, as far as I know, is a pilot program, that is rather unique that it is precisely going in the direction that I am pointing in my work here: the fact that our society has to prepare itself for all the challenges that are occurring when the soldiers, the warriors are coming back. And this is not a discovery: unfortunately, many people do not realize that we are only seeing the beginning of the epidemic (of PTSD or war-related psychological trauma) at the very beginning of the process, it will take a long, a considerable and constant effort…

Olivier Morel, Director

South Bend, Indiana, October 7, 2011

These from the departing Chairman of Apple, who is battling cancer, as he has been for some time:

1)      “About finding work:  Don’t settle. Find work you love.”

2)      “Almost everything—all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure—these things just fall away in the fact of death, leaving only what is truly important.”

3)      “Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose.”

4)      “Apple’s goal isn’t to make money. Our goal is to design and develop and bring to market good products…We trust as a consequence of that, people will like them, and, as another consequence, we’ll make some money. But we’re really clear about what our goals are.”

5)      (1984, on the release of the Macintosh computer):  “We’re gambling on our vision, and we would rather do that than make ‘me too’ products.  Let some other companies do that.  For us, it’s always the next dream.”

6)      (On being fired by Apple)  “It was the best thing that could have ever happened to me.  The heaviness of being successful was replaced by the lightness of being a beginner again, less sure about everything.  It freed me to enter one of the most creative periods of my life…It was awful tasting medicine, but I guess the patient needed it.  Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick.  Don’t lose faith.”

7)      “Being the richest man in the cemetery doesn’t matter to me…Going to bed at night saying ‘We’ve done something wonderful. That’s what matters to me.’”

8)      “I want to put a ding in the Universe.”

9)      ““Here’s to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes… the ones who see things differently — they’re not fond of rules… You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them, but the only thing you can’t do is ignore them because they change things… they push the human race forward, and while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius, because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do.”

“We don’t get a chance to do that many things, and every one should be really excellent…Because this is our life. Life is brief, and then you die, you know?”

She was ushered into a large room with various peoples who also had “food items” and got to watch surly customs agents launching various fruits and vegetables at bins along the wall for hours. Add to that the delights of experiencing a drug-sniffing dog! After the first “food room,” there was (apparently) a second food room and, well, the connecting flight didn’t allow for hours spent watching surly customs inspectors launch miscellaneous fruits at garbage bins.

When it finally came time for her to “declare” the precise food item she had, the customs agent just grunted and passed her on through…too late to make a connecting flight to Des Moines, I think.

Reminds me of the time we were asked, when re-entering the country from Cancun, if we had had any contact with “livestock” and I truthfully piped up, “What about the spider monkeys that climbed all over us at Coba?”  Despite my husband’s best attempts to muzzle me, much merriment ensued. These are the sorts of adventures I relate in “Laughing through Life” because, really, you have to laugh or else you’d cry.

Mayan Observatory at Chichen Itza.

If you’ve seen the movie “Against All Odds,” you may be familiar with some of these sights of one of the 7 Wonders (new) of the World.

Is this meant to represent a lizard or Quetzalcoatl?

The moon, at times, in Mexico, was bright red. This is a beautiful shot.

A picture of the moon during the now defunct Venetian Boat Night.

Now there's somethin' you don't see ever' day!

Stacey (Wilson) and Emmie (Futrell) visiting Tulum, Mexico.

The girls (Emmie and Stacey) took an all-day excursion to Xelha today, which saw them also visiting the ruins at Tulum. Most of the pictures below are of the ruins at Tulum, which has a breathtaking view of the ocean and a beach far below.
The girls seemed to really enjoy Xelha, where, they said, a bicycle could be used to move from place to place and visitors could wander off on paths alone, rather than having to move as part of a group tour.

Beach at Tulum, Mexico.

What follows are the pictures that Emmie Futrell shot, mostly in Tulum, Mexico.

Tulum, Mexico ruins.

Tulum: tropical birds.

Ruins at Tulum, Mexico.

Ava enjoys the pool at the Royal Sands in Cancun, Mexico, on April 10, 2011.

We’re here in Cancun, our first full day.

The pools and beaches are much less crowded than normal during “spring break” but this could be because “spring break” is over. Or, it could be that people are not traveling to Mexico, due to all the bad publicity. Or it could be because they’ve jacked the price(s) up on things like a massage (formerly $75, now, for three of us $297. (Yikes!). I got him to throw in a pass to the exercise/spa/hot tub room ($50 for the week) and one of our party is responsible for 1/3 of that amount. So, if you deduct the $50, I guess the expense (which is a birthday gift to daughter-in-law Jessica) is the same as last year’s amount, but everything seems more expensive.

Stacey and Scott poolside in Cancun at the Royal Sands on April 10, 2011.

We have two units in play: one is our “normal” 1^st floor digs, with the 23-year-old daughter (Stacey) and her friend Emmie Futrell in residence in the second bedroom with its own bathroom. I love my 2-year-old granddaughters, but it is nice that the people in this unit actually sleep slightly later.

Two-year-old Elise Wilson enjoys the water in the baby pool at the Royal Sands.

Today was the “Welcome Party,” which means free drinks (rum and cokes). I am so over the hoopla of throwing water balloons at one another and refuse to take part, as I have done for the past 10 years or so. The daughter and her father gamely took part, but the winner…believe it or not…was Elise, age 2, who somehow ended up with the only intact water balloon and “won” a bag from the establishment, which is handy for taking things to the beach. I thought ahead and had the spouse pack the “Chicago” bag I bought at the airport last year on our way here. It makes a perfect beach bag, and he said it wasn’t too difficult to get in on the bottom of his luggage.

Just off the lobby, this is the view from the Royal Sands.

The trip here was uneventful. We even had an empty seat between us in the set of 3 on American Airlines, which is unusual. Is this, too, a sign of the economic times?

There was a woman sitting in my aisle seat when we first reached our row, and she seemed very put out to be asked to take her own seat, which turned out to be in the middle. She spent most of her time prior to take-off sulking and turned on her laptop computer and began watching some cartoon or movie that featured dogs barking loudly. Since she had not brought headphones, it appeared that I would have to listen to her dog cartoon for the entire trip, but I was intent on ignoring her obvious pique at being asked to sit in her own assigned seat.

Heaven, thy name is Cancun's beach.

At that point, she summoned the stewardess and began some long involved tale about her husband’s pulled hamstring muscle and how he HAD to be sitting on an aisle. This was odd, because he was never seated on the aisle. He was seated against the exterior of the plane and SHE was seated on the aisle, the seat that was mine, which she really did not want to give up.

April 10, 2011 in Cancun, Mexico (Royal Sands Resort).

The stewardess kindly offered them places behind us so that her husband could have an aisle seat…, which was obviously not the issue, despite the woman’s clever oh-so-sweet explanations to the stewardess.

After their first move, next thing I heard was that they were moving AGAIN.

The first part of the trip was extremely bumpy. Even the stewardesses were told not to get out of their seats. There were storm systems and they buffeted us until we cleared Memphis, which did not seem like that long a time. One small child on the right side of the plane (age approximately 3) knew and shouted only 1 word for the entire trip. “NO!” There was a baby approximately six months old in that aisle, as well. The baby cried upon take-off, but was pretty well behaved, overall.

We arrived at our “home away from home” fairly early (noon) and learned that the shuttle prices from the airport have escalated from $12 per person to $16 per person. You must walk through the airport and outside near the front entrance of the airport to book a shuttle at the information desk. You must not be led astray by the many Time Share sales people standing there ready to pull you aside and book you into a Time Share “pitch.” As owners of 2 time-shares since 1995 or so, with a history of visiting for 3 years before buying (Fiesta Americana Condessa for 2 years and 1 year renting at the Royal Mayan), we know the drill.

This year, our time-share, the Royal Sands, has improved many things. The stove and microwave in our kitchen are new. All villas have wireless. New 32” flat screens have been installed in 3 places inside the units (2 bedrooms and the living room area).

We visited the store within the resort immediately and bought the basics. The “basics” this year cost $300 U.S. dollars. This seemed high, but we were expecting all 10 other members of the family fest to arrive at our unit and expect snacks and drinks. It’s always nice to be warmly greeted with hospitality.  We will be here for 2 weeks, so we will definitely use the eggs, bread, margarine, pop, etc.

After the purchase of the groceries, the husband said, “If I have even one beer, I think I’ll fall asleep.” We had to get up at 5 a.m. in order to make our 8 a.m. flight.

As soon as the groceries (pushed to our first floor unit in borrowed grocery carts) were put away, my husband announced that he wanted to go sit outside by the pool. He had already unpacked his clothes. I had not, so I stayed in the room and unpacked my suitcase. At some point, I decided to just lie down for a few minutes.
An hour later when my daughter and her friend arrived from Nashville, I heard discussions about whether to wake me up. I immediately joined the group.

Soon, the 2 family groups with the young children arrived and now the party is in full swing. More on the rest of the week (today is Sunday), as it progresses.

One bit of good news: “Ricardo” (i.e., Richard), the one continuing presence in our close to 20 years of visiting Cancun, has returned to the Royal Resorts fold and we will see him for either lunch or breakfast on Thursday. Today was the Welcome Party. Tomorrow is the traditional Taco Party.

We spent the night watching “The Celebrity Apprentice” on TV from a Florida station. Gary Busey is obviously nuts. Very entertaining, but obviously a liability for the Men’s Team. Mark McGrath was very articulate and got kicked off. I think Donald Trump is doing all this “I’m running for President stuff” to get publicity for his show, among other pursuits.

Viva, Cancun!

In checking m Internet mail, I received a request that I apologize for an “over-the-top” comment made to a person in charge of a judging committee for the Bram Stoker awards. I had volunteered (I thought to help this person out) a long time ago. ) I recently received a notice asking me to ‘sit tight.” Then, I received a list of people who will be “judging.” I am not among those who will be judging, which is “ok.”

I wrote back and asked why, in Heaven’s name, I was asked to “sit tight.” Was this a process not unlike a pretty girl getting multiple offers for date night? The pretty girl in question would “pick and choose” when she knew who was going to apply? That was not my impression, originally. I understaood that the organization was short on true blue volunteers, and, since I am semi-retired, I thought I would offer. Bad decision, apparently.

I was pronounced “over the top” for asking what happened (???) and told to apologize. I sent a Universal Apology to the  Universe. This entire scenario is getting ridiculous. Sucking up 101. I am too old for sucking up 101. I do “play nice in the sandbox” but, “Sheesh.”

At this point, as we just arrived in sunny Mexico and the weather is vastly improved over Chicago, I am in fine fettle and good spirits. I will apologize to anyone who will pay the price. I will not, however, suck up to people insincerely, because I do it really poorly. I am sincere, and, when it is merited, I do it well, but insincere sucking up is not my stock in trade.

My two-year-old granddaughters arrived. Must go eat.

Terrible Toyota Tundra

I decided to post this account of my car accident of March 31, 2011, to warn other drivers who might not want to have their small car crushed by a giant silver behemoth of a truck, simply because they are driving up Kennedy Drive, on their way to Best Buy to purchase 3 flash drives. Not in any particular rush. Just 12 blocks or so away from home.

For those who live in the Illinois Quad Cities, I want to warn you of this “most dangerous” intersection…(or one of the most dangerous)…in the city. I mean, of course, 30^th Avenue and Kennedy Drive, right where the Walgreen store sits. I was driving south toward the Jewel store on Kennedy Drive. I came to the intersection mentioned above and noticed that there were several cars in the left turn lane (which would be a turn to head your car toward Silvis, something I did every morning for 17 and ½ years, so I know that turn well).

I was paying attention. I was only driving 30 mph. You have to pay attention in the East Moline to Moline area, or you will be picked up for speeding. I try to always run radar. The border between Moline/East Moline on 30^th Avenue as you drive towards Wilson Junior High School is particularly problematical.

There is a hill on 30^th Avenue, or perhaps it is more accurate to call it a dip. As your car heads towards Moline (from East Moline) the speed limit drops from 35 mph in East Moline to 30 mph in Moline, with almost no marking. And this happens at the bottom of a hill. So, the police thoughtfully park their vehicles on a side street, wait for you to reach the bottom of the hill and (probably) move above 30 mph, so that they can give you a ticket for speeding.

At the bottom of said hill you are usually  “fair game” to be picked up for speeding, since you may have inadvertently picked up speed as you coasted down the hill (it’s called gravity), and you are entering Moline’s 5 miles per hour slower speed limit, although you have not changed roads or directions. If this seems unfair to you, join the club. In order to be in strict compliance with the change in driving speed between Moline and East Moline, you’ll have to be applying your brake as you coast down the hill. Otherwise, you’ll be facing the music in court. Be aware. Be wary. You could try defying gravity, but I doubt if you’ll have much luck with this approach.

But I was not ON 30^th Avenue this day.

I was merely diving slowly (I only go 30 mph now everywhere to avoid speed traps like the one on 30^th Avenue mentioned above) up Kennedy Drive towards the Jewel store in Kennedy Square (and on past it to Best Buy out near Southpark Mall.)

As I approached the red light at the intersection of 30^th Avenue and Kennedy Drive, heading towards Kennedy Square (i.e., southbound) I stayed on the right side next to the right curb, since it was apparent that the left-turning cars would hold up traffic that merely wanted to go straight down Kennedy. Here comes the rub.
When you go THROUGH the intersection, still heading south towards Kennedy Square, the two-lane road often has cars parked along the right side curb. Not always, but often. This day, I considered myself lucky. No cars parked on the right. Clear sailing in the “right” lane, (which is not really a lane, but will ultimately narrow so that you will have to “merge” into the left lane.)

As I cleared the intersection, I noticed in my rear view mirror that a very large silver truck was tailgating me. The driver was practically in my back seat. He seemed to be going very fast, to me (remember: I’m the one who only drives 30 mph for the reasons mentioned above), but he may simply have been going 35 mph, the speed limit in East Moline (but NOT in Moline).

I glanced in my rear view mirror and commented, to myself, that I was glad I could continue to hug the right hand side curb and didn’t have to “merge” right away, because the person driving the truck was apparently in a much bigger hurry than me and very territorial about being first with a bullet. He was obviously an “Alpha Male” type who must remain in front of all other drivers at all times. Fine by me, I thought. You just go ahead and zip right on past me! I’ll just stay over here on the right, hugging this curb, until you take your giant silver whomper-stomper of a vehicle and head on down the road. Picture me saying, “Dum, dum, de dum”at that point. I also knew this intersection was a “ bad” one because my mother-in-law once had a car accident there when picking up my daughter from her piano lesson, so, no fool I, I would just hug that curb and let old Mr. Silverback or Silver Truck have the whole road for his giant ugly vehicle. No hurry on MY part to “merge.”
Unfortunately, just as I consciously willed this ill-mannered tailgating creep to zoom on down Kennedy Drive and leave me there, a curb-hugger, he hit me.

I heard a grinding, scraping, crushing sound, and my car shuddered violently. It nearly went out of control.  If this idiot pushed me into the oncoming northbound traffic (i.e., the cars coming from Kennedy Square and heading north up Kennedy Drive), I would be hit broadside. I was fighting to control the car and thinking, “This mouth-breathing Neanderthal just HIT me!”

I searched the right-hand side of the road, frantically looking for a place I could pull over and get my car (and me) out of harm’s way. Luckily, the vacant lot and not-very-heavily traveled gravel road at 35^th Avenue and 2^nd Street was immediately ahead on my right. I actually had the presence of mind to signal for a right turn before pulling over and stopping my car. I had already made a note of the license plate of the Silver Toyota truck, as I wondered if he would stop at all, since he had just rear-ended a small car driving ahead of him in traffic, a car he should not have been that close to in the first place.

Mr. Neanderthal jumped down from his silver truck and was waving his arms and screaming. Why was he screaming? Beats the hell out of me! HE had just creamed my vehicle, knocking it so violently that I almost was pushed into the ongoing traffic lane, and now HE was yelling at ME. What’s wrong with this picture?

I glanced quickly at the back wheel well area of my green Prius (“the grasshopper”) and saw that parts of it were sticking out at 90 degree angles from the rest of my car. (Ooooo. That can’t be good, I thought.) One thought I had was this, “I wonder if I can drive this car after he hit me and crushed the wheel well area? It might be that the piece that is totally turn off my vehicle will puncture the tire or something.” I said nothing to the wildly gesticulating elderly male driver so out-of-control in front of me. He had obviously hit me. It was too late for him to UN-hit me, so now we simply must deal with the consequences in an adult manner. Or so I thought. That only works if both of you are capable of behaving in an adult manner. I have learned recently that many MANY adults are arrested at a maturity level of a twelve-year-old. In fact, when I visited the State Farm insurance agency, the young girl helping me file the claim said, after she heard how awful the elderly drive had been, “Yeah. The old ones are worse than the younger kids, usually.” Food for thought. Cranky old person? A stereotype, but one this guy certainly fit. And, keep in mind…THIS guy’s vehicle was not hurt AT ALL. The policeman wrote down ZERO dollars damage to his truck, so why was HE screaming at ME? Seems rather immature and unfriendly and, also, potentially designed to distract attention from the very real fact that he had just rear-ended the vehicle of a woman who was even older than he was old, but was still capable of trying to act like a civilized human being, which, I have learned, to my chagrin, many Control Freak types are not. Get in their way and they freak out.

Mr. Neanderthal was now berating me. (Seems odd, but there you have it….) He was being totally uncivil. I immediately gave him my name. I asked him what his name was.

“I’m not giving you my name, you smart ass.”

Well, this was going well, wasn’t it?  I ask the man who has just ruined my car…(and damn near caused me serious bodily injury) for his NAME at the scene of an accident he has caused and he refuses to give it to me!

I tried a different tack. “I think we should exchange insurance information.” I went to my car to get mine out of the glove box.

Mr. Neanderthal says, “I ain’t giving you no insurance information. I’ll only give it to the po-lice.” (He pronounced police as 2 syllables.)

Since I frequently am in Chicago, a second home, and the Chicago police do NOT want to be bothered by people who are merely randomly running their vehicles into one another UNLESS one of them is hurt (neither of us was, fortunately), I mentioned this fact. “I’m not sure the police want to be called, unless there is personal injury, and we’re both okay.”

Wow! Wrong thing to say! And, I admit, more the way it works in the Big City than in East Moline, Illinois.
”You shut up, you smart ass.”

I think Mr. Neanderthal then also called me a liar or some other uncomplimentary thing for having shared this bit of Big City information about police responses to accidents in big cities which, admittedly, may not apply in what my friend D.J. refers to as “Poopyville.” (D.J. means no harm, and, himself lives in Las Vegas, so people who live in glass houses shouldn’t put down wholesome communities that are in the middle of nowhere, but D.J.said it, not me.)

Since I have endured quite a bit of verbal abuse online recently, which would include the Tea Party members who didn’t like the piece I did praising Eisenhower (go figure) and the ex-collaborator who has been trolling some really questionable sites and lying his ass off to the point that legal action will be taken, and now Mr. Neanderthal, who was being a complete jerk. Mr. Neanderthal didn’t need to admit guilt, but it would have been nice to have heard him say something human or compassionate like, “Gee, this is too bad.”

But no. Mr. Neanderthal, whose large silver truck had NO damage [but did have a number of colorful paint chips on his undented bumper] (makes you wonder how many other cars he has hit with his large ramming speed vehicle?) was going to simply verbally abuse me, waving his arms about and acting like a total child and complete jerk. In fact, I think there are even some rules about HAVING to give your name, if asked, at the scene of an accident, which someone closer to his size should remind him about. But this idiot wasn’t going to provide his name when politely asked.

At no time did I verbally abuse this person or call him names, or accuse him at that time of what he had done (i.e., ram into me while following too closely and driving too fast) but, hey! I could have said, “Look, you jerk! Look at the damage you just did to my vehicle! What-the-hell were you thinking, driving up behind me that fast?” But I did not say any of these things to the rude, unpleasant, 64-year-old creep who rear-ended me and then acted put out at ME! I knew he was working on some story that would make this (somehow) be MY fault. He was the type. I could just hear him now. And I could also imagine that, if I made any effort to speak with him further, Mr. Neanderthal might actually become violent.
True, it was only 3:30 in the afternoon. But I was a woman, driving alone, and an old fart with gray hair was waving his hands in the air in a threatening manner. Perhaps it was time to retreat to my vehicle and call for back up. Which I did.
Back up, in this instance, meant my retired husband, napping at home.

I got in my dented Prius, locked the doors, got out my phone, and dialed my husband, who was approximately 13 blocks away, asleep. He, in turn, called the police. I gave the spouse directions to my location just up the street and, within 5 minutes, the cavalry rode to the rescue.

For one thing, I needed someone with some mechanical aptitude to take a look at my wheel well and tell me if I could drive away from this fender bender.

For another, I might need someone to clock Fart Man if he took a swing at me.

For a third, men don’t really like to listen to “the little woman” and it would be far better if I had a man present, backing me up and telling this guy to shut up. I have known this since the days I spearheaded (some would say master-minded, but, with all the collective bargaining rights in the entire state of Wisconsin going under, perhaps masterminding something that only lasts for 31 years isn’t anything to brag about) collective bargaining rights in Silvis, Illinois. That would be the SEA efforts to gain collective bargaining rights. I insisted that a man stand up with me then, as Co-chairman of our teachers’ group, and I definitely wanted one here with me now.

By now, the police had arrived, which means one officer who seemed to be about 30 years old. Fart Man, the old Neanderthal who would not provide his name or insurance information but felt like a Big Man threatening a 5’ 2” woman whose car he had just ruined while driving like a maniac. Naturally, Mr. Neanderthal insisted on telling HIS story first. I ambled over near where he was bending the cop’s ear, because I just knew Neanderthal Man was giving a creative version of how innocent he was. [HE didn’t drive right up my rear end, practically into my back seat. HE wasn’t going fast. HE wasn’t tailgating. He was totally blameless, of course, and I should be hanged as a witch at sunrise.]

This seems to be quite the refrain of late. I had considered taking out an ad offering to be the “scapegoat” for all the world’s problems, (for a fee, of course.)  Mr. Policeman didn’t want me to listen in on the old fart’s version. He instructed me to go sit in my vehicle, which I did without protest, joining my husband there. He had found my insurance papers for me in my glove box when I became rattled at the prospect of imminent injury from Neanderthal man and fled to hide within my vehicle.

Now the young policeman (who actually said, after taking my statement that he wished we had met under different circumstances) took my statement (and it took him a really long time to write everything up, indicating that there was zero damage to Mr. Neanderthal’s vehicle, but $1,500 to mine.)

We have now taken my poor Grasshopper to the Toyota dealership and filled out claims forms with State Farm and I will be without a vehicle for some period of time while parts are ordered and repairs are made. I am grateful that I was not hurt. I am grateful, also, that Mr. Neanderthal was not hurt… although I wish he would try, for once in his selfish life, to put himself in someone else’s shoes and realize that tailgating someone and hogging the road (I would have had to merge, eventually, but HE was not going to let some little Libtard car push his big ol’ honkin’ Toyota Tundra around. HE was going to be Numero Uno in line and, if you don’t like it, well, I’ll just gun my vehicle and run right over you!) And I wasn’t even at the point of needing to “merge.” God only knows what he might have done if I HAD tried to merge, with him in the left lane. I’m glad I never tried to do so while his silver truck was on the loose.

That, my friends, was my Thursday afternoon (March 31), one day after my wedding anniversary (over 40, so alert the media). It was not the anniversary present I had most desired.

I hope Mr. Neanderthal learns to be civil, polite and courteous and also reads up on the rules about how you MUST give your name at the scene of an accident, something that he flatly refused to do. As for the “let’s call the cops” thing: I needed the cops more than he did, since he had obviously done this sort of thing before (judging from the variety of paint colors displayed on his undented bumper) and he seemed to be a very unpleasant, impolite, poorly raised creep. I’m not going to give you his name. He knows who he is. If there’s any justice an even BIGGER vehicle will tailgate him and cream his car some day, and maybe, if he’s as mouthy and unpleasant as he was to me, cream him, as well.
Whatever happened to the days when, if you rear-ended somebody who was driving ahead of you, it was an automatic ticket. That’s what it should have been, for this guy. But instead, he’s still out there, tailgating unsuspecting small vehicles and probably shouting “ramming speed!” as he hits them. And, of course, telling HIS fantastical story to the police FIRST, because God forbid anyone but Mr. Neanderthal is allowed to go first.
Doesn’t he remember the Beatitude that said, “The first shall be last?” Keep that in mind while speeding up Kennedy Drive in East Moline, Illinois, hoping to be able to, at some point, merge into traffic without having to fight your way in.

[*The story reprinted below is just one of those from my short story collection Hellfire & Damnation, which is due out soon from The Merry Blacksmith publisher. Read more about the collection at www.HellfireandDamnationtheBook.com, which will be available from Amazon.com in both print and e-book formats this month. It is Stoker-recommended and nominated for a Silver Feather Award and an IPPY.]

CONFESSIONS OF AN APOTEMNOPHILE

by Connie (Corcoran) Wilson, M.S.

Apotemnophilia. What-the-hell is THAT? Sounds like a breed of hippopotamus. The word slid deliciously off my tongue as I sat in the waiting room, thumbing through the reference work the psychiatrist had given me.

Body integrity identity disorder. What’s that got to do with me? There’s nothing wrong with me. Nothing that a little amputation won’t fix, that is. I’ve wanted to be rid of my left leg, now, since I met my first amputee at the hospital with my mother when I was six years old.

“What happened to your leg, Mister?” I asked. Mom was around the corner in the hospital, visiting Grandpa, who was in an oxygen tent. She had parked me on a bench near the elevator. She told me not to move a muscle before she entered the room where my Grandfather lay dying. I think she was afraid that I would be too upset seeing Gramps in his weakened condition. The end was near.

The stranger smiled. “It’s a long story, little boy.”

“That’s okay. I’m waiting for my mom, anyway.”

“I think your mother should be here if I’m going to tell you how I lost my leg. She might not approve of my story.” He held his hands outstretched, in the universal gesture that means, “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.” Sort of a half-shrug, palms upward.

And so Mr. Burden, sitting in his wheelchair waiting for the elevator, did not tell me until much later how he had gone to the park that warm September day in Florida, sat cross-legged on the lawn, rested the shotgun on his right thigh, cocked the trigger and intentionally blown off his left leg. The shot caused little pain. He made sure of that by aiming the barrel at a pre-selected point on his knee. Blood and muscle were exposed everywhere. The lower leg was hanging only by a grisly thread of bone and tissue. He tied the tourniquet tightly enough around his upper thigh to keep from bleeding to death.

Mr. Burden, a retired architect, then reached for the cell phone, which he’d placed next to him before the blast, dialed 911, and summoned help. Today, as he sat in the wheelchair in this hospital, five feet from the bench where I waited for my mother, he was not about to tell me his story. I would only learn it later, in adulthood.

But his story became my story.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the mysterious man and his missing leg. I kept looking at my left leg. When I returned home, I started tucking my left pants leg up under me, pretending that my left leg was gone.

“Gregory White! What are you doing?”

“Just playing.”

“Playing what?”

“Just playing around.”

“Go outside and really play. Run around with the other boys. Quit that!” My mother walked back into the kitchen from my room. She seemed upset.

Let’s face it: I was a strange kid. From the time I was six, I often thought of Mr. Burden’s missing limb. And I wished with all my heart that my own left leg were missing above the knee. I felt deep guilt at hating my left leg, but I couldn’t rid myself of my loathing for it. I wanted it gone. Permanently. It was my burden.

For a long time, I thought I was the only one in the world with this bizarre desire.  I felt deep guilt. I wanted this aberrant wish of mine to disappear. I wanted to be “normal.” If Mr. Burden had told me what had happened to his leg, that day in the hospital, would it have made me feel more “normal,” knowing that there were more of me? I don’t know.  Finally, I acted on my secret suppressed dream and contacted a physician. I was thirty years old.

“Doc, I want you to remove my left leg above the knee.”

The physician looked startled. He glanced away from me. “What?”

“I want you to amputate my left leg. Above the knee.”

“Is there something wrong with your leg?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then why do you want it cut off?

“I’ve had this feeling since I was six years old. I just do.”

The orthopedic surgeon took out a pad and scribbled Dr. Hans Frank, 210 West 42^nd Street, Suite 703. Before he handed it to me, he said, “My agreeing to amputate a healthy limb would be crazy. It would be a violation of the Hippocratic oath. It would be tantamount to a paranoid-schizophrenic coming in here and telling me to ‘talk to the other voices’ in treating him. We all live by the credo, ‘First do no harm.’ You don’t need a surgeon. You need a good psychiatrist.”

Dr. Frank, in turn, recommended the article I had been reading in his waiting room, Apotemnophilia, sub-titled “Two Cases of Self-demand Amputation As a Paraphilia.” The only promising thing about the article was its inclusion in The Journal of Sex Research. I was sure Dr. Frank was a very good psychiatrist, but I didn’t think I’d be a very good patient. I tossed the article in the glossy magazine towards the stack of reading material on the waiting room table. It hit the top of the untidy stack, and a small landslide of stacked-up magazines and papers slid noisily to the floor, causing the other patients to stare in my direction.

Embarrassed, I rose to leave, before I had even been seen. Disappointment, again.

I knew I was absolutely fine, despite the first doctor’s reaction. I also thought that finding some other people like me would be helpful. That is how I met up with Paul Campagna on the Internet.

“The apotemnophilia group is divided into pretenders, devotees and wannabees, “ Paul told me during our first phone conversation. Paul would stop to cough a deep smoker’s cough every few minutes.

“What’s the difference?

“A pretender just wants to make a person think he’s disabled. He uses a wheelchair or crutches. Stuff like that.”

“OK. What’s a devotee do?”

“A devotee is sexually attracted to people who have had amputations.”

“Really?”

“Really,” said Paul.

“And wannabees?”

“Wannabees get the most attention. They really and truly live for the removal of the healthy limb. You and I are wannabees. Do you want to do something about it?” When he asked me this, he leaned forward, cigarette in hand, the ash on the end hovering perilously above my martini on the bar, “Jimmy’s Place,” where we had agreed to meet in person. There was a glint in his eye that told me he was not just making idle conversation.

Paul began, “I feel like my legs don’t belong to me. They shouldn’t be there. My legs cause me to feel an overwhelming sense of despair.” A heavy sigh followed that statement. The smoke from his cigarette spiraled towards the bar’s ceiling, as I re-distributed my weight on the bar stool covered in the fake red leather. Naugahyde, I think it’s called, and my butt made farting sounds when I slid atop it.  This was the neutral location we had selected to meet and talk about our mutual ailment. No commitments, no recriminations if we didn’t get along when we met. We’d just play it by ear. It was a seedy-looking place, with old Sinatra songs like “My Way” playing in the background, as Paul smoked and coughed his way through his comments.

I nodded my head in agreement with Paul’s words about being comfortable in your own body and cracked a joke, “I’m just trying to get a leg up on this thing.”  Puns were my weakness. If Paul had no sense of humor about our condition, we wouldn’t get along.  But he smiled appreciatively and raised his martini glass to clink against mine, saying, “Touché.” Followed by “Cheers!”  We drank in silence for a moment, considering our mutual plight.

Paul was not as new to this disorder as I was. He had been trying to convince a reputable doctor in his home state of Connecticut to amputate both of his legs for the past fifteen years. He had logged more shrink time on the couch than Woody Allen. Now he was sixty years old and he was just….ready.

“What can we do…if we’re wannabees?” I asked Paul.

“I’ve been doing some research,” Paul said. “There’s supposed to be a doctor in Matamoras, just across the border from Brownsville, Texas. He’ll perform the surgery, …for a price.”

“How much does he want?” I asked.

“Twenty thousand dollars for me. It’s ten thousand per leg.”

I emitted a low whistle. Twenty thousand dollars was a fair chunk of change. But Paul was a wealthy attorney, and the insurance game had been good to me. Paul and I set off for Matamoras, full of hope that the doctor he had read about would free us both of our unwanted appendages.

When we arrived in Matamoras, we searched for the doctor’s office in the winding streets of the old city, near the Cathedral. The trees in the park across the street from the church were festooned with winding, upward-spiraling strings of white lights, as it was near Thanksgiving. It was a surreal Disneyland effect, given our reasons for being here. When we couldn’t find the doctor’s office, we called the cell phone number he had given us.

“No. I don’t do the surgery in the office, and I’ve recently moved,” he told Paul on the phone. “Check into a suite at the brand new Holiday Inn on the edge of town.” It seemed that being brand-new was a trade-off for not being a hospital.

“But…you won’t do the surgery there, will you?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. It’s quite safe,” he said. “Do you have the money?”

Paul quickly reassured the mysterious “Dr. X,” as he wished to be called, that he had twenty thousand dollars for the removal of both of his legs, and I had ten thousand dollars for the removal of just my left leg, below the knee. We proceeded to the Holiday Inn, as directed, and checked in. I used a fake name; I was prepared to pay cash. The motel already had Christmas trees set up in the lobby, decorated with gold bows, even though it was only Thanksgiving. Nothing like rushing the season, I thought. And then I thought, Christmas this year I won’t have to live with my left leg. And I smiled for the first time since I had left home in New York, thinking what a nice early-season present that would be.

At the desk, we asked the receptionist if she knew “Dr. X.”

She looked away and then said, “Yes.” Nothing more. After that, she scurried from the desk and into the back room. Paul and I exchanged wary glances.

When we had each checked into our suites, which were, as advertised, brand new, we met in the bar for a drink. Paul began chain-smoking immediately, as the plastic palm tree in the corner alternately lit up blue and then green, advertising a brand of tequila I had never heard of.

“I don’t know, Paul. I’m not so sure about this,” I said. Paul sensed my uneasiness, but, by this point, he had adopted a certain fatalistic attitude.

“Nothing ventured; nothing gained,” he responded. He put out the cigarette he was smoking, shrugging as he did so and coughing as though he might not make it till surgery in the morning.

“I know you’re right, but what do we really know about this doctor? He won’t even give us his real name.”

“Well, you understand why that is, don’t you? He’d be arrested. No doctor in the United States will knowingly amputate a healthy limb. This doctor is from Brownsville, but he crosses the border to do the surgeries here, for fear he’ll lose his license to practice medicine if the authorities in the United States find out. If it’s any consolation to you, I found out that his real name is Dr. Miguel Ortega, even though he wants us to call him ‘Dr. X.’”

“Yes, I understand why that is,” I said, “but it’s hardly confidence-inspiring.”

“Look at it this way, Gregg. You don’t have to go through with it. I’m going to do it. It’s now or never, for me. I’ve been this way for over twenty-five years. I just don’t want to go on living this way any longer. This doctor has done many sexual reassignment surgeries. Compared to cutting off some guy’s schlong, cutting off my sixty-year-old legs shouldn’t be a big deal.” He threw back another vodka martini and smiled. We both laughed at his use of the word “schlong,” and Paul lit another cigarette.

And so it was that Paul’s legs were surgically removed at the Holiday Inn in Matamoras, Mexico, at daybreak. During the night, I had a moment when I realized I could not go through with my surgery. I dreamt of limbless legs, like those iron statues in Grant Park in Chicago, marching towards an open flame-filled crematorium door. Bodiless legs. When I awakened, I was shaking like a Mexican hairless and drenched with a cold sweat. I just was not as brave as Paul. Or maybe not as desperate.

When I left him, Paul was recuperating in his suite, two Mexican nurse’s aides by his side.  He was very groggy and doped up on painkillers. I squeezed his hand, wished him well, and left for the airport. I pocketed an OxyContin pill or two from the tray near his bed, figuring I’d find out what old radio Rush found so addictive about them. Might not have the opportunity again; Paul wouldn’t mind. Plus, Paul was currently in no condition to argue about it, if he did.

One week later I read about the arrest of a Dr. Miguel Ortega in Brownsville. He was charged with murder after the body of a sixty-year-old man, Paul Campagna, was found in a suite at the Holiday Inn in Matamoras, Mexico. The victim had been dead for three days. Gangrene.

I put down the USA Today, stunned and nearly bit through my lower lip. Paul! It’s Paul! I can’t even honor his memory by going to his funeral. If anyone were to find out that I had been Paul’s companion in Mexico, who knew what might happen? I could lose my job. Insurance agencies frown on their top agents running off to Mexico to have their healthy legs amputated. I could hear the water cooler talk now. Thank God I paid cash and used an alias when I checked into that Holiday Inn!

A few months passed, and my longing to become limbless grew more intense. First, I contemplated killing my lower left leg by submerging it in a vat of dry ice. I’d read about a woman in Wales who had succeeded in doing that. After that, the doctors had to help her. Then it came to me.

I would follow the lead of the very first amputee I had ever encountered: Mr. Burden. Only I wouldn’t use a shotgun because, quite frankly, I feared I would lack the necessary courage to pull the trigger at the moment of truth. After all, I had failed to pull the trigger in Matamoras, figuratively speaking.

First, I charged up my cell phone. I already had an Amtrak schedule. Sometimes I use the train to travel into the city. I began drinking vodka martinis in the afternoon, in honor of Paul, and I drove to the deserted railroad crossing. The midnight train would come through. I would tie a tourniquet in place before the train’s arrival, place my leg on the track, and call 911 to summon help. It would work! It had to; I owed it to myself, and I owed it to Paul.

I had taken the Oxycontin I had taken from Paul’s motel room (Paul’s purloined pills) and the several martinis I’d drunk helped me quell my fear, as I held tightly to the cell phone that would summon the ambulance after the train had done the dirty work. To be honest, I was so smashed by the time I heard the sound of the oncoming locomotive that I was actually drunkenly humming “Midnight Train to Georgia.” The wet grass beside the tracks had stained my white shirt. The cold steel of the rail, cooler in the drop of the evening temperature, felt comforting, somehow. It reminded me of my childhood bicycling days, when I’d put my legs up on the handlebars and roll full-speed down Twelfth Street near my house. I was ready to roll now. Full speed ahead.

The pain, when the train crossed over and amputated my leg, was excruciating.  I was almost zonked out… just drunk enough to lay there, my left leg extended across the tracks. I was scared, yes, but I was determined. This time, there would be no turning back. I kept thinking, I hate my leg, I hate my leg, I hate my leg.

After the train came barreling through, oblivious to my presence on the tracks, I picked up my cell phone and dialed “911.”

I heard, “We’re sorry. Your carrier has no service in this area.”  The no-service message repeated five times, followed by a tinny three-toned beep.

Please hang up and try your call again. Robotic. Chilly. Useless. The phone fell from my grasp as I lapsed into unconsciousness.