Onward, Pioneer

I'll have taken up my residence in San Francisco by this time tomorrow, and I already know quite a bit about the city, the apartment, the guy there waiting for me to arrive. I have an app on my phone that helps me find a transit route to here or there, and I know how to get to Whole Foods in the Haight with virtually no thought whatsoever. The closest Super Duper Burger? A breeze. Bi-Rite Creamery (that ice cream!), straight down the hill and keep walking until you hit the line. Walgreen's at 18th and Castro which is your last chance destination for Puffs with Aloe and Chocolate Haagen Dazs if Mollie Stones is already closed.

San Francisco is so effortlessly charming that even without these small certainties, I wouldn't feel daunted. It's one of the friendliest places I've ever been, and once understood, it makes every effort to understand back. In that way, it is the most un-Midwestern place I've ever been, and I revel in that, while flaunting my flat vowels and resolutely unmusical American English that was born in the refrigerator of the Fort Wayne Dialect.

Will I miss Bloomington as I'm away? Probably not much. I returned here in 1996 from New York City and from that time forward have puzzled at why I came back here. Bloomington is both smug and paranoid, a clique town without coordination between its gears. The stratification, and stubborn lack of planning, foresight or amelioration are things that tastemakers here seem proud of; after all, they keep electing the same lack of vision to effectuate the empty plans of those who wish no change but affect haplessness  when change arrives. If the San Francisco slogan is "we strive" then Bloomington's would have to be "oh, well...".  Passive aggressive as Hollywood starlet who will assure you her boobs and lips and rump uplift are real while asking why you're so rude as to stare at her surgery scars.

While I have a small, and hopefully to be growing, circle of acquaintance in SF, I have many people in Bloomington that I like, and many that I love, a great deal. That's the point of great divergence between my civic and my personal allegiances. I've lived with Charles for 16 years, I've known many people here for various periods of years, there is a network of women here I love to have lunch with (an ALLGAM is an "All Girl and Mark" lunch; an ALLGAMAC is an "All Girl and Mark and Charles" lunch)--in fact, Bloomington--or more rightly, IU, has a mind-boggling array of talented, fun, smart, beautiful women who really like to have lunch with me! I'll miss that while I'm gone.

I look forward to treatment in San Francisco, though, that's cutting edge and patient-focused--very attuned to an individual case. My experience in consultations here were less promising. I'm sure on an individual basis the providers were good, but when they snark about each other upfront, it's hard to believe they can work together to make me whole. No thanks, I don't need to play "Aunt Bee has a Hissy Fit" on Mayberry RFD when it comes to this cancer that grew to take over my mouth in barely a month.

I'm hoping that when I come back to eating, it will be the snap of a bit of sourdough that welcomes me, drizzled with olive oil that was pressed a few miles away. Then, the ridiculous slow food organic burgers that have driven me nuts in SF, then the oatmeal at La Boulange every day for a week, with the big latte, and a palmier because I'm skinny--maybe 2.

Ultimately, I know I'll look up, oatmeal dribbling down my chin, to find that Scott is mid-granola and yogurt, trying not to laugh at me. Whether I am in mid-glow of chemo or mid-burn of radiation, or done with both, healing and and learning to speak, whatever San Francisco has become to me, it's been because of him that it revealed itself so thoroughly and with no pretense.

It's funny that once he offered to move to Indiana to be with me. We both know there's nothing here for him, or at least, nothing he wants. The year-round sports environment, the equipment, the networking, the innovation, the doctors, the food, the sunlight, the people, the vistas, the transit, the chocolate--there is no comparison that could be fair to Indiana when Indiana is so proud of not trying. His visits here have been trying to him in a way he's polite enough not to enumerate.

This will be my first flight, post-surgery, and my first flight as an officially disabled traveler. It takes a lot to arrange this sort of transfer. I purchased a ticket on USAir, and an upgraded seat so i could be near the front--when my plane lands in Phoenix, there's a sprint to get to the next one before take off. I wrote to US Air and explained my circumstances--how, harvested bone and all, new jaw, extreme weight loss and cane have slowed me down too much  to do the Carl Lewis through the terminal--and they, man, have stepped up to the plate. I'm to be met with wheelchairs, and my front seat money refunded! I give them a lot of credit for something I didn't even ask to receive!

My bigger worry will be TSA, who will have to wand over the metal hinges that attach my new jaw, feel up my feeding tube, poke at my tracheotomy and allow my liquid nutrition and my portable suction unit onto the plane, probably breaking at least 18 of their bromides against certain disaster. One arms oneself with proof beyond the obviousness of one's appearance--a letter from the doctor, detailing where the metal lies and what the needs are...and then one hopes. There's also an email address where one can alert them ahead of time of a gimp arrival--but they suggest 72 hours and I think I did it at 48. I'm not utterly certain of victory.

But, like everything so far, I hope if I walk toward it looking confident, it will take my confidence well.

I will likely be off tomorrow, and hoping that you are too. May the weekend find our relocations pleasant, our state of mind positive, our experiences ripe for retelling. Take care.