The Coalition for Happier Music

April, which first brought sunshine and warmth and the promise of a lengthy summer, has turned on us as of late. Cold rain has begun and ended several days over the past week. This being the current state of affairs, I was not very excited to attend an outdoor concert last night.

Friends had discovered that the band Guster would be giving a free concert at Duke and we decided to go. Here's where I get in trouble, especially with the JMU alums who may boot me from the inner circle for the following admission: Guster is not my favorite band. I admire them, think they are infinitely talented and very cool people, but, you get my point right? They're not my favorite.

After leaving the show last night J told me he'd envisioned the whole thing as us standing in the sun upon fresh grass enjoying the music. I tell you this part first, so I can now tell you what actually happened, and how much what actually happened differed from this rosy projection.

First, I wasn't much in the mood to go out, but did because the event started early, at 7, and because it's important to go to out and experience things like rock concerts in the rain. I picked up J at the lab and after we met Sherry and Christy we were off to the Duke campus.

Where it was the last day of classes!

It's interesting. I mean, maybe I should have realized it was the last day of classes when a 12-year-old dressed in patterned pink pants and a button down came stumbling across the lawn in front of Duke Chapel. But, I was like, "Well, this is North Carolina. That shit happens."

It took assessing the situation further and listening to nearby conversations spoken in very loud tones to get the picture. Classes were over, baby. Not only were classes over, but Guster wasn't playing til 9! Not only that, it was starting to smell a little bit like puke!

Pretty soon after one of two opening bands started playing some college-esque love songs the muddy field started getting pretty packed with intoxicated youngsters, some of whom were drinking actual beers, the 21-year-olds or those with damn good IDs, I figured, and others who were drinking neon pink and orange liquids out of plastic water bottles and Nalgenes. Oh, you guys. I went to college. I know what's up.

I forgot about the fact that I hadn't really wanted to come see my non-favorite band in a rainy field on a Wednesday night and got rather into the scene. I became an equally surprised and delighted observer. Especially when hip hop artist Razell (I've searched the Net to no avail on how to spell this guy's name) took the stage. I'm pretty sure there were some other, older Guster fans, like our group in that quad, but we had somehow gotten right in the midst of the-last-day-of-classes glee club and when I wasn't witnessing up-close, highly sexualized dance moves, I was picking up an empty bag of Franzia from the mud and handing it to a concert-goer behind me. Really. He wanted to make sure it was totally gone.

At one point during Razell's performance - which was amazing by the way, the guy could imitate the beats and lyrics to complex hip hop tunes using only his voice - I felt someone softly grip me around my waist and lean his chin on my head as everyone swayed to the music. Justin? No, a teetering gentleman who all too soon left us for the great unknown of the crowd beyond. Romantic.

It became dark quickly, and the pulsing crowd reached new heights of excitement as drinks were circulated. Besides the adorable conversations I heard, including, "I need a beer. Dude, I need a beer. Dude. I need a beer." and (from the more innocent among them) "HEY! Let's totally take a road trip up north this summer! Are you in? I'm in! I'm so in! I'm in!" I noticed the very sensual interactions between the students. I thought back to all the times Erin G. and I had danced to "Only the Good Die Young" at one of our favorite bars in Boston, sung by a local cover artist, and wondered if we, too, had been so sensual. I am saddened to think that, no, we didn't quite have these moves. Taking tequila shots in the freezing cold landscape of New England, I suppose, doesn't yield the same results.

When Guster finally appeared onstage, after we'd been trampled a little and separated from our friends, the students reached a peak. The band played Alice Cooper's "School's Out" two times as well as made many references to it being the last day of classes, and the students accepted the kind gestures well. There was crowd surfing. There was singing, guys belting out the lyrics to every last song just as powerfully as the girls.

Our good friend Tara, who went to JMU with J, has a boyfriend Mike, who I will give major thanks to for the rest of our lives because he rescued me from certain situations. Certain situations like J and all his friends suddenly forming a tight circle and dancing rambunctiously to a song I didn't know. Or breaking out the guitars and singing a tragic ballad. At a party, say. They all have great voices and can harmonize, and it's very, very sad. Mike and I formed a coalition and last year he bestowed me with a wonderful present - a t-shirt with our group's name, "The Coalition for Happier Music," emblazoned on its front.

At one point during last night's concert the Guster band members started plucking their guitar strings in a deliberately slow manner and I thought, "Dear God, no," but yes, they were playing one of these tragically emotional songs J and his friends like to sing in harmony. I looked around and thousands of drunk Duke students had lifted their mouths to the skies and were singing like their lives depended on it. I told J I was living my worst nightmare, but after a bit had to smile. It was funny. It was more than funny. There we were, packed like sardines with what seemed like a million carefree students, stepping on beer cans and each other, the smell of mud and grass, cigarettes and puke mingling - college! The smell of college. The picture of college - their bare feet and rolled up jeans, their clear bottles full of whatever they could get their hands on. The sounds of college - their singing, but loudly, not like the too-hip concerts we now attend, their conversations, their calls to friends and their declarations of joy in the form of fists thrust upwards and a piercing yelp because classes were over...what I'd spent the first hours of that concert thinking of as "their fun" had suddenly become mine and I was overjoyed that I, all at once, had no desire to experience it over again as I did in that cold, New England urban landscape, but that it still exists in such a pristine form, the music made even happier by the fleeting circumstance of such young, unburdened life.

More on Delilah

I was driving home from a town board meeting last night in the previously-mentioned satellite and CD-free atmosphere when I happened upon a soft rock station that I just knew was featuring Delilah dedications at that time of night and so I waited though the commercials. That's how much I dislike Delilah.

Sure enough, piano music soon rose to a crescendo, a chorus of heavenly angels sang "Deeeeeeee-li-lah," and I waited eagerly to hear what atrocity the woman would shell out to her next avid, and undoubtedly emotionally impoverished listener.

The caller, who'd "put Dad in the ground" that very day (mark, my words, if any of you call Delilah on the day you "put me in the ground" there will be hell to pay) and, having a five-week old baby, the poor man was sad, but also felt fortunate that his father had held on, five years past the time doctors had given him, to see his grandson.

Listening to this particular call, I learned that Delilah doesn't know the difference between playing a song to make someone feel better, and playing a song which simply has lyrics that relate to a given situation. Like, you'd never play the song "Breaking up is Hard to Do," by Neil Sedaka for someone who'd just broken up with someone. You'd be subtle and play "No one is to Blame" by Howard Jones.

I waited in the brief, quiet moments just after Delilah said she wanted to play something to honor this man's father and bless his newborn son wondering what soft rock gem this woman could possibly pull from the vaults when the opening notes sounded...and yes, of course, she'd chosen Mike and the Mechanic's ultra-sentimental and tragic "The Living Years," a song that features the troubled relationship between a father and son littered with "crumpled bits of paper" and quarrels "between the present and past." The singer wishes he just could have told his father how much he meant to him in "the living years," but, here's the winner, thinks he just may have caught his father's spirit, post-death, in his "baby's newborn tears."

I couldn't stop listening so I drove and wondered about the others affected by the radio show. The caller, perhaps writhing on the floor, reduced to a mess of tears, and the radio queen herself, smug in her studio, lecturing the timid crew, "Did you see that? A father's death and a newborn baby in that song. Now that's award-winning programming."

Monday and I feel:

Today was a day I truly wished I worked in a bigger town, so that when I was getting annoyed about the seemingly endless humdrum work I was producing, I could have exited out the front door and onto a sidewalk teeming with interesting people. In bigger places, in cities, you can lose yourself in that. In smaller places, like the very small southern town I drive to everyday, you don't get the same.

I don't think there's anything wrong with either situation, just that some people prefer one or the other. I'm not a huge fan of the quiet. While I appreciate the occasional foray into the wilderness and certainly everyone needs some solitude once in a while, I often wish that I worked closer to Chapel Hill, even, and that I might be able to energize myself every once in a while with a nice crowd of people. People make me happy. People I don't know, even. Sometimes that's better.

These writers who surround themselves with bottles of vodka and don't leave the house for ten days, I mean, that's not for me.

Today as I sat, sinking lower and lower in my chair becoming more and more despondent by the minute, wondering how much more of this I could take (this is a good one - when you are married, and healthy and employed and absolutely fortunate and you begin to wonder "how much more of this" you can take) I began thinking of my younger days, and by "younger" I mean "more nonsensical," when bad moods were never, ever the cause of something practical, like losing a contact or a bad grade, but were always the result of some deep chasm in my soul. Really. This coming from a girl who used to fill her diary pages with elaborate descriptions of how much she loved horseback riding.

I know I'm not surprising any of you because, admit it, you felt that way too. Listening to Nirvana. Reading "The Sorrows of Young Werther," whatever. Life is sometimes just a little much when you're young, and as I discover from time to time, you can slip right back into the same woeful mood when you are 28.

It's not Monday. It's not your job. It's not your allergies, especially not your allergies. It's just everything.

When my upper back had reached the topmost portion of my chair and I was actually staring into space, not for effect, but because, well, that's what I could muster, I realized that there wasn't any more of this I could take and made a quick move towards the back door and stepped out onto a small wooden landing there. This is where I enter the office every morning, sometimes carrying coffee, and try to unlock the door without putting anything down. Often, this ends in disaster, like coffee on my shirt and in my bag.

The sun was warm and comforting. I hadn't really been outside all day. Just a few individuals were scattered in a nearby parking lot and I spotted a small bird in the grass that flew away at my arrival. I decided to go for a quick ride to the grocery store to get some water and a snack before my evening meeting and rolled down the car windows while turning the radio up. J and I have both become accustomed to the almost constant presence of satellite radio and CDs in the vehicles we drive, but today I had neither. Just a few commercial stations.

I rode past the grocery store when "Scar Tissue" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers came on and turned it up louder, a very good song. I kept driving when "Drops of Jupiter" by Train came on, a very bad song. I drove until there were no houses or anything, just trees and quiet all around, except for me, who was being very loud.

My point isn't really that I suddenly realized the quiet of a small town can be really wonderful or anything like that. I'd still rather the people and noise. I think, rather, that I simply needed to remove myself from the situation briefly to realize how childish I was acting, ignoring the obvious factors leading to my slumped posture and lack of productivity. The fact that it was hot in our office. A sinus headache due to allergies, Monday, the government, a meeting tonight, a small southern town and all the mundane things that, when we grow up, mean so much more than we ever wanted them to.

Like...a nurse who bathes old people

"What's it going to be like when we get older?"

"It'll be great. We'll have a wet nurse."

"Um, what?"

"A wet nurse. Like a nurse that comes to your house when you're old."

"What? That's not a wet nurse."

"Yes, it is."

"No - a wet nurse is a nurse who breastfeeds a baby that's not hers. Like, if the mother can't do it."

"What are you talking about? A wet nurse is a nurse who comes to a house, and takes care of older people. Sometimes if a bunch of older people live together in a house, they get a wet nurse to take care of them. What you're thinking of is probably the historical definition of the term."

"Why is it called a wet nurse, then?"

"Because it's..."

"Because it refers to breastfeeding."

"No, it's like Daphne. On "Frasier"? She's like a wet nurse for Frasier's dad. She tends to his wounds..."

"He doesn't have open wounds..."

"And bathes him..."

"I think we need to look this up."

"Ok. We'll look it up. But I'm right."

(He was wrong.)

Recently

The unthinkable happened when Cecilia spent the week with my parents...in our bluebird house...looking for squirrels...front porch...my Easter basket...J's first cup of coffee after going so long without...Mina/jellybean...

A mood, a season, our high thread count sheets

Last night I arrived home after an evening out at a friend's house for an Easter celebration and to continue gorging on chocolate, as I'd been doing all day. It was the last of several weekend events, including a night out on Franklin St. - bustling with activity now that it's so warm - and a cocktail party where I had enough wine to think dancing to "What a Fool Believes" by the Doobie Brothers was a pretty good idea. I mean, it was, and it wasn't.

When I got back last night I took a good look around the house and decided that doing the dishes wasn't happening. J was at a baseball game and I opened the front and back doors, letting a breeze in, settled on the couch and proceeded to declare myself in a slightly depressed mood. Yes, the kind that occurs when a long weekend ends and Monday is fast approaching, but there was something else. Was it the wine? The candy? The pounds and pounds of candy?

The mood did not disperse entirely over the course of the evening, and was slightly less intense this morning, until it was nearly 8 a.m. and I realized I had to get up and go to work. The bed was so comfortable. The shower, so far away.

Needless to say I did what needed to be done and got out of the house with only time to grab a cup of coffee and blow my hair halfway dry before driving away, through Chapel Hill, into the county. I was half-heartedly listening to Lindsay Lohan's true Hollywood story on my satellite radio, trying to sympathize with her, having had such trying times (the stress of upholding all those social obligations, those crazy nights out) when I realized that I, like Lohan, really had no right to complain. Ok -her dad lands himself in jail now and then, and mine, thankfully, does not, so maybe she's got an advantage on me when it comes to sulking. The point is, occasional mood changes are normal, especially for me, it seems, during transitions, whether that's from a long weekend to the work week or an entire change of a season - or even going from eating no sweets, to eating icing straight out of the container while decorating cupcakes, because Goddamnit, you sacrificed for 40 days.

When I was little my mother talked about this type of mood change all the time, ensuring me it was perfectly acceptable. It might happen due to something that would normally make someone sad, like the end of a particularly wonderful vacation at the beach, but also might occur when something as small as a friend leaving after a sleepover happened, she'd explain. Transitions, no matter how minor, could be tough, she told me. Similarly, before I got together with J, and in the beginning stages of our dating (just after ending a long relationship with someone else) my friend Max used to tussle my hair or put his arm around my shoulder when we were all hanging out and announce to everyone, "Cara is going through her transitional stage." And in the midst of explaining to everyone that what I was doing was right, and that I knew I was making major life changes, but that they were important ones, this was exactly the encouragement I wanted. That was exactly what I was going through, I felt.

It's not as though every time the seasons change I need to sit home wearing huge sweatpants and watching Lifetime for days or anything like that (although that does sound pretty great). Instead, I think every now and then one is entitled to eat more than their fair share of peanut butter and chocolate candy eggs and allow the dishes to go unwashed. It helps rejuvenate the senses, somehow, to shirk responsibility, just briefly, and commiserate with Lindsay Lohan. I doubt my mood will last much longer than it takes to get back into the swing of things at work. In fact, it may be fading now, even against my will as I'd like to chalk up another night of lazy television watching to a state of mind I just can't shake. Let's face it though, people who like Michael McDonald Doobie Brothers songs just aren't fit for melodrama.

Almost summer in Chapel Hill

It's official. Yesterday while driving home I saw a shirtless, scruffy-haired boy wearing a hemp necklace and talking on his cell phone in an old mercedes with the windows down, no doubt off to some friend's house for an afternoon beer and I thought, Ah, yes, the season has arrived.

Blue-grey tiny tufted flycatcher (I know I keep saying I won't write about birds anymore, but the material...it's there)

This weekend, being the awesome wife that I am, I suggested to J that we finally go take a walk at this biological reserve mentioned in his books as an absolutely great place to go birding. The place is serious business. We had to go to the North Carolina Botanical Garden first to get a pass allowing us into this holy place. While at the front desk of the information center at the Garden, a weekend volunteer - a tall man wearing glasses, peach turtleneck and matching peach button-down - told us, after we'd asked for a pass, "Yeah. That's where, um, the birds are," as though we'd just asked for the keys to the nerd museum.

As I've mentioned before, walking in deserted wooded areas isn't my favorite thing. I realize this is pretty silly, but still, I couldn't help but notice we were pretty much the only people around. My guess is that was because a person really, really has to want to go to this place. You've got to get your key, and then you've got to follow the rules, including the no-dogs rule and also the rule where if you are not interested in looking for new species, well, you'd better just chill and enjoy the walk.

Admittedly, it was pretty there, and it is rather hard to find large plots of land that are so undisturbed in developed areas. Also, the new bird J saw that day, and consequentially added to his Life List, was precious.

As J practiced his healthy, semi-adorable hobby, I, of course, fell to needless self-scrutiny, specifically: why didn't I have any pastimes like this? Something to soothe the soul? Something I could lose myself, or find myself, doing?

I voiced my concerns to J, who lowered his binoculars and told me that of course I had hobbies. I liked to knit and read and write. And socialize with people.

And although that last one bears little resemblance to the bird-watching, stamp-collecting, gardening-genre of ways to spend one's time, I realized, with my husband's help, that I'm certainly not a passionless person, and happily resumed the stroll, always watching over my shoulder lest some crazed lunatic should emerge from the vast woodlands, because I swear to you - the thing is, if he did - no one would hear it. Except those birds and honest to God, what help are birds?

Is it just me, or are there more and more crazy - just absolutely insane - people coming out of the woodwork every day?

This morning I was watching CNN's "American Morning" and caught a segment they did on Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise's potential plans for a "silent birth." Apparently Scientologists believe that a birth should be a somewhat quiet event, so that it may be more "natural" for the mother and child. I learned from the story that they don't so much mean that the mother should be quiet, but that the doctors, and others in the room should be quiet. I learned this from a Scientologist who shared her thoughts on the practice, which she had experienced herself when giving birth to her son a few years ago. If a "moan is done" by the mother, that's ok, she said. But she didn't want a doctor yelling "push, push!" to her while she was in labor, because, as she explained very practically, she didn't want her son, when he was learning to ride a bike years later, to hear her saying "push, push!" and for him to become inexplicably stressed and have a headache.

Some might say the crazy part is that these Scientologists believe that some baby is going to have even the slightest memory of their birth. But what I want to know is who the hell yells "push!" when they're teaching their kid to ride a bike?

You can watch the story here.

A billion McDonoughs, a blogger's convention and more thoughts on the Food Network

Last weekend J and I flew to Connecticut to attend his cousin's wedding. It was a McDonough affair, meaning his J's father, J's father's twelve million brothers and sisters, and their children were in attendance. In other words, the night was a hysterical and joyous celebration that included wild dancing to "Come on Eileen" as well as late night hastily-concocted drinks whilst swaying to Frank Sinatra. But I'll get to that later.

Upon landing that morning J and I went to meet his parents for the drive back to Orange when I felt an all-too familiar sensation grip my insides like some vile devil. A urinary tract infection. In times like these - times when I get a urinary tract infection immediately upon landing in Connecticut, where we're staying for only one night to attend such a lovely occasion as a wedding and I'd really like to be comfortable, if not having fun - I try and remember the worst experience of this sort, that plane ride back from London, where I'd spent a semester my junior year. The one where I felt the pangs of horrid pain the minute the plane had taken off and I was forced to endure the entire seven-hour flight having to pee every two seconds knowing there was nothing I could do. The worst part? I had antibiotics the doctor had prescribed for just such a situation. In my luggage that had been stored safely in the luggage compartment far below and out of my reach. The point is, when I feel I've been dealt a particularly unfair hand, I remember that plane ride and how whatever I am dealing with is just simply not that bad.

Luckily, the women in J's family get urinary tract infections just as often as I do and when I shared my news his mother responded with amazing speed. She had a prescription from the doctor, just in case she needed it, and she, so very graciously, filled it for me. After an afternoon lying in bed, drinking water and holding emergency conferences with J's mother and his sister Megan, during which we commiserated about how there is nothing worse - support that, of course, made me feel so much better - I was able to get up and into my dress. With the help of various medicines attacking the infection and the pain I was ready to begin an evening of wild debauchery.

After the ceremony, held in an charming, historic church we went on to the reception, where we met up with the above mentioned brothers and sisters, including J's Uncle Bobby. Uncle Bobby has a highly entertaining blog, and he, J and I quickly got down to the business of holding our first ever blogger's convention (you can read Uncle Bobby's account here) at the table where we talked about the importance of getting more people to read our blogs. Meeting adjourned. I would think that our incredible dance moves (at least Bobby, his family, and I along with other McDonoughs...J can't be counted on to dance even at weddings lest you slip him something mighty strong) might have been reason enough for all those in attendance to quickly look us up online and become avid readers. People who dance like us can obviously write an awesome blog.

Once the reception was over, and since J's parent's house was nearby, it seemed obvious that everyone was coming over. When we arrived, Megan's boyfriend Matt and I got busy making everybody drinks, including a shot of vodka and cranberry juice that we served up in tiny espresso glasses. Those were a kind of hard sell, but nonetheless I found several takers and everybody cheered to whatever. Frank Sinatra was playing and soon people were dancing and I was passing out on the couch. It was great, as I told my father the next day when he was driving us home from BWI, and he promptly stated, "It sounds like your mother's family when they get together. Those Irish."

Nearly a week later I'm spending the afternoon at home flushing my body with gallons of water again. The doctor I saw this morning determined that the wonderful gift of medicine I'd received from my mother in law hadn't quite knocked out the infection and I'm now on something new. I'd normally get pretty bummed about a situation such as this, especially since my parents are coming to visit tonight. But I'm staying positive. I've been watching the Food Network for a couple hours, the Mecca of all that is frivolous, and therefore, ultimately comforting. While I'm on the subject, I'd kind of like to know where these cold-hearted individuals who can't get enough of making fun of Rachael Ray are when Paula Deen is on? God love the woman, but come on.

The more important thing keeping me happy though is the memory of all the help I got last week when dealing with this annoying and persistent ordeal from J's family. Even his grandmother, another fellow sufferer, encouraged me to stay strong. When you aren't feeling well, the one thing that can make you feel better, and not alone, are people who have been there. And believe me - if you haven't been there you DON'T KNOW.

J and my kids are screwed, I realize. They'll be born blind and in immediate need of some Cipro, but they'll have a support system in the form of laughter, understanding and late night Irish-jam sessions, and they'll be just fine.

"I gave my love a..."

While staying at my parent's house this weekend, J and I noticed, upon retiring to my old bedroom for the night, that a perfectly charming ceramic piece of two young sweethearts (no doubt from the heart of the American farmlands) had been turned rather disturbing when someone had placed the head of the male figure in his hands as he coaxed his would-be lover.

I had broken the piece several months ago when coming home late from some night out in D.C. In an effort to not wake my parents, I stumbled around getting my pajamas on very quietly until ramming solidly into the bureau which resulted in the statuette toppling down and crashing. The young man's head broke off and I placed it at his feet thinking surely no one would notice this. Especially since my father's on an African American art kick and he was sneaking new stuff in every day, hoping my mom wouldn't notice.

Needless to say someone came across the broken part and decided it would be better to place the head in his arms, like a sick, sick gift he was offering his coy lady friend.

My genetic inheritance

I can write about this now because my condition has changed from life-threatening back to healthy and normal again.

Ok. I never had a life-threatening condition. Outside of my mind, anyway.

This is my father's fault and he admits it. Through nature or nurture the man has instilled in me a worry so great it can only be classified as, well, crazy. As in: You. Are. Crazy.

Let me tell you about my cyst. Or, more aptly, my panic-driven frenzy.

A few weeks ago I noticed a slight pain on the left side of my pelvic region. It was very minor pain, just enough to make me realize it, but not enough to keep me from eating, drinking, sleeping, or complaining about other things. I thought maybe it was gas. Gas specific to the lower left quadrant of my pelvic region.

I don't necessarily deem myself a hypochondriac. When I'm sick, I know I'm sick, if I'm sick enough that I have to stay home and rest, I do that. But I don't tend to make things up. What I do tend to do is run absolutely wild with possibilities once they're presented to me. This is why no one should present me, or my father, with possibilities, unless those possibilities are a) you are the healthiest person on the planet and b) your family will never be in harm's way.

After several days of wondering about my slight pain, and why it was so specific to only one area of my body, J convinced me to go to the doctor. He said I'd feel better once I at least told a doctor about the issue and found out it was nothing, and let me tell you, he was wrong. He was so wrong it was unbelievable. It wasn't his fault, but Jesus - wrong. After talking with my general practitioner that afternoon - explaining my symptoms and a small examination - he said it sounded like what I had was an ovarian cyst. Since the pain was only on one side of my body and I noticed it just before I got my monthly period ("Gas," he explained, "Doesn't, you know, usually come in cycles...?") that was the most likely culprit. While this wasn't my favorite explanation in the world he assured me that cysts were extremely common, totally harmless and would have no bearing on my fertility. I'd heard as much and was satisfied with my visit, and went home with a hand over my cyst, cradling it. It hurt a little more once it had a name.

In order to understand what happened next you might need to know a little bit about my family. Skinned knees as a child, nothing more than a hindrance to whatever rough-and-tumble game my brother and I had gotten into, were reason for nail-biting and moans on my father's part. Every doctor's visit was like a test we were trying to pass. Healthy? Hooray, father can get on with his life! This may sound pretty neurotic, and believe me, it is, but it's merely a matter of my father worrying (too much, true) about his family. That part is sweet. I remember a particularly endearing afternoon just after my mother had suffered a pulmonary embolism and was staying in a hospital in Houston, Texas (where she'd been on business). I flew out to visit and witnessed my father, sitting in a hospital chair by my mother's bed, vigilantly watching the monitor near the ceiling which measured how much oxygen she was getting into her lungs each time she took a breath. Higher numbers were better. My mother, who is way too cool for all this nonsense, and would have probably gone straight back to work the day after collapsing in a hotel lobby had the docs not insisted she needed immediate medical care, was chatting with me while my father sat, fingernails in his mouth, interrupting us every three or four seconds. "Kathy! 95! Good. 94. Ok. 96!! Kathy. 96!" She had to tell him to stop.

So he worries. We worry. But the other trait, not as endearing, and which I seem to be developing rather rapidly, is making a mountain out of a molehill - a brain tumor out of a head cold.

Not the serious stuff, mind you. My father has been faced with serious medical conditions and pretty much remained calm. I bet I'd be the same way. It's when the doctors say you're ok and you decide they might be wrong. The doctors. Who've gone to medical school. For seven years.

After I learned about my potential cyst I decided to research the issue until I found something to worry about. I conducted my research on the internet, the haven of all that is good and true and reliable. While all the medical sites echoed my doctor's words - that cysts were normal and harmless usually - I noticed something else. Women on birth control, it seemed, weren't prone to getting these "functional" cysts as they were caused by ovulation. Birth control, in fact, was prescribed to help women avoid cysts a.k.a. since I was on birth control it was pretty weird that I had one a.k.a. I was going to die.

I was going to die and I was never going to be able to have children. Surprisingly I was slightly more worried about the latter, although if the former was true, it didn't really matter, did it? I wrote my mother and J emails expressing my new fears. I called the gynecologist office, where I'd scheduled a visit to follow up at my doctor's suggestion, and left a message for the nurses. It went something like, "Hi. This is Cara McDonough. I'm coming in next week to check out this ovarian cyst I might have and I just read that I'm not supposed to have a cyst because I'm on birth control and I think I'm going to need to come in immediately. Alright. You can call me back."

I emailed my father, too. We agreed. The doctors weren't taking me seriously enough. Not at all.

J and my mother didn't really follow. While both were happy that I was getting everything checked out by the gynecologist, and assured me this would make me feel better, they didn't get it. They didn't get the fact that I couldn't go about my daily life - making dinner and having normal conversations and whatnot - until this was settled. I couldn't wait until the next week, but I had to. My doctor wasn't going to be in the office until then. I know because I called about three times.

In the meantime all I could do was wait. Wait and go a little bit more crazy. I heard back from a nurse, assuring me everything was ok. J reminded me that since my regular doctor and my nurse seemed to think I was going to be just fine, I could probably calm down. My father spent his time researching my condition in his millions of medical books. During one phone conversation I was rattling off some details regarding cysts and he said, "I already knew that." When I asked him how, he said he'd asked his cardiologist to educate him on the subject during his checkup that day.

All the while my cyst ached. It didn't hurt very much, but I'd prod and push it until it ached sufficiently comparable to the dread I was feeling in my heart.

Somehow, mostly through the infinitely comforting power of wearing sweatpants and watching DVDs I'd watched a million times already all weekend long I made it to the next week, which was busy. My full schedule helped Thursday, that fateful day of my doctor's visit, come faster.

When Thursday morning arrived I showered and dressed like I normally do, but with the added knowledge that today might be The Day I Get to Start Living Normally Again and whatever I wore and did mattered more than usual. I got in my car with plenty of time to spare and made my way to my doctor's office. Nervous. Excited. Total nutcase.

When I arrived I checked in and sat in the waiting room with a pregnant woman. I pretended to read. I imagined that the nurses in the back were getting out my file and whispering, "Uh-oh. It's that crazy girl. Called three times to see if she could get an appointment sooner than today? Left messages on the nurse's line? Yeah, she's out there pretending to read."

I was escorted to the back, had my blood pressure taken and was left in the examining room waiting for the doctor to give me my sentence.

I love my gynecologist. He's calm, but thorough. Funny, but takes me seriously. Allows me to talk as much as I want, which was obviously going to be an issue. I told him about the pain, how it wasn't very much pain, but that my doctor thought it was probably a cyst. I hadn't been in pain for several days and told him so. He asked if I was still on birth control and I said yes and then told him in a nervous rant all about how I'd researched cysts and knew women on birth control didn't usually get them. Suddenly a ray of light broke through the clouds, at least concerning the fact that everyone thought I was crazy, and my doctor explained that what I'd read was, in fact, correct. I was right. It would be unusual for someone on the pill to get one of these cysts. He didn't think I was crazy. I knew it. I'd known it all along.

My doctor suggested a vaginal sonogram, which is exactly what it sounds like. I was taken to a quiet, dark room where I undressed from the waist down and waited while an extremely friendly woman got the equipment ready and in it went. I've never minded going to the gynecologist, I think in part because I've always had good ones and also because I'm completely fascinated by what they can do. The nurse kept me updated the entire time, explaining that she'd be getting a good look at my uterus and ovaries and could see if anything was there. I liked this. Take all the time in the world, I thought.

I told her about work and laughed until the fact that she had something up inside me was nothing more than a minor circumstance surrounding the girl talk we were enjoying. Plus, she wasn't interrupting any of her or my thoughts with "Uh-oh. What the hell is that?" like I thought she might.

Quite the contrary. Uterus. Totally normal. Right ovary. Totally normal. Left ovary. Totally normal.

Totally normal. Totally healthy. Perfectly good working order. No cyst. I didn't have a cyst.

I didn't have a cyst.

In a mere three minutes my condition had done a 180. My doctor and I sat in a waiting room where he told me my pain could have very easily been due to a "muscular or skeletal twinge." A twinge. I, of course, wondered immediately if my pain could have also been due to self-induced neuroses but kept that thought to myself. He assured me that I'd been right to be a little worried, and that there was nothing wrong with taking your health seriously. "Thank you," I told him. "Because I was worried and people thought I was crazy." He'll never know, of course, about the phone calls - six or seven a day - between my father and I. He'll never know about my crumpling on the couch and crying completely out of the blue one night as J told me over and over again that everything was fine, which I couldn't accept. He'll never know, but I bet he does know, sort of. He's a good doctor, and I'll bet there are a few more like me out there.

After departing the office and getting into my warm car I called my parents to assure them everything was alright, and that I not only had nothing seriously wrong with me, I had nothing wrong with me at all.

My mother was happy like a normal person gets happy when their child is finally free of worry.

My father, like me, understood that now we all could return to our regular lives. That a huge impediment had been moved. Knowing I'll always have him as an ally when the others say everything is ok is important. I wouldn't like being all alone in such a state.

But while we find comfort in the humor of such melodramatic reactions to ordinary news, I realize my week-long obsession was extremely selfish.

Poor J had to live with this extreme version of the person he married. A person who couldn't hold a conversation longer than 5 minutes before veering the topic towards her own physical state. I appall this sort of narrow-minded thinking, and often have reminded J, when he or I is suffering a particularly bad headache or a bout of allergies and complaining, that there are much bigger things going on in the world.

And there are people who are actually sick. There are people who go in to their doctors worried and come out with bad news, rather than my "twinge." And I feel that behaving the way I did somehow disrespects those who are actually dealing with life-threatening illnesses.

This experience (once I'd returned from the depths of crazed indulgence) also reminded me that while my doctor's visit allowed me to carry on the happy, healthy person I'd been before I got scared, life won't work like that every time. Good news can only bring as many elated moments that are possible before there's something new to worry about, and I hope to God that I'm able to deal with my life's challenges with more dignity than I dealt with my 100 percent non-existent ovarian cyst.

The thing is, I bet I can. Perhaps the reason my father and I are stronger in the face of real danger is that those instances require true heart and dedication. Working yourself up over something that you, really, somewhere deep inside, know isn't going to be a big deal, lends comedy to an otherwise annoyingly stressful situation. Don't get me wrong. I still think the way I acted was insane. And my father? He's far gone. No matter, though. Our friends and family will always have a good time chiding us (and then, perhaps, screaming at us) regarding this horrid method of dealing with potential health issues.

During my ordeal my father sent me many emails expressing his empathy, including this one:

March 27, 2006
Subject: If you are still breathing
From: Fred Rotondaro
To: Cara McDonough

I woke up this a.m. with:
A sinus headache
A stomach ache
And sore feet
I expect to have the stigmata by this afternoon.

It's funny, sure. But don't even think that he didn't, if only for the tiniest fraction of a second, believe it.

When I was little I asked my mother, "What will I be?"

My friend Erin, who teaches darling eight and nine-year-olds, was recently talking to the class about various professions and told her students that she knew a reporter (THAT'S ME). The kids wrote up a list of questions and Erin asked if I would mind answering them and sending them back to her. Mind?! I'm guessing these kids thought they'd get quick, well-written responses back from the journalist-girl. Wrong, wrong, wrong. I haven't felt this important since I got elected president of my third grade class (I wasn't even a candidate). I not only had a great time answering these questions, I learned a lot about myself, like that it's maybe not all that awesome to brag about the time you met Des'ree.

1. How much work is it to write a story?

Sometimes it is a lot of work to write a story, but sometimes I can write a story in about ten minutes! It depends on what I'm writing about. If I’m writing about a really interesting person, like an artist, or if I’m writing about a really big event, like a music festival, or a really important event, like election day, it sometimes takes me a long time to talk to all the people I need to talk to and put everything they say in my story. But if I’m writing about a really boring meeting, I like to write it fast and get it over with.

2. How long does it take to write a story?

Sometimes I can write a story really quickly. But sometimes it takes a few hours. I get writer’s block sometimes, when I can’t think of a good way to get my story started – then writing a story can take all day. I hate when this happens.

3. How hard is it to come up with ideas for stories?

This depends on the time of year. Right after Christmas and other holidays, when it’s winter and very cold and everybody is getting back to work and school...it always seems like there are no stories to write! It happens in the summer too, when everyone is in vacation mode and nobody wants to work (including me!) At those times of year we all have to work extra hard to think up good stories. I do have to go to town meetings almost every week, though, and I almost always have a story to write about those.

At other times of year there is so much going on that you have lots of stories to write. Right now people are starting to think a lot about the upcoming elections so there are lots of stories to write.

4. How do you find your information for stories?

I find my information in a lot of different places. I work for a weekly, county paper, so we mostly cover things that happen in this county. I get a lot of my information from town board meetings – that’s when the mayor and other town leaders get together and talk about what’s going on. I also get a lot of information from people who work for the town and for the county, like the town manager, the police officers and the sheriff.

But being a reporter sometimes means getting information from unlikely people – like the barbers down the street, or people who work in the shops around here. They all know what’s going on because they spend so much time in town. Sometimes people walk right into my office with story ideas, and that’s always really helpful.

5. Have you ever met any famous people?

I've met a couple of politicians. I’ve interviewed a U.S. Congressman and a Senator. I’ve also gone to some musical events where there are bands that are pretty well known.

When I was working at a magazine in London while I was in college I met a couple of famous people. One was this British guy who everyone said was pretty important (but I didn’t know who he was). The other was a singer, Des’ree. I’m not sure if you guys know who that is, but she was really nice and fun to interview. I was asking people what they were planning to do for New Year’s and she said she was planning to spend it on a beach with all her friends.


6. Is being a journalist really hard?

There are some things that are hard about it, like with every job. One thing you have to do when you are a journalist is call up complete strangers and get them to tell you about their life. This can be hard, especially if they don’t want to talk about it. Sometimes you have to interview people about crimes, or about something they did that people didn’t like, or maybe the person is just shy. This can be a little hard. Luckily I really like talking to new people so I don’t mind too much. I think everyone has strengths and what’s hard for some people isn’t hard for others. My husband is a scientist and I would be very bad at his job, doing experiments all day. I’m pretty sure I’d get frustrated and give up.

But also you get to talk to people about things that are really happy – like if they’re opening a new business, or won an award, or if you’re just writing a nice story about what a great person they are. That can be a lot of fun.

I like to write so the writing part isn’t too hard (except when I get writer’s block!) You have to turn your stories in by a deadline, which can be tough. Since we are a weekly paper, though, I usually have a lot of time to write my stories.

7. What do you like best about your job?

The thing I like best about my job is being able to talk to people about what they love to do. There are a lot of interesting people in this world and I’m lucky enough to have a job where I just get to sit and talk with them for a while and then write about it. I learn a lot, too. I’ve always loved talking to new people. Sometimes I just walk right up to strangers and start talking to them. So to have a job where I get to do that and get paid is really great.

8. What has been your best idea for a story?

This is a really hard question, but a good one. I can’t think of just one answer, though. I once wrote a story about this creek in town. The name of the creek is spelled all sorts of different ways and nobody knows the correct spelling – even people who’ve lived here all their lives. That was a fun story to write because I got to learn some history about the town and talk to interesting people.

Once I wrote a story about what kinds of rings people have on their cell phones. That story was my editor’s idea, but I had a lot of fun writing it. I’ve written a couple stories about how roadwork and money and other things are affecting the people who live and work in this town, and it is always really interesting to interview people for those stories – they have a lot to say.

I also write a column. This is where I get to say whatever I want. This is one of my favorite things to write because I get to choose the subject and just write about how I feel. I’ve written about getting married, politics and my dogs, just to name a few.

9. Is your job fun?

My job is really fun. Like I said, I get to talk to all sorts of interesting people – I get to interview chefs, musicians, teachers, businesspeople, and a whole lot more. Plus, I get to go to a lot of fun events.

On a few occasions I was able to participate in the stories I’ve written. I once rode 75 miles all over the place on the back of a motorcycle because I was writing about a fundraiser all these bikers were participating in. Another time I got all dressed up in a fireman’s uniform – including a heavy oxygen tank and mask – and got to do a safety drill with the local firefighters.

It’s also really exciting to see your name in print every week. That is definitely fun.


10. What made you decide to be a reporter?

When I was in sixth grade I wrote this paper that the teacher decided to read out loud to the class. She said it was really good. I’d always liked writing but I remember at that moment I thought that maybe not only did I like it, but was good at it too. So I decided to be a writer. I was an English major in college and when I graduated I worked at a couple jobs that were fun, but not exactly what I wanted to do, then decided I wanted to write. So I wrote letters to all the papers in the area until one of them would hire me. Really, I did that.

11. Where do you work?

I work in a town called Pittsboro, North Carolina. It’s pretty small. Everybody knows one another.

12. How do you decide what to write about?

I have to go to certain meetings – like town meetings, and other events – and get a lot of stories from going to those. I also have to go through all the sheriff’s and police department reports and get stories from those too. I also just watch what’s going on in town and see if there is anything worth writing about. A lot of times people come into the office or call and ask if I’ll write about something and a lot of the time my editor (he’s my boss) will ask me if I can write a certain story. Sometimes he and I talk about story ideas and come up with what I can write about that week.

13. Have you ever interviewed and dogs or other pets?

I haven’t really interviewed any animals, but I wish I could. I have, however, written about some animals. I’ve written a few stories about our local animal shelter. I’ve written a story about a dog trainer, too. I once wrote a story about a horse farm. I have two dogs and a cat and sometimes I talk to them, but I’ve never put that in the paper.

14. How often do you get a day off?

I get vacation time, just like most working people do. I get weekends off too, unless there is something I need to cover. Since I work at a weekly paper, things are a little more relaxed. If I worked at a daily paper I’d probably have a much more stressful schedule. I work with really nice people who are very understanding if I need to take a day off if I am sick, or have something I need to do and I really appreciate that.

15. What is the best part about your job?

I don’t have to sit in an office all day. It’s part of my job to get out there and talk to people and be there when something important happens and I like that.

16. Have you ever interviewed your family members?

I ask them all sorts of questions but I haven’t interviewed them for a story here at the paper. I do write about them in my column a lot though. Once I wrote a whole column about how my Dad isn’t a very good speller, even though he’s very smart.

Once for our Christmas edition of the paper all the staff members interviewed one another about what their family does for the Christmas holiday every year and then we all wrote stories about each other. That was a lot of fun.