MAKE A JOYFUL NOISE

all the womens for the finale

Cathy Salvatori, drums

Dawn Duvall, vocalist & flautist

Julian Yarrow, piano

Paul McKeracher, guitar

Rachel Melas, bass

Tabby Johnson, vocalist; with Zoe

Lucy Lehman, vocalist

Carolynn Coburn, MC

Cue Kirk, poet

Kim Doolittle, vocalist

Zoe, finale

John Sheard, piano

Monday, May 6, 2019
It's a little hard today to make that kind of joy; it's been raining all day today and yesterday, and is going to continue. I'm cold, since my house was empty and unheated last night while I stayed elsewhere to be closer to the hospital appointment at 9am the next day. I sat around in the hospital giving blood and waiting to see doctors, losing the whole morning, - a depressing way to spend even a good day, let alone one which already was high on the depression scale.

I find myself in a BAD MOOD.

Time for that delicious homemade soup that a friend brought over for me, along with her corn bread too. Such good and generous people in my life.

And I'm so lucky to have had in my life the wonderful experience of having an idea for a show, then working on it for over a year, then see it come to fruition last Sunday evening, May 5, with the most fantastic group of musicians, vocalists, and one entrancing poet - all performing songs and their messages that I have written over the years. They did it with great verve and personality and talent that made the whole place (a full house at Hugh's Room) go crazy with approval, love, and yes, joy.

The words of whatever quote I'm quoting from a new or old testament, or famous religious hymn - certainly came to life. The happiness was palpable, and I consider myself privileged to have worked with these artists. I got a very good group. And a very good result. And a very impressive amount of funds raised for the beneficiary of the concert: Sistering, a group that helps women in Toronto.

Altogether, a successful venture.

So much so that the next morning, when I was sitting in the very depressing blood clinic at Princess Margaret, with a crowd of shuffling and coughing, masked strangers, I was able to go back a few hours in my head, and recall the night before, so that I could blot out my surroundings, and smile gratefully at the memory of the night before.

Today, the hospital having drawn my blood once more, I too draw again, but on that night's memory.

Make a joyful noise, indeed. They all did, performers and audience, and my heart, which is still reeling from the experience, it's noisily joyful. As the song says: "They Can't Take That Away From Me". It will triumph over many a depressing scenario, just because it happened, and I was there. Another week later, it's still working its magic.

A RASH MOVE

I lie and wait, rain dripping from the window ledge of my seventeenth floor penthouse room, saline solution drip-dripping into my body. Overnight the clouds have set in; the shadows of the city's tall buildings soft in the grey vista surrounding the hospital this morning, the distant condos and office towers invisible in the mist.

I lie and wait; I ponder my fate; I'm late, I'm late.

I want to go home.

They are friendly, efficient, and very thorough here at Princess Margaret Hospital. They admitted me yesterday for the night; they grilled me about all my functions and reactions; they did another small biopsy; they had me pose for nude photos of my whole body, and then studied my rash endlessly to eliminate the one very evil and very dangerous type that could herald death.

Later that evening, my son came over to visit just before sunset, and we had a real photo-shoot in this, my private dorm in the sky, silhouetted against the city backdrop, and with specular highlights to boot. One shot of me, - hand on heart - praying perhaps, for a good outcome to this hurdle.

My rash is probably benign, - as much as an arrabbiata (anger is more forceful when it's Italian) and flaming mass of red spots can be benign - and I'm hoping, now that it's morning, and everyone has seen me and decided there's no imminent danger, that they will give me a cortisone cream and discharge me. Perhaps this erupting skin is a late reaction to the chemo, or just myself all awash in nerves, anticipating my upcoming show on Sunday.

Or it could be me dreading the next round of chemo, and subconsciously creating a delay: "We'll head 'em off at the pass, Red; you cover me while I get away." Didn't work, though. Chemical infusion Tuesday, as scheduled. No rash changes. It's enough to curl your hair, if I have any left in the next few weeks.