“We’re not able to make it to the phone. Please leave your name and telephone number. We’ll get back to you real quick. Have a nice day!” *Beep*

Her father’s voice.

I hung up the receiver without leaving a message. I knew where her mother was. I knew she already knew.

My girlfriend of three months had gone to the store to get cake mix. It was her father’s birthday tomorrow and she wanted to make him a cake. The doctor and nurses warned her that he wouldn’t be able to eat it. “Only fluids,” they repeated.

“He can still blow out the candles,” she replied and left the hospital to get supplies.

“I’ll be back real quick dad.”

It was five days after the surgery and her father was “stable” and “healing nicely.” And then that afternoon there were problems. “Minor complications,” the nurses assured.

A small infection.

“It’s under control.”

“I’m not worried,” she said when she arrived to her dorm room. I’d been there since morning and was lying on her bed waiting. I’d been lying there for five days since morning. “If the doctors aren’t concerned then you shouldn’t be either,” I agreed. But her mother didn’t. She refused to leave his bedside after that – not to eat or drink or even use the bathroom.

But I told my girlfriend of three months everything would be OK; that she shouldn’t feel bad about leaving for a few hours.

“Everything will be OK.”

She told me to wait for her more while she ran to the campus store “real quick” to get supplies to make a cake: mix, frosting, candles. And so I lied some more on the bed staring at a crack in the white plaster ceiling.

When the phone rang, a husky man’s voice asked for her and finally said, “We lost him.”

My first thought was that his bed might have accidentally wheeled down the hall into another room – perhaps the cable was better in room 304. And then the doctor said something that meant the infection had become worse then they originally thought. “It spread too quickly for us to contain.”

Real quick.

Before that call to her parent’s – her childhood – home, I’d never heard my girlfriend of three months father’s voice. There were to be family dinners and get-togethers. In the future when we’d dated longer. Like at Christmas and maybe Easter. I think they celebrated both.

When my girlfriend returned from the store she was smiling as if saying, “This will make him smile.” She was holding a white bag with a yellow smiley face and red letters that spelled, “HAVE A NICE DAY!”

It was filled with cake mix and frosting and candles.

She asked me to preheat the oven in the communal kitchen. “180 degrees.”

When I sat up but didn’t stand, “What’s the matter?” was what she said. She stopped smiling then.

“The hospital called,” I said. “They said it was quick.”

She set the smiley face on the bedroom floor and picked up the phone. She called home even though she knew where her mother was.

The pub hummed of a Friday night crowd. A thickset smell of beer and fried seafood hung in the air saturating my sundress. Looming above the mirrored wall of liquor bottles were big-screen televisions that boomed sports and the evening news. I recognized him right away. Across from the bar he sat patiently, aligned neatly in a row of bar-style tables.

Jack’s email had suggested we meet here – a venue he frequented on the Upper West Side. It was located a block from his apartment and a few more from the subway that could bring me home. A “win-win situation for a first date,” he reasoned. I agreed.

“It looks beautiful on you,” his smooth voice commented midway through dinner.

It was then that I realized Jack was studying me as I ate my fish fry. His deep-set eyes, lustrous as bistre bathed by an artist’s brush, glowed from the tealight candle that danced between us.

“Thanks,” I replied while clumsily setting down my fork. “It was really nice of you.”

“A beautiful gift for a beautiful woman.” He winked at me. A swell of heat flushed my cheeks and I looked down to hide my uneasy smile.

I sipped my Happy Hour cabernet, but didn’t taste it. Eddies of my thirst were instead centered upon the man across from me. The gift had been unexpected, especially from someone – attractive and several years my junior – whom I met online.

Over the past few months, age had never been a topic of our evening telephone conversations. He knew that I had been married and recently divorced. But I never admitted to my apprehension about the tiny cracks that had begun to splinter at the corner of my eyes, or creases that lingered long after I stopped laughing.

I never admitted to the younger woman and the fear I felt that my age had been the reason he left for her.

As if he sensed my thoughts, Jack brushed my blushing cheek with the back of his cool hand. “You’re ex-husband didn’t know what he had,” he cooed. “I do.”

The waiter cleared our dishes.

“Will you excuse me a moment,” Jack said while standing up. He draped his napkin over the top of his chair and walked toward the men’s room. My face followed his back, sick with anxiety and desire. I ran my finger around the rim of my goblet and bit my smirking lip.

To divert my anxiety, I listened to the televisions.

A female reporter’s grieved voice caught my attention. The information came in waves: a body found in the Hudson; the third 40-something woman this month; police have no leads.

“That’s the lady we found this morning.” I glanced over at the table next to me. A bulky man hovered above his plate as he whispered to a pretty blonde. She turned around to look at the screen.

“It’s a bad case,” he went on. “No prints. No hair. Nothing left on these women for us to work with.”

His companion faced him again and mumbled something too low for me to hear.

“All I know is this guy is playing some sort of game with us,” he answered. He scooped a pile of food off his plate and shoved it into his mouth.

“Whaddaya mean?” Her voice was low, yet captivated.

“Well, it hasn’t been leaked to these idiots yet,” he replied pointing to the television with his cleaned fork. “But there is one thing the guy leaves on them…a souvenir of sorts.”

“Souvenir?”

“Ya,” he said. “A gold locket. Very antiquely looking. They’ve been on every one of these broads.” He leaned back into his chair. With his hands, he went into detail about the curvature of the jewelry.

Numbness mixed with nausea spread through me like a slow fire, the kind that smolders and burns below the surface, impossible to extinguish.

“Would you care for dessert,” Jack’s voice interrupted my eavesdropping. He was sitting back down in his chair. “Or should we grab the check and take a stroll?”

I knew he was studying me again but I couldn’t look up.

My motions came in waves: the overturned goblet of wine; the pale red stain seeping across the tablecloth; my cold fingers touching the gold necklace that dangled at my throat.

It had been five months since I saw my mom last. When I walked off the train and into her arms Tuesday evening, a nostalgic wave rolled through me – I couldn’t help but tear up when I saw her face.

When we arrived at her house I plopped down on the couch in our living room, nestled between two cats, and we discussed my new home away from home.

“You sound sick,” she interjected. I agreed that I was. She warned me (for about the 10th time since I moved to NYC) to “be careful of Swine flu … especially in the city. It’s going around.”

Internally rolling my eyes, I answered, “I know mom.”

From the day I was born, my mother has always worried about my health. Days when I had a fever (or even a slight tickle in my throat or stomach ache), she’d keep me home from school. I’d spend the day on the couch while she brought me clear, carbonated beverages, soup, crackers and occasionally put the back of her hand to my forehead.

Now, as I reminisce on these moments – 24 and truly on my own/away from her for the first time in my life – I realize how lucky I was.

I realize how lucky her patients are that her caring nature is extended to them (my mom has been a Registered Nurse (RN) for 33 years; she’s been a nurse at Lake Shore Hospital for 17 of those years).

“So how are things with you,” I asked the question I already knew the reply to.

“Oh you know, things at work are the same,” she said simply.

I needn’t ask her what she meant. Over the past few years, I have listened to my mother and her RN friends talk about the conditions at TLC Health Network. To reiterate their complaints plainly: nurses are expected to be compassionate and caring individuals, but many members of management show little compassion to them.

In 2004, my mother found out how a union-less system works: That year, while at work, she injured her right leg and went on Workers Compensation. She went through two surgeries and has subsequently suffered permanent partial loss of use of that leg. Instead of concern she experienced fear of job loss.

Through the years, over dinners with mom’s friends, I have heard similar stories. To my surprise, once they use up time allotted through the Family Medical Leave Act, nurses were pressured to get back to work or risk being fired.

Whereas union nurses have extended leave so they do not lose their jobs in 12 weeks.

Those nonunion nurses who grieve such issues (like my mother) have risked retaliation of having their schedules/hours changed with little or no notice. Seniority and the physical strain of being a nurse are not taken into consideration. This puts older, more experienced nurses in jeopardy, especially when they are sick or injured.

All of this is possible because the nurses at Lake Shore are considered “employees at will,” which means they can be fired without cause; policies don’t have to be followed; nepotism goes unchecked. Without a contract, this makes many afraid to voice negative opinions about the care patients receive or the conditions under which they work.

For example: RNs cannot bring up concerns about heavy patient caseloads, which leaves nurses overwhelmed and at risk for medical errors. This can jeopardize the patient as well as the nurse’s license.

In the hopes of fighting for improved treatment and benefits, my mother and others have been attempting to organize a union with SEIU at TLC since 2006.

The first union drive attempted almost four years ago was initiated because of such poor treatment of nurses by management. However, even though 70 percent of the RNs signed cards that year, the vote was stopped when the Berger Commission proposed closing the hospital.

Trying to thwart the second union drive this year, many promises and improvements have resulted as the management attempts to assuage angry RNs: new equipment that had been in short supply or poor condition was bought, benefits that were canceled were once again granted, wages that had been frozen are now being promised to be reinstated/improved.

Many nurses fear that without a union, such promises will not be maintained or fulfilled.

In addition, administration, anti-union employees and hired union busters attempt to mentally and physically thwart union organizers like my mother by insulting, humiliating and playing mind games to place them under added stress.

RNs at TLC voted again on Nov. 5. There were 11 challenged votes and15 labor charges against the hospital for improprieties during the campaign with several RNs scheduled to testify on Dec. 14 and 15. But the hospital did not want these nurses heard at a public hearing.

A re-vote will take place Jan. 7.

“Quality healthcare where caring comes first,” is the TLC Health Network mission statement.

Caring for others has always come first for my mother and most RNs I’ve met at Lake Shore. But “quality healthcare” can only exist when nurses are allowed to work in a caring environment.

Originally published Sunday, Dec. 27, 2009

Since the time I learned my ABC’s, I was a writer and a liar.

What I mean is: As soon as I knew how to somewhat sound out words, I’d scribble lies in my diary – pretend that I was someone else; create fantastical stories about my fictional life; say and do things on those pages that were not happening in reality.

Perhaps this is why writing has always appealed to me. When things aren’t going my way, I can create a superhero-esque me and soar above the mundane realities of life.

I remember the excitement, for example, I felt the first time I was “published.” It was second grade and my teacher Mrs. Holden instructed the class to write stories that she would later comprise into Xeroxed and laminated books for us all (I think I wrote about me getting straight A’s and talking to a boy I liked).

When I flipped the cover to find that my story – my name – was first, waves of satisfaction rolled through me. Granted, this didn’t mean that my story was the best. But in my child’s mind, this gave my writing merit.

Here’s another good story:

Since moving down to New York City four months ago, I contacted over a dozen publications in the hopes of breaking into the writing scene. After endless hours crafting column proposals, conducting interviews for potentially-publishable articles, and seeking out the “right people’s” contact information, two weeks ago I received two responses back from: The Village Voice (a newspaper that introduces “free-form, high-spirited and passionate journalism into the public discourse”) and The New Yorker.

After carefully weighing my options, I decided to take up the former publication’s offer of writing a weekly column about being a newcomer to NYC. In my spare time, I will freelance articles for the latter magazine.

Luckily, writing for these two publications has made me financially secure so I can quit my job as a laser hair removal technician. I put my two-week notice in last week, and will be finishing out this upcoming week before I come home for Christmas.

New York University has been going well also. When I registered for my spring classes – which will commence the second week of January – I was offered the position of graduate assistant for the women’s studies program. Happily, this will cover the costs of my remaining tuition.

Now, all the money I do make can go to paying off rent and old school loans.

Mundane reality: I have contacted over a dozen publications since moving to the city. But I have not received responses back from any of the publications I have applied to in Brooklyn, Queens and Manhattan. I was given the email of Judith Regan (a notorious editor and book publisher, who became famous for pioneering the publishing of celebrity autobiographies). But like all the other editors, she has not gotten back to me either.

I am still a laser hair removal technician. Because of the still-sinking economy, fewer and fewer people have extra money to spend on such luxury splurges. Therefore, everyone’s hours were cut at work – I’m only working three days per week. I’ve been applying for serving and bartending positions, but no one is hiring.

Almost everyone I know in the city has been laid off or has had their hours cut.

New York University was put on the back burner this past semester – I had to concentrate on earning income in order to survive in the city and wanted to concentrate on my writing. I will be starting in January, but I have not been offered any internships, and will therefore add these loans to my pile of other loans.

One of my favorite poets, Robert Frost, wrote, “The best way out is always through.”

I know that I will make it through.

I’m still trying to figure out if I believe this or if it’s just another good story.

Originally published Sunday, Dec. 20, 2009

I’ve thought a lot about hair over the past four months.

Because of my job as a laser hair removal technician on Madison Avenue, it is my duty to consider the stages of hair growth, how to safely remove hair via laser energy, and areas of the body that hair is most and least difficult to destroy so that I can inform clients about realistic results.

At our office, we have two machines. The lasers emit a gentle beam of energy (measured in joules) that passes through the skin to the hair follicle where it is absorbed by melanin (hair color – i.e. the darker the hair the better results). The energy from the laser is converted into heat that paralyzes the hair follicle while leaving surrounding skin unharmed.

In the past, some people have commented on how lucky I am to have “no hair/light hair.” I smile politely and thank them.

But last week, one woman’s comment made me consider my versus others’ hair on a deeper level.

I was treating a woman’s upper lip. She wasn’t “hairy” per se. But her hair was black, so the fuzz on her face was noticeable and bothersome to her.

After the treatment – as she iced her swollen lip – she, too, commented on my hair.

“You’re so lucky you’re white,” she said. “You have naturally good hair.”

Taken aback, I looked at her quizzically – I had no hair on my face … what did she mean? I’d never had a client comment on my “whiteness” in relation to my hair.

I laughed uncomfortably and escorted her out. After the woman paid and left, I told my boss what the woman said.

My boss, who is from Trinidad, answered, “White girls’ hair is usually straight. Not nappy or curly. That’s probably what she meant.”

She noted how my client had a head of tightly curled hair.

If this is what the woman meant, then what made my hair “good” and hers “not good?”

My straight-haired boss went on to tell me how she too has naturally “nappy hair.” And to get hair like mine, she gets a “Brazilian hair straightening treatment” every few months. This keeps her hair “maintained” and “beautiful” (i.e. “soft,” “smooth,” and “straight”).

Because my boss was once a hair stylist, she explained that the treatment is Keratin-based which is a type of protein high in sulphur and the amino acid cystine. It is a main protective substance in hair, skin and nails.

“It’s only $350 for the procedure,” she subtly bragged. Even though the treatment is cheaper in areas like Astoria (closer to $175), it still seems like a hefty price for “good hair.”

This whole topic of hair made me think of the new Chris Rock documentary that is literally titled: Good Hair.

A documentary about African American hair culture, Rock visits hair salons, scientific laboratories, and Indian temples to explore the historically laden concept of “good hair.” He argues that African Americans’ hair is burdened by the legacies of slavery and racism.

He questions: “Do black women spend countless hours and hundreds of dollars trying to make their hair look white?”

I question: Is this true for all (except white) women? Are there different standards for men? And if so, why?

Since this day, I’ve treated people as usual.

But, where I once felt good about helping people feel more comfortable with their bodies, I couldn’t help but worry that I was contributing to the “good hair” facade.

Originally published Sunday December 13, 2009