[Warning: Spoilers follow. If you’ve not seen the August 2013 episodes of True Blood, you don’t want to read this.]

I’m grateful The Daily Show for its coverage of and attention to the ridiculous treatment of our returning veterans as they attempt to apply for benefits. When we think of these benefits, we usually think about medical coverage for physical injuries from combat. We think less about mental injuries from combat.

The term PTSD (or, as it will be called here, in honor of George Carlin, “shell shock”) has moved into our vernacular, and some tv shows featuring characters in the military (or other dangerous services) do address it. SVU had an episode recently called “PTSD”; characters on BSG, M.A.S.H., Breaking Bad, Downton Abbey, etc. have exhibited symptoms of the disorder.

There are some films (fiction and documentary) that address the issue as well.

However, most depictions of shell shock in the media do not address a common outcome–suicide.

2012 was a record year for military suicides. We lost more soldiers to PTSD than to combat. In fact, we’re losing them at a rate of one about every 18 hours.

The fact that we’re not talking about this made this week’s True Blood, featuring the funeral of one of the most beloved characters–and some of the revelations of his shell shock leading up to it–stand out.

I watch True Blood with a group of friends. We eat, drink, and laugh. In fact, we’ve started taking a drink each time a character says something that could only be said on this show (like “Who the fuck is Mary Poppins, and can I please kill her?”). It’s our Vampire Porn Soap Opera.

But this last episode, “Life Matters,” lingered on Terry’s life and his death in a poignant way. Characters die on this show all the time. So many, however, that we rarely get to morn them. And we haven’t had a beloved character die in a while. This mourning, though, wasn’t just because we’ll miss Terry. It was because we needed to grapple with what killed him.

It wasn’t a serial killer. It wasn’t a supernatural force–a were-whatever or a vampire or a vampire virus.

Terry chose to die. And he chose to do so because he couldn’t live with what the war had done to him and with the things he’d done.

And we’ll miss him.

When True Blood came out (and before that, when the book series came out, which I’ve read (and reviewed here), it was interesting because of its vampire characters’ analogy to the gay rights movement. It hasn’t really done anything moving or intriguing in a while.

Until now.

P.S. The book series recently came to its conclusion.

Here’s an update to my earlier post. One anonymous commentator on my post mentioned that she agreed with some of what I said. The books that have come out since my post have not repeated the problems I listed. Coincidence? Or did I unintentionally manage to give Harris some writing feedback? (I mean, I don’t get anonymous commentators. You all know me, which is why you read this. Unless you’re searching for reviews of your own work, which a few people who don’t know me have done on this site.)

Sookie makes her peace with her vampire lovers and ends up with the man she should have ended up with the whole time. Loose ends are wrapped up. The danger seems to have passed. A good end to a good series.

Okay, recent maybe isn’t the best word. But I’ve seen some good stuff over the past few months.

A.C.T. (The American Conservatory Theater) imported The National Theatre of Scotland (whom I got to see at Mondavi earlier this year) to perform Black Watch. The Black Watch is a famous Scottish regiment (formed in 1725, first comprised of Highlanders). This play not only gives us a bit of their illustrious history, but also details their controversial tour in Iraq as part of Bush’s coalition. The play was heartbreaking and beautiful and possibly the best thing I’ve seen at A.C.T.

Two weeks ago, I saw a very abbreviated Hamlet at the Francis Ford Coppola winery. Justin Ashforth adapted, directed, and starred. And I think that was a problem. It’s a bad idea to be that close to a production, to not have the distance to see when other actors are messing up (by simply being flat, as one was) or when you’ve cut too much/not enough (e.g. why have other characters talking about Hamlet going mad when you cut out Hamlet acting mad?).

I’ve been able to see two shows by Common House productions this summer. Common House is a relatively new company in Davis. Their repertory shows this summer (out on the Wyatt Deck) were The Importance of Being Earnest and Love’s Labour’s Lost. Earnest has long been one of my favorite plays (I even taught it once, years ago). LLL isn’t one of the great ones (in terms of Shakespeare’s other works), but this production brought out the what comedy and cleverness there is in the text.

Othello: The Remix at The Globe

When I was in Chicago in May, Denise and I hit the Chicago Shakespeare scene, which featured an AMAZING adaptation of Othello. Othello‘s always hard to watch, but this show was a joy. Othello: The Remix is a modern adaptation of the show, done by only four actors and a D.J. The show is completely sung in hip-hop style and is about hip-hop artists (Desdemona, whom we never see, is a diva). A few of the audience members took a while to warm up to the concept, but Du and I had our hands up in the air from the very first (and got a smile from one of the writer/performers).

Not only was the show wonderfully sad and funny and old and new (complete with geek references from both renaissance and 21st century pop culture), but it was actually really close to how a Shakespeare play would have been to its audience–men playing all the roles, minimal props and sets, a focus on the sounds (audiences are called audiences because they went to “hear” a play).

Also, it was fun because one of the actors, Jackson Doran, looks a lot like our friend Ben, so we kept imagining him doing all the numbers.

In London, I got to see a few shows:

Children of the Sun at the National. I didn’t know anything about this show going in, but I’ve never seen anything bad at the National. Andrew Upton revised Gorky’s play. It’s still very . . . Russian. There’s a lot of tea, of depression, of thwarted love, of class boundaries and barriers, of servants with their ears (and hands) at the door. It ends with the rich destroyed due to what one of them did. It ends, literally, with fire. I was in the front row and I could feel the heat. (And it was surprising–London is very paranoid about fire, especially in theatres).

One Man, Two Guvnors is also an adaptation. The Commedia dell’arte play, A Servant of Two Masters, has been updated by Richard Bean. It was everything it was supposed to be–funny and farcical, with a little bit of audience participation thrown in. My one complaint is that the end of the first half is so good, that the rest of the show is anticlimactic.

One Man, Two Guvnors

The Taming of the Shrew at The Globe. Taming is another problematic play. This was my fourth time seeing it. Long ago, in Tallahassee, and a couple of years ago, at Cal Shakes, I saw “modern” adaptations in which Petruchio rode motorcycles. My favorite rendition was in Regent’s Park in London 2006. The actor playing Petruchio was older than we expected, but he was amazingly charismatic and genuinely seemed to be taken with his Kate. I saw that with my friend John Boe. Seven years later, we sat down for this all-female production. The women did a great job (especially since there were only eight of them). However, the end was a downer. Petruchio does indeed break (tame) Kate. And she remains broken. His face falls when he realizes this won’t make for a happy or lustful union. It’s probably more realistic than other versions, but I want my smart Petruchio–the one who loves her all along–despite herself–back.

Summer classes are crazy. My students sign up, thinking that the classes they’ve feared the most will somehow be easier in a shorter amount of time. And then I explain that we have to do the same amount of work in six weeks. And then we struggle together. And then a few complain that we’ve done so much work. Sigh.

Last summer session, which ended a week ago, I had three classes running. At the same time, I was coming off Spring, off the London wedding, had that fractured tailbone, and was working to get the Prized Writing edition off to the printer.

I’ve survived. I told myself that if I did, I would reward myself in some significant ways. I would go to Ashland with V. I would have an amazing birthday weekend. I would do a little less work in summer session 2–reading more for pleasure, trying new recipes, getting some of the sillier stuff off the to-do list (eye doctor, finally printing out pictures, etc).

So now I have a trip to Ashland scheduled. This week, I’ve made four new recipes already. I’ve dusted most of the house for the first time since my Spring surgery. Went for a short walk and read a short section of a book this morning.

And my birthday was awesome. The winery I belong to, Kenwood, threw a paella party on my special day. The paella was amazing, the pours were generous, and the band serenaded me. And then I got to see friends who live near there.

Alex and I have been surviving together now for 20 years. And sometimes there are problems, but they’re fixable (except the ones that aren’t). And sometimes there’s wine and paella and music and friends.

First, I’m going to admit that I don’t know much about Texas. I’ve only been in airports and airport hotels there. My step-father cheated on my mom with a hairdresser from there. I love The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. I’ve heard children pledge allegiance to the nation’s flag and the Texas flag in the mornings. I’ve heard you aren’t supposed to mess with them and that things are bigger there.

I used to watch Dallas when I was a kid.

But I also know Texas Governor Rick Perry would like California businesses to move to his state. He has a series of ads across many states (see Lewis Black’s story about it here: http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/wed-july-17-2013/back-in-black—new-york-versus-texas), all of which imply that his state is the best for business because of their lack of regulations.

There should be an asterisk. If your business is providing safe, legal abortions, then Texas is going to regulate the hell out of you. Due to new regulations signed just a couple of days ago, almost all of these businesses will have to close.

If you’re a woman who believes her body’s reproductive system is her business, you also want to stay out of Texas. The new bill restricts them after 20 weeks (if you can find a place to do them). The new push is to ban them after six weeks.

Most women aren’t even aware they’re pregnant by then.

Rick Perry hates regulation and loves freedom.

Apparently, everything is bigger in Texas, even hypocrisy.

My job during my frequent trips to London is to try to explain Americans and American policy to our former cousins.

When I was first there in 2006, I had to explain how it was that W had gotten a second term.

Now they want to know about healthcare. About how people can believe that it’s okay to let your fellow citizens die for lack of it. About how we would resist a single payer system when it would cost less and deliver more. About why we think everyone having health insurance (the way all car owners have car insurance) would somehow make us all commies.

I can’t always give answers. I don’t know why members of my own family believe that if you don’t have insurance, due to its expense or due to pre-existing conditions, you should just be allowed to die. But they do. One told me that it was a shame, but it wasn’t his responsibility to keep anyone else alive–staying alive is a personal responsibility, you see.

It was Christmas, and we were told to stop arguing, so I didn’t say that other people’s tax dollars pay for his children’s school, blah, blah, blah.

I can’t explain these positions because I can’t even begin to follow the logic. My mother is furious right now because her sister is ill. Due to pre-existing conditions, my aunt has not had health insurance in decades. No primary care physician in their area will take her. No specialist will see her. Rather than looking forward to January, when the pre-existing condition problem won’t be a problem, or when Florida finally allows its healthcare program for the poor to be expanded, my mother’s response to this situation is to say:

“This is how it’s going to be for everyone when Obamacare kicks in.”

When asked to explain, she says she doesn’t “believe” that my aunt would be able to get health insurance under the new regulations. Instead, she believes that the new rules will mean that because my aunt doesn’t have insurance, the IRS will take away her house.

No, I can’t explain that to people, who, even though they don’t live here, understand Obamacare better than that.

(By the way, I’m not entirely happy with Obamacare. I would rather have a single-payer option. But I think the changes under Obamacare are better than what my family’s political party wanted to do–to blame my aunt and people like her for not having insurance and to watch while she suffers.)

What I can do is explain that many Americans have myths about the British healthcare system. That people believe Brits have to wait forever for care, that they can’t choose their doctors, that the quality of their care is low, that the government makes their health care decisions, and that they don’t like their own system.

These myths surprise my British friends.

The other thing I can do is challenge the myths they have about our system. Most of these myths are about what life is like for those of us with insurance.

Surely, they think, if my company and I are going to pay WAY more for my healthcare than it costs in tax dollars in the British system, I must have it good.

Then I explain some things:

1. My insurance company makes a lot of my health care decisions. These decision come in the form of them telling me that I’m not allowed to have something the doctor wants me to have. Yes, while the other side is terrified of the government deciding which asthma medicine I can be on, they are fine with a company making that choice–a company who bases that choice on their own profit.

2. I have to wait for care. Every time I need to see a specialist, it takes months. Once, when my son really needed to see an ENT doctor, my GP had to mark “urgent” on the referral to guarantee that he would be seen within two months. Insurance doesn’t guarantee prompt care.

3. Although I have insurance, I could still easily go broke due to medical costs. In 2001, I had insurance. I also had a significant health issue that ended in surgery (although the surgery didn’t completely resolve the issue). I spent over 1/3 of my gross income that year on healthcare. As I was a single mother making less than 20,000, it should come as no surprise that I am still dealing with medical debt from way back then.

In May, I was in an emergency room. A doctor came in and said I needed surgery and that he was going to call an ambulance to transfer me to a hospital that could do it. I am now supposed to pay over $800 for an ambulance that a doctor called for me.

This blows my mind. It blows the minds of the Brits.

After I explain how our system works, our cousins don’t envy us. And they don’t just feel sorry for Americans without insurance. They feel sorry for Americans with it too.

Most women my age probably can’t say that they’ve been a bride more often than a bridesmaid. On the 22nd of June, I’ll break even, as I stand beside two of the most important people in the whole world to me.
Our story is a bit uncommon, however. I knew the groom, Chaz, first. In fact, Chaz and I dated when I lived in London for the summer of 2006.
Carmen was the woman who came after me. I used to tease Chaz that he’d replaced me with the Spanish me, especially since he kept telling me how alike we are. We’re both pale skinned, dark-haired, strong, intelligent, geeky, museum loving women. How could he resist us?
It wasn’t until a couple of years ago that I actually got to meet Carmen, though. I was in London for a conference, and they offered me a place to stay. Chaz was right when he said Carmen and I would love each other. We became instant friends, spending many a late night drinking and talking (often about a problem she diagnosed–that I needed a man who would make me tea [and now I have one!]). Poor Chaz would come home to find us up and have to decide which of his girls to give a hello peck to first.
Carmen and I talk more often than Chaz and I do now. She is a great treasure in my life, and I’m so thankful to Chaz for bringing us together.
Part of the reason we’ve been able to bond so well is that Carmen was never threatened by the fact that Chaz had been with me. Early in their relationship, he’d explained that he wouldn’t be able to be with her if he hadn’t been with me. Our relationship was healing for and important to us both. And Carmen thus appreciated me before she even met me.
Some people still find this odd. For example, the day we went bridesmaid dress shopping, we ended up having a discussion about how we wouldn’t want to marry virgins.
“What if the guy is terrible?” Carmen wondered.
“Of course he’ll be terrible,” I said. “A man needs women to say,

Carmen drinks out of a Karma’s Bitch mug!

‘hey, stop doing that!’ How else can he learn?”
Carmen leaned over, kissed me on the cheek, and said thank you.
The other bridesmaid then said, “And that’s why you two and your relationship are weird.”
(For the record, the women before me had Chaz all ready–I never had to tell him to stop it.)

Yes–we are weird. And that’s why we love each other so much & why I’m so honored to be a part of this wedding.

Here’s to the happy couple!

He’s naked
kneeling before the embers
blowing softly

There isn’t enough kindling
You offer up old road maps
with destinations that no longer exist

He moves the logs
and his hands are dirtier than
you’ve ever seen them

He will taste like smoke when
he embraces you

You now offer paper
from your pad
not with your notes–
the blank pages
filled only with promise

The smoke will still rise
the log will be red
underneath
long after he’s asleep

still naked

his hands smelling like you.

No–no real spoilers here. I’m not going to talk about which of your favorite (or not favorite) characters are going to die on the hit HBO show.
I’m gonna talk about orgasms.
Ever since GOT premiered, the internet has been debated the sexual politics of the show, with some people thinking it’s sexist and others finding some of the strongest women on tv there. Saturday Night Live even did a fantastic sketch about why the show features so much nudity (http://www.brobible.com/entertainment/article/snl-game-of-thrones).
And there is a lot. Exposition tends to happen in whorehouses, as women of the night work on their technique. What’s interesting about most of those scenes, though, is the attention to artifice. These scenes do not feature women with their clients. Instead, the women train each other to fake pleasure, turning on and off the moaning at will.
However, what pleases me more and more about the show is the focus on actual female pleasure.
One of the most frustrating things about our pornographic society is the focus on moaning and other signs of pleasure, but the lack of female orgasms in our sex scenes. The women moan enough to let you know you’re doing a good job, but not enough to signal that they’re actually getting off.
Thus, not only is Game of Thrones breaking ground with its strong female characters, it’s actively discussing female pleasure. We don’t see the orgasms, but an amazing amount of time is given to discussing them, especially considering how many plotlines have to be crammed into each episode.
The Queen of Dragons has a happy marriage once she learns to have good sex with her husband. Margaery tries to tell Sansa that her fiance may be able to satisfy her sexually, even though he isn’t what she wants in a husband in other ways. When young Podrick spends some time in the whorehouse (his first time knowing women), he isn’t charged because the women enjoy it. Every man in King’s Landing speculates about what he’s done to make women happy–not with jealousy–but with a desire to copy his actions. Jon Snow is protected by his wildling lover because of whatever it is he can do with tongue, proving that he doesn’t need the advice a wildling general tries to give him about how to please a woman.
Game of Thrones is a guilty pleasure, but at least it’s training its viewers about what pleasure should be.

I was expecting that my next blog would cover some of the cultural events I’ve experienced lately–the amazing sold out show at Mondavi of the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain, Common House’s amazing production of The Foreigner, my recent trip to Wine Country, in which I got to see a little grey whale swimming along the coast, etc.
But the news of the week is my loss of a gallbladder.
Saturday, I woke up early and got a lot of work done. Shortly after I had lunch, I started feeling really ill–nausea and vomiting had me thinking it was food poisoning. Hours later, still vomiting and  shaking, I headed to the ER. Tenderness in my upper right abdomen made the doctors think it might be my gallbladder. An ultrasound confirmed that the organ was “packed” with stones.
When gallbladder stones block the duct, the useful stuff the gallbladder makes can’t get out to help digest food, causing the symptoms I was experiencing. Once the doctors were finally able to get me to stop throwing up, I was allowed to go home, with instructions to the see the doctor to talk about scheduling a surgery.
Except the next day all the symptoms came back, so it was back to the ER for me, where it was decided that I would be transferred to Sacramento for Emergency Surgery. It was an exhausting night. No sleep. Many rooms. One hallway. Not enough pain medication.
At 6 a.m., the nurse finally turned out the light and told me to get an hour of sleep before my surgery, but that was when the elderly Chinese woman in the bed next to mine woke up and started yelling at all her relatives on the phone.
I gave the nurse Vanessa’s number and was herded down for them to get me ready. There was a moment when they realized that I still had my underwear on, and they seemed surprised. They needed the underwear off, apparently, so they could catheter me after putting me to sleep. Since I hadn’t know that, I thought they should have expected I would leave my panties on–who puts on a backless gown AND thinks it would be a great idea to go commando?
My panties are now in a little “bioharzard” bag. Eventually, I will stop seeing this bag as a funny souvenir.
The surgery was quick, but the nausea and pain were hard to control, so I was in recovery for about four hours, where my nurse was really great, before I was released back to my room. Vanessa was there almost instantly, and we sat for hours, her grading, me trying to block out the Chinese-restaurant ambient music coming from behind the curtain to my right.
As soon as I got the nausea under control, I announced my decision to go home. Melissa and Vanessa were able to keep me company for the several hours it took to make that happen. We left during a freak downpour. I slept for 12 hours.
It’s day two of my recovery. It basically hurts to move. To stretch to bend down, to sit up, to stand up. My arms are sore from the incredible bruising all the needles caused. My four incision sites burn.
I’ve been grinding my teeth like crazy at night, apparently–I have the headache that comes from doing that.
But I’m going to be okay.
And I’m very thankful.
Thankful for all my co-workers who have covered classes for me.
Thankful for my son, who, the second I first started vomiting, got me a throw up bowl and gingerale and offered me a cool washcloth for my head. Who, although he’s sort of shy of strangers, kept marching out to the doctors’ desk at the ER to ask about the timeline for transport, etc.
Thankful for my Ian, who relieved the boy that first night, rubbed my back, and watched Dexter with me last night so I could focus on fictional blood and wounds.
Thankful for my Vanessa, who took me to the ER with the boy the second night, rescued me from the hospital, and is doing a Target run for me today.
Thankful for Melissa, Ken, April, Marina, Mandy Dawn, Tiffany, Tessa, Poonam, and everyone else who’s called, emailed, texted, offered and/or has given support and best wishes.
I don’t know exactly when I’ll be completely myself again, but I know it’ll be faster because of all of you.