Tuesday, September 2: High-Heeled Gumshoe
Melodie’s back. To quote Kermit the Frog, “YA-A-A-A-A-AY!” —JLW
JOHNSONHOWE or WHAT’S in a NAME?
by Melodie Johnson Howe
As many of you know I’ve been in the hospital. (I’m going to milk this as long as I can.) As good as the hospital is at saving life they don’t care much for the individual, the uniqueness that make us, well, us. It starts with the name tag they slap on your wrist. It has your date of birth and your name. The computer that prints these ID tags cannot or will not allow for two last names. Nor will it allow for a dash or a space between the two last names. So my last name became a mishmash of letters—JOHNSONHOWE—confusing technicians, nurses, doctors and eventually myself.
I could have remained Melodie Johnson and made it easier on everybody. But when I wrote my first book I decided to add Howe. Not only did I think it was time after twenty years of marriage to commit to my husband, but I also thought that his last name lent a certain weight to the fluffiness of a name like Melodie. But that was long ago when I was battling with being thought of as fluffy.
Back in the hospital. A nurse comes into my room and asks, “Mrs. Johnsonhowie?”
“Howe,” I respond.
“What?”
I raise my hand like all the Indian chiefs I had seen in the westerns of my childhood. “How.”
“Who?”
“It’s pronounced How.” I realize the nurse is Indian but from India. She has no idea what I’m doing or saying. “The ‘e’ is silent,” I add apologetically.
“Okay, Mrs. Johnsowie, I’m going to get you up for a walk.”
After my walk a technician comes in to take my blood. She checks my name tag.
“Your date of birth?”
I repeat it for the umpteenth time. For a woman of a certain age this is not helpful for a quick recuperation.
“Your last name?”
They never want your first one. I tell her, clearly enunciating each name.
She’s now checking my arms. “Okay, Mrs. Johnshaul, I’m going to try to find a vein to take some blood. Most of yours seem to have been used already. Oh, here’s one. You’re just gong to feel a small sting.”
Well, maybe Mrs. Johnshaul felt a small sting but Mrs. Johnson Howe felt a sharp penetrating slice down to the bone.
“That wasn’t too bad was it?”
In response I manage a sound that is between a groan and a snarl. She carefully copies my name from my ID tag on to the two thousand vials filled with my blood.
“Thank you, Mrs. HoweJohns.” She leaves.
I lean back on my pillow. I have spent a lifetime trying to carve out a name for myself. But in the hospital I feel like a character in The Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The pods have grown under my bed and stripped me of my own persona. I am now answering to any name that gets close enough to my own.
My friends and family come to visit. I am suddenly Melodie or Mom as the case may be. A writer friend brings me The Strand Magazine. When my visitors are gone, I pick it up and read the names on the cover. Names firmly planted in the writing profession. One simple name leaps out at me: John Floyd. Could it be Criminal Brief’s John M. Floyd? I peer out into the hallway to see if a bean pod in the guise of a nurse is coming toward me. Then I open the magazine and find a short story, “Debbie, Bernie & Belle,” by John M. Floyd. The Strand left out his middle initial on the cover. I chuckle with empathy and begin to read.
I am in the real world of fiction. John’s words sweep me away from the hospital to a world of betrayal on betrayal that leads to love. It’s a gem. I am feeling better.
A young man enters my room carrying a tray. “Mrs. Sonhowl, I have your dinner.” Mrs. Sonhowl thanks him. I lift the lid off the plate and grin at my mystery meat.
The next day my husband, Mr. Howe, comes to take me home.
I’d like to thank my fellow bloggers, scribes and readers for their kind thoughts and best wishes. They worked. JLW gets special thanks for covering for me with his usual aplomb. As does Rob for filling my column (that sounds strangely sexual) with his techno-haiku … er … poetry.
Techno-haiku? You’re welcome, I think. Glad to see you back in fine form…writing form, at least. Oddly enough, I visited the hospital last week (not as a patient) and wrote a column of my own about health communication. It will appear next week and I’ll be interested to hear how you feel about it.
And again, welcome back Ms Bones.
Unfortunately, I also suffer from a name problem (not with me, but others seem to have a problem.) No one spells Elliott with two l’s and two t’s it seems and though Upton is merely two one syllable simple words in any English dictionary, I am rarely addressed as Upton, but as Uptown. My husband says it is because I am an uptown kind of girl, but then, he’s always making me laugh. So glad to have you back, Melodie!
Great column, Melodie — Good to hear you’re back home and doing well! And thank you sincerely for your kind words about my little story in The Strand. As for names, I included my middle initial when I made my first submission almost 15 years ago because at that time there was also a writer named John Floyd (from Memphis, I think). But I answer to just about anything.
The other day when I put our car in the shop the lady at the desk asked my name, and when I told her she said, “That’s spelled F-L-Y-O-D?” I said, “No, O-Y-D, as in Lloyd.” Later, when I looked at what she’d written on the ticket, it said Flloyd. Oh well . . .
Glad to have you back, Melodie. I enjoyed your column, as always.
John’s story in The Strand is indeed terrific. I made my wife read it (she doesn’t usually read short), and she too loved it. Congratulations, John!
Glad you’re okay and in fine writing form! Speaking of Hospital food, during one of my Hospital stays in my youth someone told me that they’d try to slip me medicine in my dessert. When I saw the cup of gunky pudding at the edge of the tray I said “Ma’am, just take this back and bring me the pill, please!”