Humming

Help me, I’ve started humming and I just can’t stop. I started at least a year ago. Tunes will pop into my head and get stuck and before I know it I am humming them uncontrollably. Sometimes, when there is no tune, I hum random melodies; almost like a vocal chord experiment rather than anything my brain has something to do with. I looked up “Humming Uncontrollably” on the Internet and found that I am not alone. There were no answers on the WebMD site that popped up but a long list of messages from other people who have similar problems: humming inappropriately at work; humming when you don’t even realize you’re doing it; husbands and wives getting irritated because of the constant humming; humming, humming, humming. I seem to hum when I don’t have something specific to focus on. I don’t seem to hum when I’m on the computer. I hum when I’m driving or walking, or washing. I hum old songs that I haven’t thought of in years and refrains from new songs that I don’t know how I know. I hum refrains and then I wrack my brain to remember where that refrain comes from or how the rest of the song goes. I hum to drown out the thoughts of fear and panic that might come creeping in if I let my brain idle for too long. I hum rather than yell, although yelling seems to be something I want to do even though I know it will be unproductive and, worse, it will make the people I want to yell at defensive and start yelling back. Many of the messages I read seem to show some link between the humming and antidepressants. Okay. However, if that is the source, folks around me will have to deal with the humming because I am not giving up my antidepressant until my life changes for the better. Hm hm hmmmm…

Dream

What a dream. My parents had written and were performing, for one night only, a series of scenes from their life together. Six professional singers would sing romantic classics between scenes so they could change costumes that looked like Edith Head had designed them. As the first scene unfolded, I suddenly realized I had neglected to videotape it! I beat myself up about that as I watched the scene; all the ramifications of not being able to revisit this night at will; of not having preserved it for my parents’ sake; especially for my mother who would cherish it long after my father was gone. The theatre was packed with friends and family, although at one point, all the seats were facing in the wrong direction and people, those who chose to, had to swivel around uncomfortably to see the action. Some people chose not to and just listened. The show was wonderful; flawed, but wonderful. "Who wrote this?" My mother and father played themselves and somehow had shed pounds and years for the occasion. They spoke with no amplification, clear and strong, and I was amazed at their ability to do so. Where had those voices come from? Mom’s gowns were straight out of the movies: full-length swirls of chiffon that crisscrossed her breasts, accented her tiny waist and swished when she walked like Loretta Young. One dress, more Bacall or Grable, was head-to-toe fur for the scene in which she gets the credit card bill and is mortified that she spent so much, but he is fine with it because he wants her to have whatever she wants until he actually sees the bill and has to gulp and yell before remembering his former position. He was playing a grand piano in this scene, although I never knew him to play anything but the violin and not very well. My father had also shed years and pounds and had firmness to his body he never had in life. He had the thinnest head of brown hair; something else I had never known him to have. Oh yes; and he was alive; a feat in itself. There were some latecomers, and some usher was making a fuss in the far aisle about the fact that they hadn’t paid for their children and couldn’t stay. A scene was in progress and the disturbance upset me so I went to intervene, meeting the now ejected people in front of the theatre. I asked what the problem was and, teary-eyed, two young women explained about the kids. I asked if they knew anyone in the company, for this was sort of a private affair. They said they were friends of Keith’s. (Keith is my son.) I escorted them back inside for which they were very grateful and found them seats. They asked if I knew Keith’s sister. I said “I AM Keith’s sister.” As I started up the aisle, someone was snoring. (It was probably my husband next to me and I was incorporating it into the dream.) In the back of the audience, I started shaking people awake to find the snorer; a little boy, a young girl, an older man, a white haired lady… the last two were actually wrapped in soft white blankets. Having left my seat, I now couldn’t find my purse. The play ended, the audience filed out and I scanned the seats for my purse. I met my cousin Mona who told me my brother had it and that he had left with my other cousin, Karen, to go back to the house. I met my parents in front of the theatre and waited patiently as their well-wishers congratulated them and said goodnight. I was ecstatic about the quality of what I had seen. “Who wrote this?” “Who directed this?” “Why wasn’t it me?” Mom now wanted me to look at the script and fix it up for publishing. I was mollified. We went to a bar next door for a drink and mom wondered why there wasn’t a party. “Someone has to make a party, I said. They don’t just give them away. “ I was certain the whole family was waiting back at their apartment anyway. We talked about what great shape they were in and Mom confided it was easier to do with a full-time trainer to tell you when to stop eating. Dad was with us the whole time but never said a word other than those on stage. Then the dream devolved into how I was going to get my car out of the parking lot where it had been blocked in a corner and I woke up. I think I’ve been reading too much Christopher Durang.