Painting my limbic system blue

I’m not used to having TV. I grew up in Egypt, at a time when you only needed to take off one shoe to count all the TV channels in New Jersey. Didn’t even have to put down your real-sugar-sweetened soda to count the channels in Cairo — none of which were in English.

arabic-tv
This delightfully expressive image is from wn.com

J is a more normal American, so between his restoration of normality, and my sense of novelty, we’re delighted to have TV again. His ear for BS is too keen to make sitcoms bearable, so we default to true crime, amateur survivalist, and judge shows, where people really are that idiotic and don’t have to pretend.

A couple of days ago, we stumbled across a show about felons on the lam. I think that was on one channel or another from noon to bedtime, except for the news. It was strangely entertaining, seeing how people fool themselves into believing the false lives they create.

For the past two nights, I’ve woken up in the wee hours from dreams of having done something I knew wasn’t quite right, then it turned out the feds really didn’t like, learning that they were displeased, then discovering they were after me (a mortal issue, since I wouldn’t survive a week in prison), then finding myself hiding and running and trying terribly hard to be clever enough to survive in my decidedly impaired mental state.

This morning, I woke up feeling, quite vividly, as if my limbic system — that set of tiny, nervous parts clustered deep in the primitive brain — was huge, red, and pulsing with overstimulation.
brain_limbicsystem-inflated
I’m no fool. I know how to deal with imaginary brain inflation.

I wrapped a band around it, colored the whole thing a pleasing blue, and gently and persistently cooled and prodded it down to a more reasonable size.
brain_limbicsystem-deflated
I also massaged the point between my eyebrows that my old acupuncturist used to needle when I was too jumpy to let her stick sharp objects into me.
acupuncture-yintang-institutyinyang
When I was calm enough to do my brain exercise that stabilizes my ANS somewhat, I worked it like a plowhorse.

Once I had done that, I was actually capable of noticing how tense my system feels, and could mentally reach the lever that makes that inner spring gently unwind.

Then J brought me a nice fresh cup of hot tea in bed.

mug-drwho-steam
…Oh, heaven!

Then I read this out to him, and he laughed out loud.

Now, it’s a good day.

Share this article:

Getting the important things settled

It took roughly three weeks to recover from the move. For much of that time, everything was bathed in a whitish sheen, and getting more than one coherent sentence out at a time was a crap shoot. I’m learning to relax through these times, knowing they’ll pass, especially since I had someone to keep the place cleanish and make sure food landed on the table once in awhile. You’d be amazed how much energy it frees up, having help with the demands of daily living.

It took about three and a half weeks to get internet going at all, and even then, it’s slow. My original workstation was so astoundingly awkward I had to sit sideways on the settee in order to type while hooked up to the modem. Short surf sessions, needless to say, with frequent breaks. Awful.

Yesterday, I pulled apart all of the — wow — truly excessively complicated hookups laid in by the prior owner. I reran wires, relocated cord-keepers, moved the faceplate from its hidden location in the cupboard to the wall where it can conceal horribly ratty holes including the one that the cable goes through, moved the huge coil of excess cable (15 feet, at a guess, of which 3 were being used) off the TV and strung it along the wall… to where I can now sit up comfortably in my bed, power and modem hooked up to my laptop, and noodle away in perfect peace. I put the remaining cabling — 2 pieces of extra CAT5 cable, triple-wire connector cable, ethernet cable, and a random small piece of 2-wire connector cable — zipped up in a plastic bag and shoved out of sight.

I’d take a picture, but there’s nothing to see. Just a cupboard, with a splitter at one end and a single white cable secured to the underside of the shelf, until it plunges out of sight to head off to its final destination.

There’s a bit of extra cable looped and secured neatly against the back wall. In electronics and electrics alike, if the wire is just the right length, then it’s too short. Give it a foot (not twelve feet) of slack, neatly stowed.

The key to routing wiring of any kind is: it should be as simple as it can be, and no simpler. I kept chanting that in my mind as I pulled things apart.

With that thought, I didn’t have to keep the whole puzzle in my head. There was an intake end and two output ends, and the shape of everything in the middle would be derived from necessary functions and the available space. Not, for crying out loud, from the needlessly complicated cat’s cradle I’d inherited.

When I got started, J stood by quizzically as I pulled out the hefty coil of cable, pointed out the rat’s nest around the splitter, and displayed other bits of insulated-wire macrame, each time snorting in gleeful derision and saying, “Amateurs!”

Finally, after he dodged the shrapnel from my 3rd dive into the tool drawer, he got that look that says, “time to get out of the danger zone,” and took off to run errands.

I’m not as fast as I used to be, so it took from noon until sunset to get it all done and neatly stowed. J wandered back as I was finishing up, and was more flatteringly impressed than I’d dared to hope — really wowed. He wasn’t sure why I’d gone to all that trouble to clear cupboard space (which was one nice side-effect, in this limited space), but when he saw the cable over by my new workstation, which is about the most comfortable place there is to sit, it made more sense.

He should be able to watch TV at the same time that I’m working online. To us, this is sybaritic paradise. Bring it on.

Tech note: My internet has to be hardwired, because the radiation from being near wifi consistently makes me sick. The nausea, weakness and racing heartbeat are unmistakeable.

I keep the wires off my arms with pillows, so that, even though the wires originate behind me, they don’t come within a foot of me until they’re almost at the laptop. This is about as good as it can be here. After sitting here for most of an hour, I’m fine. Just fine.

Share this article:

Half-glassed — a metaphor for flexibility

We all know the old trope: half full, or half empty?

I worked at Borland, which means, I worked with highly capable engineers who were accustomed to doing things right. I once got a very friendly, but very earnest, lecture about the half-glass phenomenon: the point is not whether the glass is half-full or half-empty.

The problem is, the glass was not designed for that amount of water. You either have to fill the glass,

… or use a vessel that’s designed to hold that quantity.

The whole half-glass thing drives them crazy. It’s not a matter of attitude, it’s just bad design!

I love engineers. There’s something adorable about the way they storm the gates of Accuracy, convinced it’s the same as Truth.

At first glance, that attitude looks silly at times. On deeper thought, they’re usually right.

I was thinking about the engineering approach to the half-glass issue, while my subconscious was still bathed in reflections on Rosalie.

I realized that the engineering approach is exactly what those of us with crippling disease have to do: our glasses, our outward lives, were designed to hold a lot more than we’ve got right now.

We either have to build up what we have to put into it, or we need to use a smaller glass. A significant disparity between what our lives can hold, and what they do hold, is depressing. They need to match up better.

Rosalie alternated, and I think all of us with chronic disease (and determination) do that as well. Sometimes we can build ourselves up, and expand what we can put into that glass; sometimes we adjust our expectations and commitments, making the glass smaller so that the contents fit.

I like this image, because it reminds me that I can do either thing. When pushing against my limits doesn’t work, when I really can’t get another drop of water into that glass, I can pull back my expectations and switch to a smaller glass.

By now, I have mental cupboards full of wildly mismatched drinkware – a glass for every occasion, for every level of function so far.

The one on the right is for when my hands don’t work.

“My cup runneth over” takes on a new meaning now, doesn’t it? When it does, I’ll reach for a bigger glass.

Share this article:

Rosalie’s gold

I met Rosalie about 15 years ago, when she put me up for my dad’s second wedding. I fell in love with her on sight, when she threw open the door and bathed me and my brothers in such warmth and delight that even awkward, dorky I felt completely welcome in her life.

I stayed in the little den next to her bedroom, overlooking the pool. Her house was built in the 50s, when her neighborhood was inexpensive and remote. It has an endless view across the whole valley of Los Angeles.

She was a spring chicken, only 83 years old. She had already had two back surgeries to fuse vertebrae, and scooted around – with characteristic energy – in the distinctive crow-backed shuffle of post-fixation chronic back pain.

About five years later, my CRPS journey started. Rosalie was my first model of how to handle increasing pain and disability with a degree of grace and poise. Whenever I came to visit my stepmom or her mother, I’d see if Rosalie’s and my schedules would allow a visit. In all those years, I don’t think she failed to raise a smile more than once or twice, despite some brutal trials.

She had several more surgeries, implanted devices, physical therapy, and she swam laps in her pool whenever she could possibly manage it, inviting whoever came over to swim with her to have a glass of wine and tonic water (or gin instead of wine, for my stepmom) afterwards.

She kept love in focus: for her offspring and her dear friends, she had a seemingly bottomless well of love and regard, regardless of the vicissitudes of life and relationships.

She was always herself: whatever her opinion, and whether or not you agreed with it, she would let you know. No energy and no words were wasted on making things seem nicer than they were. You never had to wonder what her agenda was. And she managed that without ever being pissy or the least bit mean. Conservation of energy, including emotional energy, is a big issue for pain conditions, because pain is so exhausting; she didn’t waste a drop.

Yet she was famous for the radiancy of her outlook, not to mention of her smile. As soon as she had answered the question, “How are you?” with customary honesty, she visibly put that aside, turned her bright eyes on her visitors, and got them talking about more interesting things. She kept her focus where it belonged: on the rest of life.

As I said at her memorial service yesterday, she always looked for the nuggets of gold, whatever else was going on. She always looked for a way forward, whatever held her back.

If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you know that I hardly ever write about anything until I’ve found the nugget of gold. You know that I always look for a way forward, whatever holds me back.

I can find this in myself, in large part because Rosalie gave me a living, breathing, occasionally querulous but never unfair, always loving, always real example of how to do it. I need those living models. I can learn only so much in theory.

This is real life. And sooner or later, it ends. I’m slightly bowled over by this intensely personal realization that the true radiance of a life can outlast the grave. Rosalie’s radiance is with me still, reflected off these nuggets of gold.

Share this article:

Unexpected adventures with the rent

Yesterday I did 10 minutes on the treadmill. Today, I walked almost a full mile of this hill in 18 minutes and 16 seconds — no shuffling, no stopping, lots of striding, not much slowing down. Woo hoo!

I’d better start scouting trails and footpaths around here. I’m going to need more options soon.

As I calm my breathing in preparation for my autogenic exercise (more on that later), I have to admit that I had some angst to work off, and that probably had something to do with the pace I kept up.

Last night, I realized I’d lost my ATM card. I have one bank, one card, and one checkbook. … Er… had…

The card was gone.

The checkbook was empty.
I’m fresh out of cash.
And rent is due.
Suuuuuuuuuucks.

Welcome to My Brain on CRPS!

To be completely apt, these should be thoroughly scrambled.

I went to the landlady’s bank to see if we could do a wire transfer.
Turns out they’re closed on Wednesday.

I called a different branch and asked if they could.
No, not without an account of my own.

I asked if I could open an account with a wire transfer.
After 20 minutes on hold, it turned out that I could only open an account with cash or a check.

Rather than repeating myself, I said, “You realize that does me no good.”

I called my bank (a local savings bank) in Massachusetts. They were pleased to tell me that someone had called in my missing card and it had been cancelled promptly. 2 weeks to get another one.

They couldn’t do a wire transfer because they’re rather old-school, and I hadn’t gone into a branch and filed the appropriate form in person.

But — and this is why I stay with them — they didn’t end the conversation there.

After exploring several possibilities, which turned up as dead ends, I thought of Cougar, one of my angels (a word with specific meaning.) He bears a passing resemblance to a slimmer and semi-shaven Jerry Garcia..

A recent photo by yours truly.

But, more importantly, he takes my mail. Why?

In case you hadn’t noticed, I move around a lot. (I’m looking for a place that has an affordable cost of living, good soil, first-rate medical care, and no extra pollution or radiation, and one day I’ll find it.) I’m here in California for awhile for medical care, BUT, no matter where the rest of me goes, my mailing address remains the same.

The benefits are tremendous:

  • Not only is my steel-sieve brain spared the affliction of changing my address every time I move,
  • Not only are my ridiculous paws spared the trouble of wrestling with envelopes and handling papercuts (a task which cougar claws are apparently well-adapted for),
  • But my memory and cognition issues get a real break from having to deal with pieces of effing paper. I have developed a mental block around dealing with pieces of effing paper, so I get them into softcopy as soon as possible.

Or, rather, most of the time, Cougar does… Because he doesn’t just take in my mail, he scans it in and sends me softcopy of anything I ask him to open. This means I have COMPLETE RECORDS of everything I need to keep track of.

He’s the Magnificent Mail Mage, and I’m grateful. Take that, Pain-Brain!

He’s my current Cash Carrier, now. The management staff at my lovely little bank have agreed to work with him as my designated agent, and will provide him with the cash I request — which he will then send to me via Western Union, so I can take care of business here. And with it, I’ll pay rent, open a bank account locally, and try not to let this happen ever, ever again.

Meanwhile, it’s time to get my heart rate down from the clouds and that strangely full feeling out of my tissues. Easier said…

While the excitement is over for the moment, I have a vivid memory of the stress-tracking line on the biofeedback machine, and how bloody hard and bloody long it takes to get the level to drop after it goes up over something as small as one giggle.

This was no giggle. In fact, it was several hours of no giggle. None. A totally giggle-free period.

I found it stressful.

The walk helped. And I hope — when I find some good forest trails to explore — to spot some wildlife.

Meanwhile, I’m off the hook for laundry and shopping. It all has to wait until tomorrow. Bonus!

Everyone should have a little cougarosity in their lives…

 

Share this article:

Marathon — second thoughts

I’ve gotten some interesting responses to my marathon proposal, some of them very worried, bless their excellent, loving hearts. I feel I owe some explanation.

My tiny handful of fellow “imps of the possible” are all for it, completely understanding the uncertainties and sidetracks and possible (even probable) different endings in store – and knowing that it’s the reach that’s important, that spreading

Obsidian drive

I’m behind on my articles, but it’s been an awful week on the internet, with a remarkably slimy predator spreading poison and deceipt like I spread nut butter: lavishly. Boyfriend J gave me a necessary reality check to stop my charging about in pointless anguish, then exerted his remarkable capacity to adjust my mood.

We took a walk in the creek where we admired treasure troves of river-rubbed obsidian, much of it the size of a fist, some rather larger. We got really excited about some of the larger stones, grapefruit-sized.

Only ones that fit in a pocket followed us home:

Then, as it was Sunday, we decided to go to church. For us, this involves no pastors, but maybe pastures…

We went up and around new roads, over beautiful hills, along streams, through forests… and found the sources of all that obsidian.

Great bands of fat black glass sloped up through orange, yellow, white earth.

Some of it spilled onto the edges of the road, much of it clinging to the rockfaces.

Chunks the size of heads, boulders the size of steamer trunks. J remarked, “We hit the motherlode, baby, we hit the motherlode!”

I was so scamperingly excited to get pictures and samples that J was both cracking up and worrying slightly. When I was preparing to dash down a narrow stretch of road to get a shot, h e didn’t send me on and wait by the car… he grabbed my hand and led the way, saying, “If we’re going to get hit by a drunk driver, we’re going to get hit together. Come on, baby, let’s go.”

He met a carnivorous specimen which tried to bite off his finger when, trying to give me a more interesting shot, he reached out to touch it:

This piece has been hacked at by amateur geologists trying, and failing, to collect that enormous sample — well, trophy. J was just being friendly, but the edges are just as glassy-sharp as if he had had more hostile intentions.

It made our river-rubbed fist- and grapefruit-sized pieces look very small indeed — and very gentle!

The temperature dropped suddenly, 3 degrees in 2 minutes and falling. I turned from the rockface and took this picture of the lush region above the volcanic bed just as it did so:

J chased me into the car and ignored all my mindless “ooh, ooh!” noises and frantic pointing after that.

He has seen me, in a 70 degree (Fahrenheit) room, bundled up in a huge sweater and shaking with autonomic chill. When he knows what to look out for, he does a better job of taking care of me than I do. “If I had to drag you by the hair, I was gonna get you off that mountain. By your heel, your ass, whatever. It was getting too damn cold.”

I have to say, it feels good to have backup. I don’t take it for granted.

According to some theories, all this glorious obsidian might have something to do with why this one area of NoCal does not feel like it’s festering… but I’ll let the classical physicists, quantum physicists, wiccans and shamans argue about that. I’m just soaking up the joy of living practically on top of a fat pile of one of the coolest rocks in the world.

Share this article:

"Angel" in my mouth

I use endearments because I’m an affectionate person. “Sweetie” and “honey” and (my personal favorite) “sweet pea” are terms I use whenever the urge strikes.


One word I never used, because it was just too hokey, was “angel.”

Yes, I used “sweet pea” with perfect ease, but couldn’t bring myself to call anyone “angel” with a straight face.

What can I say? We all have our limits, however idiosyncratic.

I thought, What an overused, overfluffy, overly silly word to use about someone who is decidedly human — as everyone I’ve met so far is.

Then I went through the Years from Hell, a period of about 3 years I try not to even think about because it was so bloody harrowing it’s unbearable to remember, and there’s nothing to be done now to change that.

One set of surprises were some of the people who I was sure would come through, but fell from view when their actions were supposed to match their words.

Many people who seem awfully nice are more socially adept than genuinely good. It’s an important distinction.

Starting late 2011, I found myself using the word “angel” as an endearment for a very particular set of people. It came naturally to my mouth as a substitute for “sweetie” or “sweet pea” when speaking to those who showed up when the going became almost impossible,

who never gave up on me despite good reason to do so,

and who showed up for me through thick and thicker.

The handful of people who made the key difference between my living and dying, are the ones I call “angel” — and find it easy to do so.

It’s not over- anything. It barely does them justice. And, I have to say, some of them were a real surprise: people who aren’t apparently nice can be genuinely decent and deeply good.

Like every ER nurse ever, I used to preen myself on how good a judge of character I was. This disease, and the many versions of Hell that it comes with, teaches us a thing or two about human nature.

It’s fair to say that, even at my most brain-frozen, my judgement about people’s core attributes is better than it used to be.

I know where to find the real angels on this earth.

Among my besties, that’s where.

Share this article:

Pushing back on neuroplasticity

I got the Sydney norovirus right before it hit the news. I’m recovering, but slowly; the persistent low-grade nausea is annoying — and worrisome. I don’t want my body to get the idea that this is the new normal…

Brain plasticity is a major culprit in CRPS and its maintenance —
  • from the first refusal to cut pain signals off…
  • to the growth of the brain cortex area that monitors that body part, so it can handle more pain signals and provide less space for normal body areas…
  • to the deeper remapping and rewiring that alters cognition, disrupts memory formation, screws up autonomic signalling, knocks endocrine and digestive function out of whack…
  • and so forth.




It’s important to stay on top of the brain, so to speak.

 
Thanks to the brilliant pioneering work of Dr. V. S. Ramachandran, we now know that mirror therapy and reducing-lens therapy can remap the brain’s perception of injured body parts to something closer to normal. That was a huge help with the pain, when I had CRPS in limited areas.
 
The reality-shattering concept behind mirror therapy is, basically, that conditioning can work in reverse: rather than allowing ourselves to be the passive objects of what our brain becomes accustomed to doing, we can push back against the brain’s alterations using our natural mechanisms of perception and intent. (The basis of Dr. Ramachandran’s discovery is that perception alone can provide the altering input. Intent gives it more focus, force and direction.)
 
The relationship between body, intention, and brain is interactive, multi-dimensional, and interdependent. 

Having said that, it’s not completely reciprocal, nor is it ever under perfect control — unlike a good trapeze act.

 
If we could will ourselves better, then, given the extraordinary focus and determination of my fellow CRPSers, I know for a fact that we would have done so already. I never had met anyone with as much determination as me, until I met my core group of CRPS friends. If will alone were the answer, we’d have it!
 
CPRS is complex indeed.
 
Anyway… back to what we CAN do.
 
Communicating with the brain, in language it can’t ignore
 
The basic principle of RE-re-mapping the brain is this: describing to the brain, in language it can’t ignore (combining sensory perception and intent), what it should be doing.
 
In my Epsom bath article, I described rubbing a washcloth over body parts that have distorted perceptions and telling them silently, over and over again, “It’s just a washcloth. Feel just a washcloth.”
 
Where there is normal perception, or even nearly-normal perception, I stroke from the normal area to the abnormal area — never, ever in reverse! the brain understands the concept of “spread” — and tell my brain and body, with absolute focus, “This is what normal feels like. Feel normal HERE now. This is normal. Feel it here now. That is the correct feeling. It’s just a washcloth. Feel a washcloth.”
 
Not a burning sheet of sandpaper twice the size of my leg. Not a blunt sense of almost nothing, somewhere else.
 
A washcloth, right here.
 
When I’m doing this, I don’t even think about what the abnormal feelings are like; I came up with those metaphors just now, sifting through my memory. I shut the incorrect perceptions out of my mind and dismiss them, over and over, as obviously false information.
 
I have to take a break sometimes when the pain is bad and just breathe, but I don’t think about it, I focus on the point: learning to perceive what’s really there.
 
Vision, tactile input, kinesthesia (meaning that, as my hand and arm moves over the body part, my brain’s mechanisms triangulate on where things really are and its picture of my body gets corrected), and the focus of intent, are all part of the exercise.
 
This combination of factors is what makes it so effective. The multisensory inputs, the constant messaging of proper information, eventually overrides the false information.
 
Slowly at first, but with increasing pace, the normal sensation spreads over into the abnormal area. Every time. Not always completely or perfectly, but often both.
 
So far, I’ve reclaimed normal sensation in my back and most of my left leg, and I’ve kept the sensation and function in my arms at a level almost incompatible with the decade that I’ve had this disease.
 
Considering how bad things have gotten when I let this slide, the value of this exercise is clear to me.
 
Pruning your neurons intelligently
 
Learned responses are due to the basic learning mechanism in the brain:
  1. neurons hook up, and a connection (or association) is made;
  2. if the connection gets used (or the association is allowed to stand), more neurons hook up to make it stronger;
  3. once enough neurons have hooked up, the connection becomes like a good road;
  4. and the thing about good roads is, they get used, even if they’re used for something odd.
It’s important to manage the roads in your brain, especially when you have a neuro-plasticity disease like CRPS:
  • Make sure the roads in your brain are useful to you.
  • Do that by pruning the connections you don’t want.
  • Prune those connections by letting the associations die.
  • Let a connection die by deciding to think about, or do, something else, whenever it comes up.
    Consistently. Persistently. Relentlessly.
  • And keep making that decision every time it comes up.

It works by a negative, which is not how we are taught to do things: turn away from the response, shut out the perception, ignore the link. That’s how you prune an unhealthy connection.

It takes time, but it works. The time will pass anyway, so your brain might as well be better off at the end of it…

Masters of distraction
 
We CRPSers are masters of distraction — not to mention the kind of persistence that this pruning takes. We can learn to be diligent about applying it to sensory associations we don’t want. This is where ADD, used selectively, becomes truly — oh look! Yellow feet!
 
… Wait, what was the connection I was about to make? I’ve forgotten.
 
See? It works!
 
The joy of having a bit of ADD and being a meditator is, you really can choose when and how to let out the ADD — as long as you do it often enough. It’s a great tool, and I’m grateful for it.
 
Pruning specific sensory and functional associations
 
I’ve had recurring nausea for months now. It’s related to upticks in stress, of which I’ve had more than an elegant sufficiency in the past year.
 
Then there was this tummy bug…
 
It’s day 5 and I haven’t vomited in 3 days but I’m still nauseous. While this bug is supposed to leave one nauseous for quite some time afterwards, I really don’t want my brain getting the idea that sending nausea signals is going to be the new normal. I’m not going to let the nausea become habitual. So I’m pruning those connections.
 
I can’t will nausea away, as it comes from quite deep in the brain from a primitive place. And, unlike pain, distraction doesn’t help much for long.
 
So I’m balancing the use of ginger (short acting, “hot i’ the mouth”, sugary) and anti-nausea meds (long-acting, makes me slower in brain and gut) to shut down the nausea for a good part of each day. 
 
This means I’m not nauseous for a good part of the time. This helps retrain my brain away from constant nausea by letting the relentless association, and the neurons that make it, die off. I’m going to keep after it over the expected week of recovery still to come.
Only constructive connections, please.
That’s one example. It doesn’t take much thought or mental discipline, just persistence.
 
My lovely friend X has a recent example of something different, an obviously inappropriate new association being made.
 
She multitasks, making full use of her functional time. When she was eating, then turned aside to the plastic phone or plastic computer to respond to someone, then turned back, her food suddenly tasted and smelled like plastic.
 
That is a very errant association indeed. Prune it!
 
She is now putting aside the laptop and turning off the phone while she eats, so the association doesn’t develop further. Moreover — and she may have just enough ADD to pull this off — she hopes to be able to switch her attention immediately when the plastic taste pops back into her — Look! Yellow feet!
Egrets make great distraction, especially in funny socks.
It takes time to let those connecting neurons die, but if you get on it quickly, as X did, it can turn around pretty well and pretty quickly.
 
The Principle of Primal Exclusivity
 
This is simpler than it sounds. It’s the opposite of pruning.  
 
When you’re doing something really basic (or primal), like eating or drinking or sleeping or running or sex, keep your attention basically on that activity. It helps keep your brain straightened out about those things.
 
You really don’t want them getting bollixed up, because rewiring primal functions takes more work to undo.
 
That’s one reason why insomniac advice is about having a calming bedtime routine and sticking to it: it’s retraining the brain around a primal activity. The brain needs absolutely consistent signals over a period of time, to retrain successfully.
 
Incidentally, sex (alone or together) is the only activity that (ideally) engages both sides of the autonomic nervous system: arousal is mediated by the sympathetic nervous system, and orgasm by the parasympathetic nervous system. It provides a balancing mechanism I can’t think of occurring in any other sphere of life. Done properly, it could be the perfect autonomic tuning tool…
 
And with that happy thought, I’ll leave you to wash your hands against this norovirus and do whatever seems best.
 

Share this article:

In a house of flu

My darling host V got this year’s brutal tummy flu two nights ago. His daughter, L, and I jumped right on it. A couple gallons of mixed fluids and someTamiflu later, he’s looking better than ever, and is quietly enjoying the privilege of lying around in his jammies and having two women dancing affectionate attendance on him.

Yesterday, I got a little more white grape juice and pedialyte than I thought he’d need, just in case we needed to jump-start someone ele’s treatment. Looks like it was just about enough, though.

Over last night, L and I hammered 3 doses each of oscillococcinum, which we usually find very effective in warding off the flu. I’m used to respiratory flus. We shall see.


Today, L wiped all the knobs and surfaces with alcohol and washed all the towels and linens in hot water. Growing up, she had two rounds of rheumatic fever and her mother had adult polio, and the entire family got chicken pox at the same time; she knows what to do “when there’s sickness in the house,” to use her timeless phrase.

I stood back and made encouraging noises, and wished — for the very first time, every time — that I was able to be just a bit more use.

With the autonomic nausea I’ve been fighting off and on for weeks now, it’s hard to say if I’m actually getting flu-y or if the autonomia is kicking up. As I finished picking up the kitchen, though, my insides let me know that they are considering the value of reverse gear. Nothing substantial, just a warning…

That’s the autonomic transmission, on the right…

Intestinal flu wreaks havoc on the autonomic system:

  • Turns the GI system inside out, which boosts inflammation, disturbs blood sugar, and wastes fluids;
  • Whacks out the electrolytes, which alters nerve transmission and pretty much every other cellular process, generally spiking a pain flare and roasting the higher cognitive functions;
  • Dries out the body, which puts what’s left of the fluid-dependent brain and CNS in the toilet — along with everything you’ve eaten for the last day.

A healthy body has metabolic margins to absorb this with considerably more grace. It’s still bad, mind you — really rotten, in fact. Pre-injury, tummy flus always made me wish I was dead.

In a body with dysautonomia and CRPS, it’s a ghastly festival of burning, of mindless agony, and a sheer dreadfulness to existence that words can’t touch.

So I’m considering a quick Epsom salt bath to preload my system with that lovely electrolyte, I’m getting up a blog post with these wonderfully dinner-appropriate details (hah!), and hoping that L — who, as she has often said, did have her flu shot this year — will be well enough tomorrow to run to the store for more pedialyte and white grape juice.

Everything comes to an end, even the flu. The awareness that there is always an “afterwards” is always with me now. It’s a good thing to keep in mind, because the reflex is to get lost in the now, when it’s overwhelming. But there is always an afterwards.

I’m not worried, I’m not anticipating, I’m not buying into the nerves. My mind always runs contingency plans, but that’s natural for me. (If I can’t come up with a plan B and a plan C, check for a pulse.)

So it’s time to catch up on a few things, push extra fluids, coach my body into the tub and back out again, and take things as they come. The low energy just means I have more time to watch DVDs; the wonky tum just means I don’t have to think as often about what to eat.

But seriously… take every opportunity to be happy; it makes you stronger. 🙂

Share this article: