TV flickers at a rate guaranteed to put the higher cognitive functions to sleep. LINK It is literally, and specifically, hypnotic. Anyone surprised?
Some people like that, although I don’t. Some people need that, at least in some measure.
Every waking hour when you’re at home? There’s a problem there, even when you don’t share a house with someone with longstanding CRPS.
I learned to hear the words behind the words when I was an ER nurse. I had to be able to know the truth from the lies to the self, the lies to others, and the lies to the universe. I had to know when people didn’t care if they were lying or not.
Our brains can split the channels of verbal communication, so that the literal meaning of the words goes into our brains via one logical branch, the subtext and connotations of those words go into another, the emotional load the person is trying to convey goes into a branch that analyzes conscious manipulation, and the emotional load the speaker feels about what they’re saying — or if they’re even paying attention to it — goes in via a subtler branch. I learned to parse it quite specifically.
Some people thought I was reading their minds. I was just hearing their speech.
Now you know why, much as I loathe and despise the modern Democratic party, my outraged contempt for the modern GOP (and all its wacky little offshoots) is even greater. The sound of all those relentless, delusional lies is unbearable to me.
My mostly lovely partner, J, has TV again for the first time in a couple of years. Like the Scot that he isn’t, he wants to get the most out of his monthly investment — or that’s his excuse. In any case, he has perfected the most effortless way to get me out of the house: keep the TV on.
There are only so many times you can argue about the same thing before you realize you’re utterly screwed, and the most important person in your life is just going to torture you until something breaks.
No wonder I can’t get any work done. It’s too darn cold to be outside for long, so I have no choice but to have my brain beaten into a pulp day after day.
I can’t get the message through to him about what it does to me. He thinks I’m being dramatic or controlling, “because that’s how women are.” (Yeah. I know. Living with someone with CRPS is hard, and he uses the “woman” excuse to think about something besides the fact that this is such a hellacious disease. Moving right along…)
It’s not how *I* am. I’m a weird woman, I readily admit it, but I am not interested in interfering in someone else’s self-medication, as long as it does no harm to others.
That’s a major freaking caveat.
My ears have been ringing for days now. Early hearing loss runs in my father’s family, and the absolutely relentless natter of evasions, irresponsibility, bad acting and recreational conflict are doing significant damage to my hearing mechanisms, not to mention what’s left of my capacity for reason.
And J wonders why I’m getting more unhappy and short-tempered.
Dad protected his hearing and commented on his symptoms and how he treated them. He swore off music and TV for days when his ears started ringing. Moreover, as heads of the family, he and my mother limited TV time to two hours a day.
When J and I leave this area, he thinks we’re going to live in a trailer or something as we wander around the country. While 90% of that is a fine idea (as long as I’m strong enough), we are definitely going to have to solve the TV problem. Personally, I’m preparing to “accidentally” drop something heavy on all the TVs in the vicinity, and apologetically give him a small laptop set that doesn’t even have speakers, just a headphone jack.
I think I could just about live with that.
P.S. It’s worth noting that, every time I write a post about J, I read it to him before posting. I don’t sneak around behind his back at all.
His comment halfway through: “Okay, I’m prepared to split this 50:50.”
His comment at the end: “Okay, I’m just off to go kill myself.”
Too big a subject for one blog post, but I’ll try. If this gets poetical, there’s a reason.
The home of my youth, Egypt in the mid-to-late ’70s, (alternate link: http://jldtifft.com/, click Galleries, click Search, enter “Egypt”) no longer exists. The generous and opening society, the cobwebby clutter of the Cairo Museum, the beautiful horses that were cheap to ride, the empty vastness of the Red Sea shores with the impossibly deep nighttime sky,
even the occasional cockroach in the sodas… Shot down, cleaned up, built over. So it goes. One day, I might adjust to its absence.
I consider New England my home — one very special part, roughly between Mount Greylock and the Quabbin. When I had to move away, the first time, I remember feeling lightheaded as I drove across the border into New York, and spending the next hour counting and re-counting my limbs. I was sure one of them was missing. The feeling of dislocation, in its most essential sense, was that powerful.
When I moved back, coming the southern route, I remember my cat (originally a native of Egypt) waking from her long slumber as we drove through the last few miles of Connecticut and into southern Massachusetts. She had a lot to say about it, which amused the other drivers. When we got onto the Mohawk Trail and headed uphill into the Berkshires, her white fur glowed (I never found out how she did that) and she climbed up to the dash, where she could smell the air coming in through the vents. She inhaled it with complete attention, entranced, ecstatic.
I completely agreed.
To me, the endless green, the snuggling hills, the way the trees mingle with everything around them, the way the water bends and bounces over the sparkling stones, in that particular region, is the most beautiful on earth.
The airy, daffy grace of the black tailed deer, the sweetly sardonic canniness of the foxes, the fluffy explosiveness of the rabbits – not quite like anywhere else.
The white granite begot my bones. The ubiquitous brooks are the flow in my veins.
The turning of the seasons could ignite poetry in the driest of souls: from the full-throated glorious summer, with birds shrieking their fool heads off and the hayfields looking like fat emerald velvet scattered with amethyst heads of clover; to the outrageous glorying riot of autumn; to those rare days in winter when the first light sets every tree, covered in a skin of ice, to blazing like fountains of diamonds; to that astonishing time when the air touches your mouth differently, you notice the first puddles of dirt showing through the snow, the very hint of a crocus nose pokes through, and winter isn’t over yet but the rise of spring pulls you up by the heartstrings.
A friend of mine sent me maple syrup she’d collected and boiled from her own trees.
Every now and then, I take one taste, and that’s all I need: I can smell it, hear it, feel it — if I close my eyes, I can see it too.
I love the un-fussiness of the people. Outsiders consider New Englanders reserved, but it’s more that they’re judicious. If it were obvious how utterly decent they are, nobody would ever leave them alone.
A visitor made this plain to me. A crusty old fart, whose family name was on half the landmarks in the area, had just plowed my driveway with heavy equipment. Knowing from my winter of splitting and hauling cordwood what it takes to do winter work, I invited him in for fresh-ground coffee. He hesitated until I said it was fresh-ground (I never drank much coffee, and it either had to be good coffee or a bitter day for me to enjoy it, so I made sure mine was good.) He came in, stamped the snow off his boots outside and inside, and shut the door as he unzipped his enormous down jacket, which was itself stiff with cold.
Underneath the crusty outer layer of jacket, the down was puffy and warm, opening out in billows behind the zipper. As the coat opened, so did his face. His voice warmed up and he reached gratefully for the coffee, alight with delight and fellow-feeling.
That’s New Englanders all over. Super crusty and maybe chilly on the outside; underneath, all soft, gentle, slightly fluffy, and ever so warm. Once a New Englander accepts you into the inner circle, you’re there for life.
It’s not bad. Not bad at all.
Years ago, the aggressively shortening days of winter made half the year pure hell for me. No amount of expensive lighting could compensate. With CRPS on top of that, the cold is unbearable and the extra work of winter is beyond me – and I used to love splitting wood, and even shoveling snow. It was the second-best way to get warm.
I’m more or less trapped on the other side of the continent. I’ve given up on long trips until I’m strong enough to recover quickly; the current recovery time is 10 days, which doesn’t leave much time for visiting.
Nevertheless, and despite the fact that October’s shortening days are impossible there for me, there are times when I miss being home.
I’m thinking ahead to finding a place to settle. Where I am now is temporary, and for a very specific purpose (more on that later.) I’ve had a decade of transience, with much travel and frequent moves. I have other things to do, and I want a home to do them from.
I’ve had two excellent, intriguing, beautiful and fulfilling homes in my life. That makes me very lucky. Nevertheless, before too long, I’ll be looking for one more.
Now that the December holidays are within a couple days of being totally over, I hope it’s safe and amusing (rather than triggering and insensitive) to talk about them from my idiosyncratic point of view 🙂
We left the U.S. in January of 1976 for tropical countries, shortly before my 10th birthday, and didn’t move back for about 7 years. (This is relevant. Hang on.)
This means my entire pubescence and adolescence was spent in countries where, at the time, Christianity was an amiably tolerated oddity, and Western-style Christmas was weird almost beyond belief… but the pragmatism of shopkeepers is the same the world over: It’s all money!
And, of course, the legendary sweetness of Egyptians (outside of politics) made it all a sort of good-natured sport:
“Tell me what is ‘Christmas tree’ and I’ll get it — for you, special price, my friend! You my friend! Special price!” (The last part is indispensible.)
Then it was a matter of watching them try to keep a straight face, as you:
Try to obtain a cold-weather evergreen … in a hot desert country;
Subsequently drape that evergreen in colors of snow and blood … in order to celebrate a god of peace;
Who came to earth in — yup — the desert … where it snows less than once a century;
Which is all somehow tied up with celebrating a Northern solar event, which doesn’t matter near the equator…
… And then there’s the obligatory gift-giving. This was even a bigger trip to explain.
The Cultural Gap on Gift-Giving
“Everyone?” I remember one man asking Mom, in deep confusion. In his life, the only people who got gifts were those who deserved it, and little children on their birthdays.
“Well, not everyone,” she temporized.
“Who do you have to give things to?” he asked, really wanting to understand.
She did her best to explain, as a good cultural ambassador should. “Your husband or wife and children, of course.”
“ALL the children?” he asked, in shock.
“Even if they’ve been bad, or broke the car, or spoiled the crops? Cost you a lot of money? You still buy them presents?”
Mom had to stop a minute. This is where practice bears no relation to theory. “You can try not giving evenly to the children, but they’ll let you know. Mine let me know, as a group, if they think it wasn’t perfectly even.” We did, too. She went on, “And I send presents back to my brother and his wife and family –”
He interrupted, “Where are they?”
She said, “In America.” Where he knew we hadn’t been in a few years.
He tipped his chin to one side, in that “as you wish” gesture of the Middle East, which was a polite way of indicating, “yeah, this doesn’t seem silly. Much.”
She went on, “We also send gifts to my husband’s brother and sister and her children — she’s divorced, so we don’t have to buy for her husband any more.”
His eyebrows popped, but he held his tongue. Why would you buy gifts for nieces and nephews thousands of miles away? What have they ever done to deserve that much effort? — And divorced?? A woman, divorced, still embraced by her famiily? And these foreigners push off the guy instead — odd, but probably praiseworthy. Okay. Nice. Weird, but nice. Moving right along.
But he didn’t say any of that aloud.
Mom went on, “And my mother, of course. My husband’s parents and my father are no longer living, so we don’t have to buy for them.”
I thought he murmured, “I’m surprised.” Maybe it was just his limpid expression.
She went on, “Oh, and we get something for the servants, plus a bonus of money. [Eyebrows up: nice deal, a bonus for your boss’s religion]. And Tom gives his boss a gift, small but nice, and the office pitches in and gets something for each of the secretaries, but Tom still gets something extra for the ones he works with [visibly wondering about those secretaries]… And then of course our friends.”
He was beginning to sound weary, or possibly just relieved that it wasn’t him. “All your friends?”
Mom said, “You get nice things for those you’re close to, less valuable things for friends further out.”
He nodded. At least that made sense. He asked, like the socially sensitive person he clearly was, “What happens if they’re not equal — if you get a nicer present than you give, or the other way around?”
“Well,” said my mother frankly, “That can be a little embarrassing. It happens sometimes, but we try to be polite about it. I’ve gone back and gotten someone something more, to even up the balance.”
Another gracious tip of the chin, this time probably meaning, “Smart move in a crazy system.”
Mom added, “And, if someone invites you to a party, it’s considered good manners to bring them a small gift, or at least a bottle of wine.” How suitable — in a traditionally non-drinking country.
He shook his head slowly and said, “And that’s not everybody?”
Mom finally laughed. “Well, not quite.”
It really makes you wonder, when you look at it from the outside.
Blowing scads of money every single year on a bunch of ill-thought-out purchases, mostly for people you hardly know, who are getting inundated with them anyway, to celebrate the birth of someone who told you that love matters more than money … or possibly because it was the armpit of winter, so let’s all go indoors and eat ourselves sick until the sun shows up again … in the desert.
I never sneer when someone uses the terms “religion” and “mythology” interchangeably, even when they’re talking about mine. I know for a fact that it’s simply a matter of perspective.
Back to the tree question.
Our first year in Egypt, we did try buying a spruce and, well, sprucing it up. The result was pathetic even beyond my father’s generous taste for “trees with personality”. It was the quintessential Charlie Brown tree, but slightly taller. The poor straggly little thing was quite overwhelmed by even the few decorations we dared hang on it, and was almost crushed by a single strand of lights.
That was that for traditional trees (and none of us cared for the plastic ones.)
So we had to come up with non-traditional trees.
Each year, my feverishly creative mother outdid herself in coming up with some fabulous representation of a Christmas “tree”, appropriately gaudy and festive, festooned with merry decorations and strung with whatever we felt like stringing it with. (I remember learning just how tedious crafts could be, the year we decided to string popcorn.)
She was especially fond of the stacked poinsettias, perched on benches and boxes at several levels, but I liked every single year’s distinctive creation as much as the others.
I only wish I could remember them in any detail; it was a pleasant part of the backdrop of life, as far as I was concerned at the time. We take so much for granted at that age!
She finally called it quits on our first Christmas in Bangladesh. She was fed to the back teeth with coming up with something every year and decided to “rest on her laurels” — a nice way of saying that she was plumb out of ideas.
I was home from boarding school in the US (there were no accredited high schools in Dhaka at the time) and was still blossoming under the influence of tropical warmth, so notably absent from Massachusetts in December.
I found a red-and-white canvas plant hanger (this was back when plant hangers were made of fabric rather than plastic) and fastened it to the wooden screen between the living room and sun room. A few bent wire coat-hangers later, we had a Christmas tree to decorate.
I even whittled a couple of reindeer out of Ivory soap and fashioned a little sleigh for them to pull out of unlined 3×5 card and toothpicks. Our little elfin Santa perched in it quite happily.
I have no idea how I pulled it off, but it was easy to do at the time.
So, as you can see, my notion of the holidays involved a lot of flexibility from very early on. This probably explains a lot. I celebrate Yule, Solstice, Christmas, and if I’m invited to any other spiritual observance, I do my best to participate with my best manners and heartfelt good will.
Normally. This disease does change things; most obviously, one’s social activities.
All last year, I sent off presents whenever I found them, things I really thought the recipient would absolutely love. Nothing thoughtless and nothing I couldn’t afford, and no waiting and storing and wrapping to deal with. It was a nice change! Not everyone I love got something, but everything I sent was right, and everyone else knows I love them just the same — I simply didn’t find the right gift yet. Next year, it’ll be a different mix.
At home, there was no noticeable festivity, but there was a cozy little trailer filled with love and care. That was all we were up to, and it was fine.
Next year, J and I think, there will be lights and color and a bit of show. In our own little way, we will celebrate anything we have a mind to, and it will probably involve lights and candles and sweet smudge. Whatever we do, it will still be in a little home full of love and care.
Because love is more important than money.
Informal International Network of CRPS Bloggers:
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.
I’m recovering from packing and moving to my homestead. [I’m sorry to say that I don’t have internet yet, and the library’s uplink is slo-o-o-o-ow. Images will be filled in once that’s corrected. In the meantime, you get to see how I flag where the images will go.]
The cat is ecstatic. He’s getting muscular, too. He’s bigger than most of the cats I’ve ever had, and he’s only 8 or 9 months old. J is falling in love with his saucy sweetness — they’re a well-matched pair.
It took a week just to be able to think in a straight line again. I’m still very slow, but improving. Breakfast is my best meal, so I try to make it a good one — my stomach is not nearly as happy as the cat about all this.
Yesterday, as an aid to recovery, J and I went to the nearby hot springs for steaming and soaking.
We usually get nicely parboiled in a couple of hours, but I got horrifically dizzy going from the hot pool to the cold. Usually it feels terrific (one reason I keep going back) but I think I stayed in too long — 2 whole minutes… When I was able to see, I noticed that my skin was bright red; I touched it, and it was as hot as if I had a fever.
That’s the hyper-reactive response we get with a twitchy autonomic nervous system (ANS.) This is why we don’t ice our injuries with most forms of CRPS.
All my skin’s blood vessels spasmed with the cold, then the spasming set off an alarm in my wackadoodle ANS, and my ANS ordered all those peripheral vessels to open wa-a-a-y up.
What does that do? Sucks all the blood out of my brain and out into my skin, that’s what. Result: dizziness to a frightening degree. J helped me get out of the pool without drowning, and got me safely benched.
I realize I tend to overestimate my capacities, but that really was a first for me.
Periodically — and with increasing frequency — I get FED the heck UP with having these diseases — CRPS, FM, MCS, POTS, GERD … I’d have to be a British peer with medals and degrees to have that many letters after my name, in any other context.
These diseases are not recreational. They don’t just pop in, have a good time, and then take off.
They’ve moved in. They’re here for the long haul, or at least that’s what they seem to think. They take the concept of “persistence” to a whole new level.
It reminds me of something… H’mm. Oh yes.
In February 1999, I got a phone call at 4:10 am from my stepmother, telling me my father was dead. I still remember the way the word “no” kept echoing off the walls, until I realized it was me who had cried it out. I won’t describe the next few weeks, except that there was a lot to do (he had died in Egypt) and I learned a lot about the people in my family (interesting, not worrisome.)
After a few months, when the acute grieving was more or less behind me and I could drive safely and notice the birds and sunshine in a more normal way, I found myself unconsciously expecting him to be alive again. As if dying of a double heart attack face down in the water was like a curable cancer, horrific but eventually over. Then I’d catch myself, and that awful “no” would stab through me again.
There was a part of me that just could not get the permanence of death.
I haven’t spoken to anyone who has had this same experience. It may be so peculiarly daft that it could only happen to a wing-nut like me.
Death, take a holiday? Only in a Terry Pratchett novel.
Over the next couple of years, I had plenty of opportunity to come to terms with the persistence of death, as I was bereaved of friends and extended family about once every other month. None of them came back.
I don’t recommend it.
And this is where Walt and Pogo come stumbling in from the past:
[IMG: “don’t take life so serious, son, it ain’t nohow permanent.”]
It’s impossible to have a rotten, devastating condition and not face my own mortality once in awhile, if only because the blank spot that bereavement leaves in the world sometimes seems better than this mess. And it’s a persistent mess, too.
The real question is, is it just as persistent as death? Will there really be no end to this? The poetic injustice is, that question might not be answered until my ashes melt into the sea.
I have to resurrect a set of rules I thought I’d gotten past:
– No internet before noon. – No more than 2 hours daily for all internet activity: email, FaceBook, Twitter, research, posting and illustrating blogs. – This includes surfing on the phone.
I will be moving upstairs to a brighter apartment that’s arranged better for two. J still plans to move in come September, so I’m grabbing the opportunity while it’s there.
For the past several months I’ve been learning to notice and deal constructively with signals from body and brain. Part of the reality of this is, there’s a ton of backlog to sort out.
This is significant, partly due to CRPS and partly to the nature of last year, which was an ongoing festival of upheaval:
– Got SSDI. – Had to save life of same friend twice in three months. – Sold my boat/home. – Moved 3 times. – Travelled for 6 months at a stretch. – Started an important romantic relationship. – Had 2 serious threats hanging over my own life.
It’s not good for the ANS, all this excitement. I’m not personally opposed to eventfulness, it’s just really hard on my regulatory systems. Given similar situations, I’d probably have to do similar things, but it’s time to chill the h#11 out now.
I’m moving and it makes my lizard brain howl — if lizards can howl.
I’m moving upstairs, not far at all. And it’ll be safer — you can’t even find it from the road. It’ll be brighter and quieter. The paint scheme is far more cheery and pleasant.
But I’m moving, and at some level, that’s an absolute… That is, an absolute brain-fogging mess of suppressed fight-or-flight response and irrational despair. It’s seriously altering how well and how long I can think… changing the water level in my current glass, so to speak.
Packing my few things is not a physically imposing task, but moving at all is a brain-crippling one, apparently.
I still have to maintain my care schedule, keep appointments and stay caught up (-ish) on laundry and groceries, none of which is optional.
When my adrenals are under stress, my brain gets quickly exhausted, especially in the morning. According to my old acupuncturist, that’s a classic diagnostic indicator. Cognition is linked to adrenal function, he says.
The thing to do is go with it, and not make decisions or try to parse communications until the whole system has had a chance to wake up and get moving. Thoroughly.
So, out of respect for my brain’s needs, I’ll be spending my mornings playing with the kitten and catching up on my bookshelves, instead of being online.
Oh gee, isn’t that tough 🙂
And when I’ve moved in and gotten the new place under control, with no intention of moving again until I’ve got a “forever home” to go to, I’ll find out just how resilient this brain really is and see what parameters make sense then.
Until then, the online world will go on with, at most, 2 hours a day of attention from me — for research, social networking, web page managing, and posting & illustrating blogs.
The first leg of this flight was the best I’ve had in years. I chit-chatted at the gate with another invisibly disabled person for half an hour and the three of us (including his wife) kept each other very amused, then wound up with not just one, but two, delightful neighbors.
No sooner had I noticed, and enjoyed, the fact that I could converse for an hour and a half without saying “CRPS”, than one of my lovely neighbors turned to me and said, “And what do you do?”
“I’m a writer.” A surefire conversation-starter, that.
Inevitably, “What do you write?”
I talked, not so much about the disease, but about my core group of CRPS friends, most of us in different countries. I described our ongoing efforts to publicize the disease by surfacing the art and creative work of people with CRPS, of pooling our own information about what works both within and outside the standard medical model, and our hope, one day, to be funding research to quantify what works in fields that have been completely overlooked (I’m being tactful) for so long.
I got what could be THE critical referral to a lawyer who has relevant experience in nonprofit structure. That alone might have been worth the price of the ticket.
Then the entire plane sang “Happy Birthday” to my other lovely neighbor.
With uncharacteristically sublime timing and verbiage, I got us into a breakup conversation that was the kindest, most civil and caring one I’ve ever had. Hard to argue with the heart problems and needing to be where the doctors are a lot less likely to kill me by accident…
Two days later, it seems more like a stretch out than a break up, but I’m not sweating that. I can’t take any more chaos, stress or drama, so I’m going to let things stand. The love is there, so why kick it to the curb? The world needs more love — at least, mine does.
Given the year we meant to take to see if this would (or should) work out, it’s reasonable to take that time to figure out what shape this connection — with its own strange, resilient, unique strength — should really look like.
I’m getting a healing break with an old friend whose life includes just the right mix of rest and activity, good food and indulgence, solitude and society.
Meanwhile, J is going to wash my car inside and out, and pull everything out of it and put it into storage so I can sort it back in more rationally — as I’ve intended to for months. I didn’t even think of that, let alone hint, I swear! He just thought it up himself, to make my life nicer and more manageable.
I’ll bounce back to J’s in early February to get my stuff and get the last business sorted, then go to LA to see my doctor and find a place to stay that meets my needs for awhile — where he could come visit and try for some reality checks.
Anybody got a place in the warmer parts of the San Gabriel range for under $500/month? Where my lovely wolfish un-boyfriend can bring his considerably better-behaved dog? 🙂
At the end of last year, I had the pleasure of writing exactly the kind of end-of-year post I’d always wanted to: Pleasant without being dull, reflective without being melancholy, whimsical without being trivial, and, of course, linking back to blog posts marking turning points in the year.
I took that week to reflect, which was appropriate. It had been, for me, a year of great inward shifts, starting from the inevitable, flattening despair of the massive practical and intangible losses this disease brings, to a new awareness of possibilities that I had discovered, fought for, or created out of whole cloth. It was probably the year that this blogging voice really took shape.
This year is quite a bit different. I’ve been technically homeless for most of it, catching up with friends I hadn’t seen in far too long, and looking for a rational way and reasonable place to set up my post-poverty life. (Oh well.)
Whatever we call this day,it’s one more in the middle of an adventure beyond imagining...
Adventures tend to be damned uncomfortable things, as Bilbo Baggins was not the first to assert; but they make good material. As a writer, I get something out of that. If it’s a form of insanity, at least it’s an adaptive one.
Come with me on the journey. I always appreciate the company.
We now have a cute li’l trailer, sufficient to our simple needs:
I lived on a sailboat for years, and J is a camper from way back, so we think it’s about right. I can hear some of you gasping and a few saying, in slightly strained tones, “Well, if you’re sure…”
It’ll do for now.
We paid too much for its years, but about enough for its general condition. It’s clean and tight and, with a few electrical personality issues not surprising in something 30 years old, is in very good shape inside. That is, the cushions, cupboards, furnace and water-heater are excellent!
The trick is finding a place to put it.
We look weird on housing apps.
This is new territory for us.
My nursing and writing/software resumes were irresistible, or so I assume, since I hardly had to look for jobs; they’d just as often come looking for me. J’s carpentry work is second to none, as his rate of re-hire attests. Too bad so much of it was in Mendo, where people change their phones like normal people change their underwear.
Work aside, I’m highly mobile (always have been, except when disease really slaps me down) and J is moving out of a region of the country which, in my view, is a total pit. Among other things, anybody who looks Native American (as J does) looks like a punching bag to the local thugs, uniformed and otherwise.
And, since we’re both now a little daffy, it’s not like we have the routines nailed down. As J says, “We put our two screwy brains together, and we’ve got one pretty good one.”
Still, I’ve always paid my rent on time, even in the worst of times; and J has survived 62 years as a neatly made, brown, feisty dude of less than average height. Persistence is key, in housing as in chronic disease. He is certain something will come soon. Meanwhile, we keep doing the rounds.
No sooner had I entered and saved the above then, on J’s advice, I called the manager of the mobile home park we wanted to buy a home in, just to ask if he might have anything…
He had one RV spot left.
It’s huge, has already been dug over and gardened in, backs onto a creek, has good neighbors and a manager who likes us, and it’s in budget (just). He took to us so much, he’s trusting us to move in Wednesday and do paperwork when I’m back the following Monday.
On our previous visit, I gave him a jug of real old-fashioned maple syrup from his old home and mine in rural New England. That might have made us more memorable.