Butterfly on the Wall

Morphine is not my friend.

Florida was a wonderful, sun-drenched 90 degrees and I wore sundresses and cute sandals and reveled in it -- for approximately one day.

Because then?  Then, people got sick.

With a stomach virus that was conveniently going around.  And some of us had to go to the Emergency Room because she has a very low tolerance for discomfort and when the entire abdomen of this person is pulsating with excruciating pain and she is dehydrated because everything is coming out and nothing is going in, then she will say good-bye to her dog in case the pain is actually her kidneys shutting down and she never sees her dog again and fork over the $250 ER co-pay and wait for two and a half hours to be seen, watching ambulance after ambulance bring other sick people in to take her precious space in line.  And some of us will also simultaneously contract a cold from her sister-in-law and maintain a headache all week because she forgot to bring her own pillow from home and her head is quite particular in its comfort.

That person would be me.  The girl with the constitution of a chihuahua.

Other people got sick too, but no one else got morphine.

Because when the kind doctor came in Examination Room 3 and found me whimpering and doubled over she decided to give me pain meds for relief, and, well, yay!  This is what I came for!  Well, that and to verify that my kidneys were not, in fact, shutting down. 

And then the nurse said "morphine" and I've never had it before but through my haze of pain, I clearly remember thinking to myself, "That is a bad idea."

Unfortunately, I did not say this out loud.  After all, I've never had morphine before, and I came for pain relief so who am I to turn it down?

Who I am is smart, apparently.  Or at least I would have been, had I put an immediate stop to that nonsense and requested something that I know works and doesn't want to kill me.  Because I know that I don't do so well with drugs, especially ones that the Good Nurse tried to warn me "everyone reacts differently to."  Which means that I am bound to react poorly.  This is why I avoid drugs if at all possible.  If there is a side effect, I will find it. 

I don't even have to take them to have bad effects.  Every year in elementary school, when my classmates and I were herded into the auditorium for the policeman to traumatize me gross us out with slides of people with gaping black holes in their legs from shooting up too much, I came this close to passing out.  Every time.

Anyway, morphine?  And an overly enthusiastic Bad Nurse who ruthlessly shoves the IV in my arm after I say, "I don't do too well with this stuff" and when I scream "SHIT!" repeatedly and then vomit from the pain apparently thinks, Wow!  She really needs drugs!  And proceeds to give me the entire dose of evil morphine practically all at once so that I completely lose my shit because I know that I am about to faint since it feels just like elementary school and then I go unconscious in my Love's arms after snotting all over his shirt?  And which drops my blood pressure to about 86/45 and it has never, ever been that low and makes me stay in the ER for 7 hours so they can give me 6 liters of fluid to get it back up to something resembling normal? 

No.  No, no, no and...no.  Thank you, no.

My constitution, aka my SIL's chihuahua, Pocholo.  He looks big in this picture because he is being manhandled by a 3-year-old.

Up sides?   Because after this, just about anything is?

I'm alive. 

My Love did not have to give me one of his kidneys, though on the ride to the hospital he promised that he would "if it was a match."

And......

Coming out of my coma faint to hear my Love saying in my ear, "I'm here with you, Mami."

So what, then, am I doing?

So if I'm not writing or reading, what have I been doing?

1. Dog/housesitting in a little village near my home and they had a porch with a hammock and a nest of wrens in a gourd and it was like vacation.  Yes, vacation.  From my frenzied life of unemployment. 

 

And since I had so much time, I watched a few things on Netflix.  Like North and South. (The UK one, not the US one.  Class war, not Civil War.)  Which brings me to my greatest accomplishment of the last two weeks:

2. I discovered Richard Armitage.

Oh my.

Of course, you know geeky little anglophiliac me.  I'm almost as turned on by the "Best Scenic Drives in Britain" bubble.  It's even almost like another little head back there, peeking out over his shoulder and playing coy. 

Enticing.

Sadly, the fansite that I ripped the cover from was only interested in the article about Richard.  Silly girls.

3. Going to Florida.  Finally!  It's about time I got some breathing room after a hectic two weeks of unemployment and . . . um, vacation.  

And swimming in an oil-soaked Gulf sounds like just the thing.

I'm not a reader, either.

I used to be a voracious reader.  Voracious.  I was the kid who always had a book - actually two or three, so that I could pick up whatever I was in the mood for - to fill the empty spaces of life. 

It helped with school, though not so much with social situations.  I got teased for using "big words," though I didn't do it to be pretentious.  It's just that I picked them up from reading so much, and one tends to incorporate what they have learned into their life.  Once, at a friend's slumber party, I told one of the girls that her new hairdo looked "sophisticated" - a compliment as far as I was concerned - and she locked herself in the bathroom crying, because she didn't know what it meant and thought that I had insulted her.  I much preferred the comfort and unreal drama of a book (or the company of animals), to interactions with unpredictable, and sometimes not very nice, humans.

I always chose fiction, particularly historical romance like Victoria Holt and historical romance time travel like Diana Gabaldon and historical vampire romance with time-travel like flashbacks like Anne Rice.  And ghosts.  Historical, um, romantic . . . ghosts........ok, that's sounding weird and I can't think of an author, but I'm sure there is one and I read it.  In other words, pure escapism.

Then, sometime around when the hardcore depression hit about 10 years ago, I unconsciously switched to nonfiction.  Because I think that the predominant reason for my crash was the clash between wanting to interact with the world, and my (perceived) inability to do so, I suppose I needed something real.  Travel, memoir, biography, personal essay -- anything that showed people doing and accomplishing things, living their lives the best they could, overcoming obstacles and finding peace and/or fulfillment.

And now?  Now I still carry books around in the topics that interest me, that mirror who I want to become.  They are like security blankets: something comforting and familiar that I think I can't do without, but that in reality was always a bit of a crutch.

That's not to say that I think books are superfluous.  Believe me, I'm not knocking reading.  I love and value books and what they have taught me. 

But there are multiple sides to everything.  Yes, I learned a lot, and there is always a need for relaxation and escapism.  But I often used them to hide, because real life (and especially people) seemed too inhospitable to me.  And I turned to them as a way to live because I believed that I did not know how to do that myself, that living somehow belonged to other people while I was meant to stay in a little cocoon, watching the world while remaining entirely separate from it.  

And it is from this part that I am apparently trying to break free.

And so I find that I can no longer read, at least not now.  Much like realizing that I am not a writer, it has been a slow and sometimes painful goodbye as I find it is extremely difficult to let go of something which has been such an integral part of me and a means of defining myself for over 30 years, especially when I don't yet understand why it is being cast off. 

As I continually bring home stacks of books from the library that I never read, I keep thinking "what is wrong with me?"  (Because unfortunately that is my default position.  And I'm working on that, too.)

It feels like I am losing myself because I cannot yet see, and perhaps don't trust, what is to take its place.  And that is very scary.

But as McCaffery said in this post, sometimes you have to let something go (fall apart) to make room for something else, even if you don't always know what that something else will be.

And seriously.  Most of the time, even if you think you know? 

You really don't know.

I don't feel bad, exactly . . .

Or "grotty" as I have learned they say over in The Land I Want To Visit So Much It Hurts, aka the UK. 

No, not that.

It's just that I feel like I'm dying.

And I got two moles removed last week that I'm waiting to hear if they are cancer and the very day that I got back from the dermatologist CUTTING me, I look in the mirror and see a brand new dark brown pinprick mole of death right below my eye that I have never seen before and why couldn't I have noticed that BEFORE driving an hour and a half to see the doctor? 

And I'm also applying for a job that looks like a pretty good opportunity - i.e. it pays money and has benefits and although we are supposedly a socialist state now thanks to the health bill I'm not feelin' it yet - and really, it's something that I could do and its not fundraising.  

And I kind of want it.

But J-O-B spells D-E-A-T-H to me for some reason embedded deep within my subconscious and I'm grappling with that, trying to shake it loose because I don't want it.  I know it's an irrational fear and I've no use for those.  And normally I wouldn't worry too much about the moles but my brain is picking up any death signal from anywhere even causing me to look under the bed for serial killers because it is out of control at the moment.

And ok, I thought I wanted to be a kept woman, but maybe not so much since my ability to pick sugar daddies is clearly defective.  My Love is male, and definitely sweet, but he is not rockin' the money thing hard enough to get us where we want to go. 

And really, I don't want to live in the fear that I can't take care of myself, which is where that is based. 

So. Job. 

And applications.  And cover letters.  And ick.

But a strange thing is happening.  As I'm filling this one out, and reviewing my old stuff, for the first time I'm actually starting to toot my own horn a bit.  To realize that maybe I did actually do some good things after all and I wasn't a completely incompetent loser and the good recommendations and awards were maybe, oh, I don't know, REAL, and not a delusion.  (Really, I have actual paper and one is wood and cheap brass, and they spelled my name right, so I know they exist.)

And I'm beginning to sense that maybe I can start to be present in my life, and take pride in my work and not belittle myself, and not take things so personally and not let teeny tiny mistakes ruin my whole life?

Maybe?

For now, let me breathe and go to a happy place.

 
Santa Maria, Cuba, 2008

I am still processing so here is another picture I like.

Everytime I try to write out something coherent about what is going on in my head, it just comes out an icky rambling mess, and I don't want to share.  I'm not liking my tone.  I.e., I feel like this blog started in one place and helped me process some stuff, and now when I come here it keeps me stuck in those old attitudes and I want to move on.  It's that thing about physical location change helping me with emotional change. 

Also the computer?  It hypnotizes me.

And balance I'm not so good at. 

Grammar, either.

We'll see.  For now, picture.

One misty morning here at our little rented farmette, when I actually got off my ass to go outside and take pictures because I hadn't yet started a blog.

Excuse me while I get over myself.

Processing

I am processing right now and don't feel like writing it all out just yet.   So here's a picture.

When I was little I spent hours upon hours in the woods.  Sometimes with friends, sometimes alone, sitting in a tree reading or wading in the stream.

I don't go to the woods nearly enough nowadays, if at all, and it is a damn shame.  We're very worried about ticks and Lyme's disease these days, with good reason I suppose.  We had plenty of ticks 30 years ago too, of course, but maybe they weren't as toxic? 

All I know is whenever us kids went out to play there was always an annoying, monkey-grooming session when we got home.  My mom got so sick of it she was all like, "If you insist on spending so much time in the woods, you're going to have to pick the ticks off yourself!"  This was the ultimate threat because she knew what a wuss I was about stuff like that.  Amazingly, it didn't deter me.  And she still picked them off.

I did venture in last fall to take some pictures.  By that time a lot of the underbrush had died back, and although there hadn't yet been freezing temperatures to sterilize the area, I felt a little safer. 

The leaves on those little saplings in the foreground were bright yellow which is why they caught my eye.  Though for some reason, the picture is more interesting to me in black and white.

Back soon.  (Thanks, John.)

Lost in Translation, the English version

As we have established, my Love was born and raised in Cuba. When he came to the U.S. 12 years ago, he did not speak English. He is now fluent, but of course he speaks with an accent (which, by the way, I love and would not change for anything in the world.)
 

I often feel like Lucy to my Love's Ricky. (Note: When I first told him about I Love Lucy, he informed me with some disdain that Ricky Ricardo is an absolutely ridiculous and un-Cuban name.) He has never seen the show so my humorous references to it fail to amuse. Sometimes I repeat words that he has just said using his same accent as Lucy used to do. To his query of whether I would like any poultry for dinner this evening, for instance, I might say something like, "No, bebé, I don't think I want any shicken for dinner tonight."

Blank stare.

Anyway, sometimes a corrupted word is silly enough to permanently enter into our own personal lexicon. In general usage, both of us intentionally replace the real word with Papi's accented pronunciation of that word. The most popular of these is fuckus: to concentrate attention or effort. For instance, I might say, "Don't bother me right now, bebé. I'm trying to fuckus on reading this article." Then we will each say "fuckus" a few more times, giggling, a la Beavis and Butthead.

However, the accent barrier will occasionally tie us in verbal knots, like an innocent conversation about composting which quickly degenerated into the following:

"Some people have compost heps," my Love says.

I am confused. "Hep?" I ask. He nods and repeats the word as if I am a dullard. "Hep."

"Hep?" I say again, in a tone which is clearly asking for help. "Yes. Hep," he says evenly, not throwing me a bone. Rather than use the "say it louder and slower" method of making oneself understood, (my Love does not like to raise his voice) he just repeats the word or phrase relentlessly. Which has a mind-numbing and spirit-breaking effect similar, I imagine, to receiving repeated blows to the skull with a blunt instrument.

Clearly I need to try a different tactic. "H-E-P?" I spell.

He looks at me quizically. "Hep?" he asks.

I sigh. "Spell it, please."

"H-E-A-P. "

"Ooooooooh" I say, relieved that we have made contact and that this will all be over soon. "Heap. Compost heaps."

"Heap?" he says, frowning. "No, that's this," he says, pointing to his hip, quite sure of himself.

"No, that's a hip," I say, enunciating clearly in what I imagine is a helpful third-grade teacher-type voice.

My Love frowns at me again. "Hip? What's a hip?"

Potato George

Last year we grew four rows of potatoes.  A little ambitious perhaps, considering there are only two of us.  But we wanted to grow white, red and gold varieties, and that started to add up.  Actually this sums up our whole garden philosophy which is how it got completely out of hand and made me not want one this year, but when spring comes around I just can't help myself, especially when things pop up without any work like this chard, a gift from a failed planting last fall:

and the raspberries:

and the strawberries that we thought drowned while the garden was underwater this winter:

Also, we are slackers with weed control and, well, I have a lot of work to do.  Those grass-covered humps that look like ancient burial mounds?  They are were garden beds.  Sigh.

Anyway, potatoes.

We planted all those potatoes and they all matured at the same time so my Love dug them up in early June and put them in the shed and instead of giving them away we forgot about them.  Until September.  After the 90-degree heat and humidity and long, light-filled days of summer which, unbeknownst to me has a radioactive spider transformative effect on potatoes, turning them into little green goblins of death!  I'm mixing up my superheroes and villians here but you get the point.  Green potatoes are not so good.  This is why it is imperative to keep them cool and dark.  From The Curious Cook, who explains it so much better than I could:

"Beware of green potatoes, and peel every trace of green away: that's been standard advice for decades, and for good reason. When potatoes are exposed to light, these underground tubers interpret it as a sign that they're no longer completely buried in the soil. So they produce chlorophyll pigments to help them make use of the light's energy, and they produce bitter toxins to discourage animals from eating them. The toxins, alkaloids called solanine and chaconine, are about as powerful as their better-known cousin strychnine. They apparently interfere with the structure of all our cell membranes and also with the processing of a nerve transmitter (they inhibit acetylcholinesterase), which can cause hallucinations and convulsions. Because the color change in a potato parallels its accumulation of alkaloids, greenness is used as an indicator of toxicity and therefore irreversible spoilage. It's estimated that around 15% of the US potato crop is discarded on account of greening."

Strychnine, people!  I don't care if it is just a cousin.   Strychnine!!!!!

I refused to eat them, but my Love pshawed and began to swagger out to the shed, thinking to bring in some green potatoes to eat on his own but I forbade him, in almost those words.  Seriously, it got a little heated.  Because I would not have him dying a hallucinogen-filled, toxic potato death.  He thought I was overreacting.  (Moi?) 

However, I WON.  No green potatoes were ingested and my Love is still with me, thank goodness.

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The potato lines run deep in my family and on the Shore in general.  Around the turn of the century, and up until roughly the early 1940's the potato was king here.  Almost everyone was growing them as potatoes love our sandy, slightly acidic soil (strawberries do, too) and it was a prosperous time.  Then, as now, there were white potatoes and sweet potatoes and a variety of sweet which is supposedly unique to us called the Hayman.  Raw, it is yellowish-white, but when cooked it turns a dull green and oozes a sticky black syrup.  Sounds icky, but trust me, they are excellent with roast venison or sausage. 

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My mom vaguely remembers a relative on her father's side nicknamed Potato George who, to put it gently, was not the sharpest knife in the drawer.  Actually she said he was known to be a little crazy.  I think he's also the one who had been hit by lightning and well, that might explain that.  Or maybe he ate too many toxic green potatoes and thus the nickname?  I don't know.  I'm just speculating here.

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Also, my grandmother, who had lived here all her life, did not have a particularly strong Eastern Shore accent--not like a waterman or anything--but every once in a while she threw me off.  Like whenever we had Sunday dinner she would announce that we were having "arsh potatoes."   Since we rarely had potatoes prepared any way other way, I always thought that she was saying "mashed" potatoes.  I was nearly 20 years old before I realized she was actually saying Irish potatoes, meaning "white," as opposed to "sweet" or "Hayman."

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Somewhere along the line I snagged my grandfather's World War I letters.  My teenage, dramatic history-loving self was thrilled, imagining all the exciting and deliciously horrific details I would find therein, written in his own hand!  He died when I was only 7 and was quite taciturn, though I didn't know if this was characteristic, or just because he was so ancient and you know, maybe his vocal chords had deteriorated or something.  I had my brother scan the letters to preserve their wisdom for future generations and so I could read them over and over without touching them because human hand oil is death to old paper.  And I just knew I'd want to study them because 1) they were old and anything old was interesting and 2) I imagined the letters would be a window into the mind of this man I never really knew.

And I suppose they were, in a way.  Because I found that he was just as uncommunicative as a twenty-something soldier on the hellish French front as he was as an eighty-something retired farmer living out his final years on the tranquil Eastern Shore approximately 8 miles from where he was born.  The letters, all 50 or so of them, can be summed up thusly: "Yes, mother, I am getting enough to eat and please tell my little brother to look after my potato crop."  And to the little brother: "How is my potato crop?" 

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Yep, we love us some potatoes.

And guess what?  Our little green goblins of death have had a change of heart.  They have redeemed themselves into little green shoots of life.  Because we were too lazy to dump them back in the fall and now they have grown eyes and are ready to plant! 

Even though I said I wasn't going to garden this year.  Or ok, maybe just some lettuce and tomatoes.  Alright, since they're there, maybe some potatoes, too. 

You see where this is going.

The barn swallows are back...

...and so am I! 

I am so happy to be back home with my Love and my dog where everything is suddenly so green, green, green and to top it all off, the barn swallows are back from Cuba.  Well, I don't know if our particular swallows go to Cuba, but since my Love says that the birds overwinter there, I'd like to think so.  For me, it's another connection to that beautiful country.

Also?  Someone got a little too comfortable sleeping alone as I found out last night when I woke in the middle of the night clinging to the edge of the bed with my Love pressed right up behind me, snoozing away like he owned the place.  This was not a love cuddle, people.  There was a bony elbow boring into  the back of my head like I wasn't even there. 

So nice to know that somebody missed me.

Nurse Betty

I have a new assignment for the next week or so as home-based nurse while my mom recovers from a knee replacement.  This is a house with *choke* no internet. 

GAH!

Luckily I don't have to deal with open wounds or anything, because I have a very low tolerance for bodily fluid ewww.  I can't even pick ticks off my dog.  One of a long string of reasons why I intend to remain childless.

In the hospital this week they had her hooked up to a little machine that would beep madly if her she forgot to breathe.  I'm going to see if there is a wrist version available because I forget to breathe all. the. time.

See you in a week or so.