Deep Blue Sky

I'll be just fine as soon as I get into that fresh mountain air, I thought to myself as I choked and coughed and gasped, trying to ease the burning pressure in my lungs.

My evening football game beside the open balcony windows had been a lot of fun for me; the game was entertaining, the accommodations luxurious. But when it was time for bed, the air outside was too cold to leave things open, so the door was closed and we settled in for the night.

In the morning, I woke with a slight cough. Air conditioning can do that, so I didn't worry about it. Bernie and Lil invited me to revisit their sight-seeing of the night before, and a stretch of legs seemed like a good idea, so I accompanied them down into the MGM Grand Casino and Shops complex.

Fifteen minutes into it, I knew I was in trouble. Unlike what I expected, I could smell no cigarettes, even though every table and nook had ashtrays. What I did feel, with a rising sense of horror, was my throat and sinuses constricting, and a growing pain in my chest. Yeah, the air in the casino complex didn't smell of tobacco ... but that was because it was chemically treated, and those chemicals were shutting down my breath.

Multiple Chemical Sensitivity is real, and it is no joke. After this vacation experience, I feel fairly certain that I've found the condition that is going to end my life sooner or later. Coming out of the casino area finally, I couldn't get enough air to stop the pressure building.

Who knew? The last time I was in a casino of any kind was probably 30 years ago. It was smoky and noisy and nasty back then -- back then, they didn't know how to add chemicals to the air filtration to mask the smell of smoke. Oh, the fortunate days of back then.

So we headed off to the mountains, me coughing intermittently and tasting a chemical wash in my mouth.

We got to Williams, Arizona, and our accommodation for the next three days and nights: Mountain Ranch Resort, with a surprising and charming view of that snow-capped mountain.

Nice, right?

Do stay tuned.

First Week of November

I woke today feeling better than I have in ... wow, maybe eight months or so.  Felt rested, strong, ready for activity.

Can it be because I got a haircut yesterday? I'd been thinking of letting my hair grow over the winter to keep my head warm, but the tangles after getting out of the shower are so painful to me; I tried a conditioner, but hated the perfume smell and it made my back break out in itchy blemishes. This week I had had enough, and printed out my little Man Haircut picture and drove over to the hair salon. Speaking the ritual words, "I'm not a man, and not young, but this is the haircut I want," I proceeded to have what felt like about a pound of hair removed from my head. A severe, short haircut looks good on me, I think, and I liked what I saw in the mirror this morning.

Maybe it looked good because with the short hair, it was very apparent that I've lost weight -- over 15 pounds -- this past year. That could contribute to feeling good, too.

And last night I dreamt well: an exciting and challenging chase and defeat-the-evil-baddies dream, instead of the nightmares of not being able to find Howie.

The other thing that happened yesterday was dog-related; Jack-Jack, an Australian shepherd with a tendency to roam found a way to let himself into our yard. He lives across the street, and since he's something of an escape artist, I've met him on a number of occasions. He's wonderful, with a luscious blue merle coat and such kind eyes, and when Alex got home last evening and exclaimed, "What is Jack-Jack doing in our yard?" I jumped up from my chair and hurried to say hello to him, getting a nice snuggle in return. God alone knows how and why he came into our yard, but I was thrilled to see him. And you know, if his surly and inattentive owners didn't want him, I'd take him in a heartbeat.

Sitting out on our newest patio a couple nights ago, we watched the moon rise, and I got some passable pics of the event. The one above doesn't do justice to the ripe golden glow I saw, but it's a good moon shot for me. Weather since the rain a week ago has been ridiculously clement, and I could complain that it isn't cold and rainy enough, but you know, November clothing that is suited to a t-shirt with a flannel shirt as a light jacket is not something you sneer at. "Shut up and enjoy it." At least that's what I think I heard God say.

Feels good to feel good.

Mid-Leap

You have to have health insurance.

You have to have health insurance.

You have to have health insurance!

Well, I'm screwed, in that case. Because I take medication for high cholesterol, have been taking a tiny dose of medication for high blood pressure, and have a herniated disc in my spine, I am considered "high risk," and health insurance companies want nothing to do with me. This is in spite of the fact that I haven't been sick at all for several years.

When I got the notice, I was very depressed by the news. The proud little striving straight-A teenager inside me felt I'd been given a failing grade. And the paranoid Type A control freak who lives in there, too, was running around flipping switches in the laboratory, ordering flunkies to find a solution, "Now! Now! NOW!" all the while running possible scenarios of disaster over and over again. But then the shaman, who drifts around looking at bugs and dirt muttered, "You know, you're going to get yourself so worked up over this you'll make yourself sick and it will serve you right. There's nothing you can do today, just chill. Pet your dog. Trim your fingernails, they look like you're trying out for the Mandarin Squad."

The next day I dragged them all to Mass, and went into church a bit early to go over this disaster with God. Yes, I do that. In fact, when I open my heart to God, and the realm of the Unseen, things seem to make a lot more sense.

Why do you want health insurance? Because if I become catastrophically ill, I'll need hospitalization, and we all know how expensive that is -- we'd be on the street in about six months with nothing at all. (At this point, I am glad that I can't hear God laugh, because I KNOW, God doesn't deal in coinage.) All right, fine, Lord, I shouldn't worry about that. And what happens to people with no money who get catastrophically ill? THEY DIE! OR THEY BECOME INCAPACITATED! BED-RIDDEN! AND THEN DIE! Hmm. But if they have health insurance, then what happens? They go to the hospital, of course, and are treated for their illness...

How? Visions of IV's, catheters, stomach tubes, medications upon medications, hospital rooms flashed through my head. You ... want that? Yikes!

I thought about my Dad's last months. Yes, x-ray treatment and chemotherapy did slow the progression of the cancer in his body, but his doctors had to know that the disease had gone too far for a cure. Realistically, I mean. Pill after pill, side effect after side effect, finally being tied down in a hospital bed so that he couldn't pull out the feeding tube that prolonged his failing life in misery. What would Dad have wanted instead? I know that answer: total honesty, and his own bed at home, with cigarettes and the occasional beer to pass the last hours.

And my mom ... yes, hospitalization and massive treatments gave her a chance for some more years of life ... so that she could die alone, in the dark cut-off corners of her brain, with Alzheimer's. What would she have wanted if she knew what her end would be? I think know the answer to that, too.

What it boiled down to, and I know I've said this before, is that I had succumbed to advertising hype on a most basic level. When was the last time I was hospitalized? When I gave birth. The last time I had to visit an emergency room was for a sprained ankle, which they x-rayed and then sent me home to recover for six weeks, with no further medical treatment. Technically, I didn't need the hospital then, either.

Howie is aging, too, but he doesn't give a damn. He leaps into the pool over and over for the sheer joy of fulfilling a basic drive to chase the ball. He doesn't worry about his form in the leap, or if he'll unexpectedly forget how to swim when he hits the water. He is disgusted when we make him slow down and rest; he doesn't complain later when he stiffens up and limps. The next day he is ready to make the leap again. I think I can understand that a little better now.

And you know, there's not a thing I can do about the herniated disc -- it doesn't bother me a lot at all. As to the other "pre-existing conditions"... well, if I'm really worried about my health, I could lose weight and exercise more, now couldn't I?

The skinny hedge-shaman in my head thinks that realization is really, really funny.

Weak Week

It's been a week to remember, to forget.

*Note * Biological, medical junk you may not want to hear.

On March 31st, I was scheduled to go to the hospital for a routine screening colonoscopy. Ugh, yes. However, it is something I have to do every three years, because I am a "high risk" person for colon cancer -- my dad died of it, and my mother damn near died of it. Colon cancer also killed one of my uncles. Statistically, I have a one in four chance of contracting colon cancer.

"However," my doctor told me, "this is the one cancer that is completely avoidable. We can actually prevent it by regular colonoscopies."

Frankly, it's a creepy procedure, having some random doctorate wander through your ass and into your innards with a spotlight, looking for stalactites and stalagmites and speed bumps and things. Thank God my doctors have thoroughly bought into the general anesthetic thing, and don't expect people to just "tough it out" as my parents experienced it.

Fact is, I had the procedure done on Thursday, and I get another three-year "all clear." I'm glad of that. I don't want to die like Dad did, in excruciating pain strapped into a hospital bed while medicos tried to eke another couple weeks of life out of him.

And I learned some things this time around. My first experience of colonoscopy was that it was scary, but not so awful as I thought it would be. The preparation was the worst, having to swallow down a laxative that makes you shit your innards inside out. The second time a new doctor had taken over the practice, and he is one who believes that double the "shit your innards inside out" is better than one "shit your innards inside out." That time was a nightmare of stomach upset and shitting the innards inside out ALL NIGHT LONG (do not play in your head the Lionel Richie song "All Night Long") because he wanted the attached garage scrubbed clean enough to perform a white glove inspection. That time, three years ago, was so hideously exhausting that I felt truly sick by the time I arrived at the hospital for the procedure, not having slept in more than 24 hours. (They were surprised that my blood pressure was high, WTF, I was feeling deathly ill from dehydration and exhaustion!)

This time, the prep was modified, as in the interim, someone had noticed that double the cleansing action was damn near killing people. That was the good news. The bad news was that my viscera didn't get the memo. As the day approached, my body went into flight-or-fight mode, and unable to flee, erupted in a painful and disgusting display of fear: atopic eczema, in the form of blistering, itching lesions. GROSS!

The actual preparation this time was a cake walk (though I believe the timing was off according to the doctor's schedule), and of course by the time they put me on an intravenous drip of versed I didn't give half a shit (so to speak) about what they were going to do to me.

Nevertheless, I am left with the remnants of the ordeal in the form of the dozens of slowly-healing lesions. I hope that in a few days, I'll be able to get back to normal activity uninhibited by big-ass blisters and put this experience behind me as a cluster of lessons well-learned.

And at least, for the next three to six years, I'm not going to contract colon cancer.

Oh, and at the top of the page, that's one of my 2011 portraits of our cherry tree blossoms. I may be a coward feeb, but Spring is strong.

Under the Porch

I don't do dentistry well.

Tantamount phobia, dentistry is my least favorite activity in the world. I hate the sound of drills, the echo of drills in my head, the injection of Novocaine, (or whatever the hell it is), the clatter of instruments on trays, the touching of my teeth and face.

I elected to have two crowns put in today, because the time is coming when we'll have no dental insurance. When that ends, well, we're on our own, and that means "screw you, live with pain and teeth needing care."

At least now I will be able to chew on the right side of my mouth until the end of my life. The aging fillings in the two back teeth are gone. The new crowns will last me until the end of my life.

I made it through the appointment without shedding a tear; indeed, most of time I was marveling at how incredibly stoned I was from the nitrous oxide. For two hours, the most coherent thought I had was, "Wow, I am really fucked up."

Nevertheless, I repeatedly tried to relax my shoulders and arms, and tried to send my mind away to other thoughts -- but I can tell from the aches in my body that I will be sore tomorrow just from the tension stress.

It's only 4:30 in the afternoon, but I want to crawl under the figurative porch and be left alone, like a sick dog.

Note: When I came back from the dentist, both dogs climbed into my lap, sniffed my face and hair, and kissed me gently in concern. What good boys!

Golden!

Wednesday Bernie and I knew we had to start planning an exit strategy from his current employment.

Medical insurance is, of course, the biggie, along with its corollaries, eyecare and dental. Dental is the scary one, but we'll have to talk about $$ flow to see if we can afford the three crowns I still need to replace the old, old fillings. The easy part was eyecare. Bernie does need new glasses, there is no doubt. No problem, insurance pays for that, so we get that done before the job ends.

He roared at me to make an appointment for myself, too. After being blind as a bat for much of my life, in 2001 I had a Lasik operation on my eyes, and only have worn glasses to read. Why did he roar? Because I carped about spending the day messing with stuff on the computer, which made my eyes sore and my vision blurred. And I had to admit, that if I am going to have to get glasses to drive or see properly, this would be my last chance. I made the appointment for him for next week, and unexpectedly was told they could see me today.

Wednesday and Thursday I had uneasy dreams -- not horrible, but definitely unsettled -- the thought of having to go back to wearing glasses all the time was so depressing. Each morning I wake up, and look at the stippled patterns on the walls, grateful that I can see them (and the occasional spiderweb catching the morning sun). When I'm out riding, I can see things at a distance others can't, and the depth perception takes my breath away.

So lately, with the Piker Press getting so busy, and me spending so much time in front of the computer screen, I've been having more and more trouble seeing. This is it, I thought, I've ruined my wonderful eyesight ...

I stayed off the computer as much as I could yesterday and today, and went to the doctor's office with great trepidation and no little bit of a depressed heart.

Even though it had been more than eight years since I'd last seen him, the doc remembered me. "Whatcha up to on reading glasses now?" he asked.

"Same as before. I use the +1.50."

"You're kidding. Here, look at this, and tell me which one you can read with no glasses."

I read a line and he sputtered. Then he pounced and did all kinds of eyeball testing, which letter is this, is this better or worse, where is your old chart, let's put these drops in your eyes, now look at this, and that, and this again.

At the end, he said he was amazed; not only had my eyesight not deteriorated, it had actually improved a little bit, and the range of sight was great for a person my age! And then, being a wonderful fellow, he tackled the idea of my eyestrain at the computer. After a few questions, he put together a contraption with standard lenses and held up his small print card. I could read it perfectly. "There you go," he said. "Go get yourself some +1.00 readers. The ones you're using are too strong."

And so I did, and he was right. I'm not jiggling back and forth trying to make the computer screen come clear.

So now, let the fireworks be lit, and the trumpets play loud, triumphant music! Throw confetti in the air, and shout "WOO HOO HOO!" My vision is, to quote the doctor, "Perfect!"

Maybe Dr. Horse Ass Had a Point

After a couple days, I relented and tried the prescriptions Dr. H. Ass had commanded.

I've had three or four new lesions since then, but that's not enough time to see if what had been prescribed is effective. Except the salve, a steroid thing that did NOTHING for the itching and burning of the lesions, or for their healing. 

Late last week, I got a call from my doctor, saying I needed to go in and discuss the results of a recent bone density scan. Today I had that appointment.

Yeah, yeah. Due to my age, my lack of exercise for lo, these many years, my vitamin D deficiency, my calcium deficiency, and did I mention, my age, my bones are not in real good shape. We settled upon a strategy for the bones, but then revisited the itchies. Dr. H. Ass said the eruptions could be due to nerves, which -- God knows -- in my body are shot to smithereens.

We (my doctor, not Dr. H. Ass) talked about how I felt and reacted to stress stimuli, and now I'm taking a drug that she says will restore a balance in my neurotransmitters,  allowing my brain to explain to my nerve endings that "No, you don't have to fight or attack or run, things are going to be okay." That would be nice. 

So, the moral here is that women who are older need to get more aggressive with exercise. Beat the shit out of things. Gain some weight so that your hips don't get the idea they can go on vacations.  Take vitamins D and mineral calcium.  Stay active. 

Oh, and avoid stress. 

Hahahahahahahah!

Bugs

Swine Flu.

Mention it, and you've got people's attention. Catch it, and you've got people's prayers, and quite possibly,  quarantine.

I'm very concerned about a pandemic virus ... but didn't we just do that a couple months ago? The upper respiratory distress, the horrific racking cough, the digestive upset, the fever, the aches, the chills, the exhaustion. "Everybody's getting it," my doctor had told me. "This one's odd in that it goes from viral to bacterial in a moment. Here's a prescription for antibiotics, use it only if you start some infection."

If everyone was getting it, and it was not the virus targeted by our flu shots ... then what was it? Were we the early victims of this virus after the populace's Christmas visits back and forth across the border brought it into our area, and just not tested because, hell, it's winter and everybody catches colds? Well, it wasn't just a cold, but what it was is unknown now. I just know we all got it, and four out of five of us had a bacterial infection in the course of the disease's run.

Now, however, we're supposed to worry about it. Sure we can do that. We can worry about a lot of stuff. We can worry about global warming, the incredible illiteracy of young adults, the bankruptcies of local governments, the rising crime rate as a result of economic downturn, the rise of mercury levels in sea fish, the death throes of America's auto industry. 

Jeeze, just wash your hands, and wear a damn mask, okay? And then stop buying more than you can use, stop using stuff that isn't recyclable, teach your kids to read, get off the credit card merry-go-round, sit out on your porches in the evenings to let thugs know you are aware of your neighborhood, don't make your kids eat fish -- they don't like it anyhow -- and just get your car serviced. All of the auto makers are still making parts. Don't buy new until they can come up with a vehicle that isn't an environment-killer.

Mortality

Here's the Grim Reaper, trying to figure out what else he can do to try to kill me.

Let's see, in the past two or more years, we've had Despair and Grief in overabundance, more than I'd ever thought I could bear. And then cold after cold after cold all winter long, with a short break for my birthday in June, and then another cold. Pneumonia multiple times.

Thinking to head off the dastard, I got a pneumonia shot as well as a flu shot last fall. Well, that worked inasmuch as I have not had pneumonia this year. The flu vaccine missed the mark, though, so after the New Year's Cold Virus, and the Excruciating Pain of "Pinched Nerve", the whole family got the flu -- it would be funny, unless you laughed and the five of us came after you with baseball bats.

I was able to get through the pain of the "Pinched Nerve" by virtue of physical therapy, and we all survived the flu, albeit with some ugly complications. Now, clear sailing into summer, wot?

Not. The time had also come for me to have my periodic cholesterol checkup; the doc added some other tests into the mix, and lo and behold, I turned up as deficient in Vitamin D as one of my father's leather shoes from 1968. (Oh, and of course the cholesterol was insanely high, but that's genetic, so who cares, Crestor is my buddy forever.)

Too old for rickets, I'm still tremendously at risk for bones that turn to powder at impact. Great, just great. The doc gave me a prescription for super-mega-'mungous doses of Vitamin D, and an order for a bone scan to see how far gone I am.

Not going in for a bone scan until I wrap myself around and accept the diagnosis from my MRI: a herniated disc in my neck was what was causing the hideous pain that sent me to the doc in the first place. Damn it. I'll see a specialist at the end of this month to determine a course of treatment. I'm hoping that he will recognize that the physical therapy is a viable option to surgery.

And then there is fatness, and the repercussions thereof.

Because I was laid up with the neck and then the flu, I did not exercise, and so gained about five pounds, all around my waist, because that's where I pack on the blubber. I asked my daugher if she had any Fat Pants from last year when she was bulging, and she obligingly gave me several pairs of pants. A pair of jeans fit like skin, and even had a comfy elastic waist. I wore them often, all day comfort, felt like a dream.

It was only when a strange blister broke out on the top of my foot that I became concerned. "Gnat bites?" I thought. "A new reaction to mosquitoes?" Then another blossomed on my ankle, and then another on my calf, and one on the opposite knee, one on my waist, one on the back of a thigh, two more on an ankle -- and only then did I grab the comfy jeans and look at the content label -- oh, my God, there was Spandex in the mix. Allergic? Oh, yezz. In my aged days, Spandex is poison to me. Not all the time, mind you, I could wear stuff with it for a couple hours with no ill effects. But the wearing of the jeans set off a major allergic reaction, and I will not disgust you by telling where-all the blisters appeared nor what they look like.

Do you know how many items of undergarments are free of Spandex? I can count them on the fingers of my knee.

Now I know why hippie women were all for burning bras.

And Oh, Yeah, the Drama

With unexpected speed, one of the nursing homes emailed me and told me they would be glad to admit my mother.

I admit that I cried when I got copies from my mother's trust officer of the cover letters she'd sent with the apps to the nursing homes. The Hearthside, a nursing home in State College, Pennsylvania, replied to me within hours of getting the application. I have no idea of the time frame involved, but everything is rolling along.

When my sister was dying, she was sent to The Hearthside, and via e-mail, I got to meet their social director, Karol. She was so kind and understanding! I met her in person after my sister died, and she was such a loving, vibrant person that I wish I lived near her. (Or better, if she lived near me.) We've kept in touch; when I knew I had to make a decision about Mom, she was the second person I consulted (first was Bernie, of course.)

With the acceptance of Mom's application confirmed, I sent off emails to the bank trust officer, my mother's pastor, and a letter to her physician with my Power of Attorney document enclosed. The pastor emailed me within minutes, reassuring me that I was making the right decision, and that he was vastly relieved to hear the news. The trust officer also concurred, and was pleased with The Hearthside's response time.

I cried some more.

What is left of my mother's body is a skeleton covered by veins and skin; there is no light of "Tere" in her eyes at all. Her spirit is blocked from its normal perception by the plaques in her brain, and all that works well is her fury, which spurs her gaunt frame to anger and a fight-response.

She never really understood me, but I miss the times we connected with humor or determination, and I felt that she was one of the most amazing people I had ever met.

All is done now, until the paperwork is finished. And then what?

I don't even really want to think about it.

The Amazing Accordion-Head!

Oh, look! Two of my vertebrae!

Ancient, eroded, probably loaded with crevices full of bats and desert mice ...

Today was my first day of Physical Therapy. Long long ago, I pulled something in my back while I was closing a huge gate ( I had complained months before to both my supervisor and the big boss that it was too heavy and sticky to be moved easily); I was sent to a Workmen's Comp office to be evaluated, and told to do a series of stretching exercises and get the hell back to damn work. It was a stupid office visit, mostly along the lines of, does it hurt when you do that? Then don't do that again, and yeah, you're hurt, but ain't we all?

So I had very little faith in what this morning's appointment would hold.

Amazingly enough, the PT dude talked to me for about 20 minutes about how I felt and what hurt and where. He concurred with the doctor and the chiropractor that there is some kind of nerve pinch in there. But instead of telling me what tough luck it was for me, and suggesting I become a Vicodin junkie, he set up about an hour's worth of interesting stuff.

First, I was treated to a scrumptious neck and shoulder wrap of moist heat. It was wonderful. Second, I got a nice warm massage of my sore shoulder and neck. Also wonderful. In a few minutes, these were followed by some gentle exercises (largely to determine my range of movement), and suggestions about how to do them three times a day.

The amazing thing, however, was shaped like an accordion with indents on either end. In one indentation fit my head; the other held my shoulders. I was given a little rubber bulb like you might see on a blood pressure device, and told to squeeze that until I could feel my neck stretch a little between head and shoulders. That I did, and voila! The pain down my arm disappeared.

This would be the same pain that had me in tears Sunday morning because it hurt so bad. For a blissful 10 minutes, it was GONE.

Of course it came back, once the accordion was off my head and I stood up, but it wasn't so bad.
And six hours later, it still isn't as bad as it was yesterday. I'm beginning to have some hope, although they told me that riding the horse is right out for a while.

Physical Therapy is scheduled for three times a week for the next three weeks. I'm looking forward to Wednesday, and another round with the Accordion-Head thing.

What Next?

Tuesday morning at 4am I woke up, feeling wave upon wave of excruciating pain in my left shoulder.

I sat up to ease it, and oh, no, that didn't work at all; the waves just turned into a stabbing, burning encampment. Wondering what the hell I had done in my sleep, I found a more or less comfortable position, and fell back into the nightmares that have been bugging me lately. By 7:15 I was out of bed, hugging my left side, trying to find any position that didn't scream of profound personal injury. I thought that moving around would ease it; I was wrong. By 8, I was watching the clock to see it turn to 9am, at which point I was going to call the chiropractor and beg to be seen.

A hot shower helped not at all. At 9:01, I called Dr. Jack's office ... only to find that they open at 11am on Tuesdays. At the least provocation, I knew I would break down and cry from the pain. Fortunately, no one else was around. I prepped stuff for lunch, caught up on blogs to distract myself. At 11 o'clock, I was dialing and re-dialing Dr. Jack's number, until I got through and his lovely wife answered the phone. They had an opening at 12:40 and I took it.

The pain radiated not only across my left shoulder blade, but into my ribs on both sides below the shoulder blade. Oh, and onto my upper arm and top of my lower arm. I considered briefly that arm pain can mean a heart attack, but the source of the pain was clearly spine. Dr. Jack began to straighten out the kinks in my spine, setting off muscle spasms here and there as nerves reconnected properly, and when he was done for the day, told me to come back Thursday -- he'd done as much as he could in one day.

"Your body is going to tell you to 'stop' -- when you've pushed past your limit to heal, you will have to stop doing what you were doing," he told me. "Looks like you're spending too many hours at the computer."

When I left his office, the pain was far less, and confined to the muscles at the top of my shoulder and various places on my left arm. The rib pain was completely gone. Thank you, Dr. Jack.

Today, in spite of gulping ibuprofen all day, the pain was relentless. Then, at 7pm, I remembered that I had a tube of arnica gel in the medicine cabinet. I smacked myself figuratively on the forehead, and put the stuff on all the spots that hurt. Like magic, within moments, the pain receded to a tolerable level. Arnica won't heal something that's out of place, but by golly, it does more for me than Flexall ever did.

I'm hoping that tomorrow, Dr. Jack will be able to put my shoulder to rights. But I keep wondering, what is going to break down next?

The Hard Road Beneath Sparkling Water

In the heat of the late morning, we crossed Utah on I-80, and on this straight stretch across the salt flats, watched the shimmering pool of a mirage on the roadway ahead of us, a false promise of coolness and quenched thirst.

How real it looks! There are reflections of land and sky. With a little imagination, you could visualize children flocking to splash in the puddles, or fishermen floating on boats, casting their lines.

Moving my sister to safety in the group home turned out to be a mirage. We all saw the possibilities, the companionship, the fresh air, the exercise, the nurturing -- we saw them as if we could have held them in our hands and passed them around for everyone to look at and rejoice.

My sister's road was quite different. Though she had been moving towards acceptance of her new home, the discovery of the lump in her breast and subsequent visit to the doctor proved too much. Jan stopped eating or drinking completely, refusing to cooperate, and had to be taken to the hospital for rehydration. People think "developmentally disabled" means "stupid," which Jan is definitely NOT. She knows that a lump in the breast means "breast cancer" and she knows that a surgeon means "operation." She's had the input of television as her entertainment for the past 30 years. I suspect that she dealt with the terror in the only way she knew -- to withdraw: maybe the Terror will pass me by.

In the hospital, re-hydrated, she seemed to rally again, even eating some breakfast. But by midnight, she'd retreated into her shadow world even more deeply (more safely) and could not be roused. They took her to the Intensive Care Unit and put her on a ventilator because her breathing was so shallow.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was supposed to get used to the new place, and be taken out to hear new and wonderful things, go to the store with people, the fair, concerts and places where she could exercise a little. Get three square meals a day and put some flesh back on her starved frame. In our mirage, I'd get to shop for things for her for Christmas, silly, useless, nice things that our mother would not have tolerated. Pretty clothes. Soft, soft flannel sheets and a girly comforter to keep her warm. I'd visit her as often as I could afford to go back east, without our mother diving in to keep us apart, able to hug her and hold her and shower kisses on her.

Yesterday I cried for our mirage almost all day.

This morning, her doctor called me from the hospital, and told me she was perkier today, and that they thought she could be taken off the ventilator. "She's probably had a small heart attack," the doctor said, "but she seems to be improving." I made sure the doctor knew that Jan hadn't had any physical exercise at all for nearly two years -- except for moving from her chair to the kitchen table (about 10 steps) or to the bathroom (about the same). Her system is unprepared for Life.

I don't know if she'll survive this. I pray that she will, and that our mirage will someday be a reality.

About two hours after the doctor called me, Jan's caseworker sent me an email. Jan was off the ventilator, and having had the tube removed from her throat, was once again vocal and let the entire ICU nursing staff know that she had fired them for incompetence.

Everyone who knows Jan gave a hearty cheer.