Optimism is optional

After a year in the Bat Cave, it's that time again. Time to pack up and move. I'm ready but I'm still feeling anxious. Maybe I should treat moving like an annual pilgrimage. Some people move a lot. Not me. I spent the last twenty-four years in Portland. I was in one apartment for eighteen of those years. Moving to Tucson was a shock I'm still not over. 

It feels traumatic to put everything I own in my car and take it someplace else. I've been dreaming about unplugging computer equipment, packing Mom's TV, loading up my bed platform, stacking boxes and bins so they don't slide around and brain me while I'm driving. I don't know why I'm fretting. I'm not moving far. It's probably about a mile from the Bat Cave to the Trailer. And nobody is forcing this on me. I can only blame myself if I forget how to reassemble my computer. I think I'm feeling some PTSD from my move to Tucson last year. That move involved a U-Box, a car filled to the brim with possessions, a 1,500-mile road trip, a bad Google map, and a deadline. Needless to say, that move was fraught. I break out in a sweat when I remember driving alone for hours on I-93 through Nevada.  

I have another couple boxes ready to take to the thrift store, a few more used-up items to toss in the trash. I should be glad of the opportunity to pare a few more things out of my cold arthritic hands. It is good to own less, consume less. However, downsizing makes me sad. I know where downsizing leads. I remember helping my mother downsize. From the big house to the smaller house. From the smaller house to the condo. From the condo to the retirement home. From the retirement home to the care home. From the care home to a box currently on a shelf at my brother's house. Downsizing isn't only about letting go of possessions. It's about letting go of people. Of place. Of life.

It's raining again. This afternoon the southern sky turned black. The wind kicked up, sending leaves and trash skittering around the parking lot. Lightning flashed a few times, followed by rolling thunder. Then the rain came pelting down. It's happened almost every day this week. My neighbors and I no longer open our doors to marvel at the moisture falling from the sky. Ho hum. It's nice to feel cooler air, even though the ground will be dry thirty minutes after the rain stops. I prefer blue sky. 

My days are punctuated by Zoom meetings, planning the next novel, doom-scrolling, and getting weather alerts on my phone. Waves of grief wash over me from time to time. I have the luxury of riding the waves. I'm not at risk of flash flooding. I might be at mild risk for depression. I am missing my cat. I'm missing my mother. I am missing my old life. I used to know where I was. Now I sometimes forget where I am.

It's hard to feel excited about life when I am feeling sad. I should make a gratitude list. Let's see. The rain is amazing. I haven't seen a cockroach in over a month. The power hasn't gone out. I published my book. My car is running well. I haven't heard any gunshots lately. I don't have a hernia. See? Lots to applaud. I don't sit around paralyzed by grief. Optimism is optional. Despite my discontent, I carry on. 

Time to go crazy

I've been in phone hell this week. My old service provider got bought by a larger tech company and "upgraded" its network. My old smartphone has dementia and forgets how to communicate. It was time for a new phone and a new provider. I thought, how hard could it be? The new provider will magically transfer my phone number to the new provider and life will carry on. Oh, how naïve I was.

I won't mention the new provider because that company does not need more mentions on the internet. Not that anyone would care what I have to say. I have spoken with a dozen people over the past week or so, trying to get this new phone working with the new service. Eventually I realized the effort was futile. I gave up and said, just give me a new phone number. Within five minutes, I had a new number. My new phone rewarded me with a slew of text messages from the new provider.

So now I have two phones, two service providers, and two phone numbers. I'm not sure if I should celebrate the unexpected abundance or lament the way technology has wrecked my life. You know what I'm talking about, right? Without that original phone number, all my Google accounts will be lost. That old demented phone has to keep working long enough for me to access all my accounts that use two-factor authentication so I can either turn it off or update to a new phone number.

I almost had a panic attack thinking about it. My entire life is based on this phone number. Forget my SSN, who cares, that number has been running loose for forty years. One of the universities I attended way back when used the SSN as the student ID number. There's no closing that barn door. My descent into technological hell hasn't been sudden, though. It's been an insidious creep, like noxious weeds taking over my neurons. In my quest for success and money and connection, I've sold my soul to technology. Technology is like fire. Fire can keep you warm. It can also burn your house down.  

I know whereof I speak. I lost access to a phone number when I switched to the service provider who just got sucked into the maw of a larger provider. That was ten years ago, before Google had its modern security measures in place . . . before two-factor, before backup numbers, before recovery emails. I've tried multiple times to get into my old Google account. I still have the password. No dice. Without that old phone and phone number, I can't receive a code. Without that code, I'm toast. Google sneers at me: We can't verify that this is really you. Then it sends me an email to another account that apparently is somehow linked, congratulating itself for "protecting" me from some nefarious unauthorized access. Someone is trying to get into your account! Yeah, Google, you idiot monster I have discovered I cannot function without, it's me, trying to get into my own account. I hate you.

I'm trying to reframe all this disruption as a fascinating adventure, a riveting window into the way an aging brain adapts and flexes—or doesn't. I'm not really flexing gracefully. You know that sound your knees sometimes make when you get off the floor after doing a few half-hearted sit-ups? No? Well, maybe it's my bursitis. Anyway, I can hear my brain creaking sometimes. It's isn't as nimble as it used to be. And when I'm putting pressure on it to perform—even simple tasks like mental arithmetic—my brain cells shred into a tattered mess. I'm reminded of my mother's brain, which I could practically see evaporating in front of me. She lost brain cells the way she dropped gloves and used tissues. I learned to follow a step behind. I rescued her gloves and tissues, but I could not save her brain.

Soon I will be vacating the Bat Cave. You'd think after moving to Tucson, I'd be used to moving. I have less stuff, fewer boxes, fewer attachments. It's a physical chore, yes, but it's the mental chore that wears me down. Worse than the physical act of packing and lifting boxes, transporting them, and unpacking them, it's the wear and tear on my brain. I can't say I've felt settled here in the Bat Cave. I always knew I'd move on after a year. But living a year at a time is not a familiar pace to me. I think people who travel a lot probably get used to waking up in the night not knowing where they are. Me, I used to know where I was. On a map, I had a location. In a city, I had my place. It wasn't much, but I once had roots. Not many, but some. Mom's death severed the few roots that were holding me there in the city of my birth. Like a dandelion seed on the wind, I let the wind blow me to Tucson.

I don't want to go back to Oregon but I don't know where I'm going. Why am I having so much trouble just being where I am? Now that I've relinquished most of my possessions, I seem to be seeking a connection to a geographical place, as if that will keep me safe. I can hear my inner nihilist laughing right now. Maybe I'll be laughing soon, too. Still working on it. Meanwhile, let me offer my grudging gratitude to the technology that allows me to express myself on this blog every week. 

Taking wing

When I first came to Tucson, I couldn't imagine I'd ever contemplate becoming one of those residents who vacates for six months out of the year. I don't remember thinking the actual thought how bad could it be? But I must have, because what I feel now is chagrin, regret, and embarrassment. After a year in Tucson, I begin to understand that I've moved to the Mars. Being a snowbird is starting to seem like a survival option, rather than a way to flaunt how many homes one has. 

I've read that many desert cities swell in the winter and shrink in the summer. Some people have winter homes in the desert and summer homes in the mountains, and they travel back and forth. Two homes! What a concept. Some people take their homes with them wherever they go. I'm thinking of the infamous nomads who live in RVs and vans and trailers, follow the weather, and have roundups to share tips and take videos they post on YouTube to make a few bucks.

Only poor Tucsonans are out in the daytime. They stand on street corners holding up signs in leathery hands. They set up house in the culverts that drain into the washes—not a good place to be in monsoon. Have you seen video of a wall of sticks, trash, and floodwater tearing up trees and shrubs as it moves down a wash? If I ever happen to see the actual beginning of a raging river, it most likely means I didn't get out of the way in time and off I go, headed for the next county. 

It's mostly the poor people who get creamed by speeding cars as they cross the street to the grocery store after dark. Tucson ranks thirteenth on the list for U.S. pedestrian fatality counts. It's not just my imagination. Walking here is dangerous. If you walk in the mid-morning you fry from excessive UV rays. If you walk in the afternoon, you run the risk of heat stroke, not to mention getting torched by lightning if a thunderstorm cell happens to sneak up and dump on you. If you walk after dark, you run the risk of getting mowed down by a texting Tucsonan in an SUV. 

Bicyclists don't fare well here either. Early mornings are most dangerous. They ride in packs, wearing bright uniforms, but that isn't always enough to save them.

Heat is a tangible thing. Along about noon, I wet a tank top, drape it over my head, and stand in front of the fan for a minute. The water coming out of the cold water tap is warm. Really hot days (over 110F) require two wet tank tops. Evaporative cooling works well here in the desert. 

Around 5:00 pm, when I'm done with my Zoom calls, I punch the button on the wall unit and let the roar overtake me. It sounds like a jet is warming up in my living room but it throws out cold air, and that's all that matters. After thirty minutes, the place is cool, but it heats up rapidly as soon as I turn it off. The entire front wall of the apartment radiates heat. It's a wonder the fridge still works. (Knocking on wood now.)

In the mornings, the skies are clear blue. Around 2:00 pm, I usually see big white fluffy clouds starting to boil up to the south. Within an hour, the visible sky is a grungy shade of gray, a color I am very familiar with, having grown up in the Pacific Northwest. In Portland, that kind of sky in summer would indicate 70F, maybe sprinkles, good walking weather. Here, it means 107F, humidity, excessive UV risk, and threat of thunderstorms. Who can live like this!?

Now my computer is notifying me of rain off and on, showing me a little umbrella icon. Isn't Windows cute? If a thunderstorm parks itself over me, an umbrella won't do much good. Thunderstorms here tear down powerlines and uproot trees. So far this season, very little rain has fallen in the actual city of Tucson. Waiting for rain is a useless waste of time. I keep thinking I hear rain but it's just the neighbor kids on their bikes outside my window. Storm cells move through bringing dust clouds but no rain. 

My sister suggested I get in my car and go north. Or up. Either one or both. She's right. I think the only way to survive living on Mars is to be a snowbird. People who don't escape to a summer home in the Northwest clog the roads to 9,000 ft. tall Mt. Lemmon, the local equivalent of Mt. Hood, where the temperature is thirty degrees cooler than in the valley. I see the mountain forecast on the news. People ride on the ski lifts, even though there's no snow. 

I haven't driven up to Mt. Lemmon yet. I continue to wait for monsoon, keeping cool in the Bat Cave and packing for my move next month to the Trailer.

 

It happened again

Once again, you had to remind me! I can't believe I forgot to blog last Sunday. I looked at my calendar to see what happened. Every line was full, and every line was checked off done, except I had forgotten to put "Blog" on the calendar. 

Now we know. My life is ruled by my calendar. At this rate, soon I will be putting "eat" and "sleep" on there, too. That will be a sad day. I probably won't be blogging when I reach that point. You can visit me in the retirement home, if you can still walk.

Speaking of last legs, many thanks to my blog reader who checked in to see if I'm still alive. It was 106°F today. I don't know if I would call this living. Summers in Tucson resemble being in a prison. Not that I would know from firsthand experience, just that being confined to the Bat Cave for most of the day doesn't exactly feel like freedom. Still, roof over head, not complaining. Much.

Another thing to be grateful for: no little dudes! I believe the property management company actually took some action. I didn't see said action, but they sent round a notice saying they were doing inspections for pest control. That makes me think maybe they did something. I haven't seen a little dude in over two weeks. I still tiptoe into my kitchen though, and I'm still spraying insecticide every Sunday like I found religion. I'm sure the little dudes aren't far away. 

It's been so hot, I had to finally turn on the air conditioner. It works, that's nice. Fans don't really suffice when it's over 100 in the Bat Cave. When I turned on the AC, a huge black beetle flew out. It was probably lounging comfortably in the dark dusty crevice, then whoosh! I can imagine it thinking what the heck? It came fluttering out and went behind a box. 

I screamed a little, remembering my previous encounter with a flying monster. I grabbed the ammo bottle and spritzed it to get it to come out of hiding. It landed in drunken fashion on the window sill. I saw it had some iridescent markings on its tummy. Suddenly feeling magnanimous, I captured it and let it go outside. Sorry, big black dude, for scaring you. I was willing to save you, because there was only one of you, and you had art on your belly. I don't extend the same courtesy to the little brown dudes that live in the walls. 

Happy birthday to CS and to Bravadita. Also to my older brother and to my mother, who would have turned 93 later this month. 

I self-published my third novel this week. Yay, me, getting it done in the desert. 

Legacy DNA leaves a mark

For some reason I thought that after my parents died, I would not longer be  . . . what's the word I'm looking for? Not troubled. Not haunted. I don't know. That my parental units would no longer have an influence on my life? They have shuffled off the mortal coil, and even though I think of them, I am no longer troubled by them, if you know what I mean. No, of course you don't know what I mean, because I haven't told you yet. 

My father's DNA legacy reached out from beyond the blue horizon to let me know that I am still my father's daughter, even though he's been dead for eighteen years. He had an enlarged heart, apparently a genetic defect. Well, guess what? That insurance company house call doctor was right! The cardiologist refuted my primary NP's claim of predominantly opening snap, whatever the heck that is, and concurred with the cardiologist's diagnosis of a two-on-a-scale-of-six heart murmur. Thanks a lot, Dad.

Something isn't working quite right but the doctor couldn't be certain exactly what part was failing to meet standards. More to be revealed, as they say. Specifically, echocardiogram in my not-too-distant future (September). Apparently it's not an emergency. Yay.

In other news, I had my first and I hope last MRI this week. I'm sure many of you have had MRIs, it's probably quite common, what do I know? Like getting your nails done. Not for me. I don't get my nails done, and I don't have MRIs. 

In fact, all my life, I have gone to great lengths to avoid getting enmeshed with medical care. I'm the type to pretend not only is there nothing wrong, there's not actually a body. Nothing to see here, move along. I'm just an incorporeal intellect fluttering around somewhere in Tucson, completely detached from any sort of human biological disaster that might need to be shoved inside a big noisy person-sized tube.

An MRI is quite an experience. Not an adventure. Not an ordeal. Somewhere in between. I was warned it would be noisy and that I would be given headphones to protect my ears. I pictured vacuum cleaner noisy. Nope, not like that at all. It was loud, all right, but all the banging, thumping, buzzing, whirring, and beeping made me fear I had been swallowed by a demonic washing machine. 

Before she pressed the button that sent me into the tube, the med tech asked, "What music do you want?"

She didn't seem surprised when I said "60s or 70s rock-and-roll, please."

Pretty soon, I heard Jim Morrison singing "Light my Fire" far off in the distance.

From time to time, obscuring the old rockers singing in the background, I heard a prerecorded dude's voice say, "Take a breath . . .  Let it out . . . Take a breath . . . and hold it." Fifteen seconds later, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Breathe normally."

For forty-five minutes, I enjoyed a cacophony of old rock music, directions to hold my breath, and the bed-rattling, bone-shaking clanging and banging of the machine. As I said, it was quite an experience. There's something surreal about listening to In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida while wearing a hospital gown and lying on a bed that goes in and out of a metal cylinder. At the time, I didn't appreciate the metaphor. There's a joke there somewhere but I can't quite put my finger on it. 

I was glad to discover I am not claustrophobic. With the earphones, I didn't mind the noise. The only thing I did not enjoy was having an IV port inserted into my vein. Having never had an IV port before, or an MRI, I was anxious about being dosed with the gadolinium contrast dye. The med tech said she would warn me when she was going to send it into my vein, and she did. A few seconds later, I felt my entire body flush with a chill I can't describe. Muscles in my belly started twitching. Before I could say oh hell, it passed and I was fine, other than a freezing right hand, which I can tolerate, having lived most of my life with freezing hands.

I don't know which parent to blame for the genes that landed me in an MRI cylinder. I'm suspecting my mother. I'm going to go out on a little dinky limb here and self-diagnose with digestive issues related to dairy and possibly eggs. Alternatively, it could be a hernia. 

What it is not, thank god, is cancer. 

The gadolinium gave me a new layer of dizziness to my vertigo, but it passed by the next day. As instructed, I drank lots of water. And tried to breathe normally. Thus, I live to fight another day.