As I walked along the bike path next to the Rillito River this afternoon, dodging bicyclists and enjoying the winter sun baking the back of my neck, a bicyclist rode by and said, "I saw a prairie dog." He could have been talking on the phone using invisible Blue Tooth earbuds, but I assumed he was talking to me, so I said, "Prairie dog?" He was long gone but I looked around to see if I could spot something poking its head up out of a hole in the ground. The dry riverbed was wide, full of sand and scrubby trees, probably good habitat for a critter who burrows, at least until monsoon floods sweep it into the next county.
Not five minutes later, another bicyclist rode by me and asked, "Did you see the pigs?" She sped on by before I could ask, "Do you mean javelinas?" I assumed she wasn't from around here, maybe a newbie to Tucson, unlike me, the almost two-year resident to whom javelinas are as common as possums. Ho-hum. A couple days ago, I saw a dead one on the side of the road as I was driving by. If you see one dead javelina, you'll probably see more. They travel in squadrons. After the bicyclist had gone by, I thought, there is a possibility the woman was talking about pigs on the phone with someone in Nebraska, not addressing me at all.
I always make everything about me.
Speaking about making everything about me, yesterday was the second anniversary of the death of my maternal parental unit. The whole day had a bit of a gray tinge to it. I try not to think of her last hours. I try to remember her from before 2016, but it's as if I'm conjuring two different people. Before she moved into the retirement home, she was strong, independent, and opinionated. Dementia was chipping at her brain, though, and soon the foundation of her independence crumbled. Now the mother I remember is the one I moved into the care home at the end of October 2020, the one I saw every evening after dinner, the one I bundled up in fleece so we could sit outside six feet apart, the one I tried to keep alive even though we were both trapped with only one way out.
I went to the care home every evening, thinking to myself, someday I won't be doing this, also thinking, god, I hope I don't have to do this for the rest of my life.
And then it was done, and now I'm here, and I need to be someplace else, but I don't know where yet.
I used to welcome the new year, but not anymore. Tomorrow is the third anniversary of the death of my beloved cat Eddie. That day scrapes a hole in my heart every time I think of it. I guess I should be thankful Mom and Eddie didn't die the same year. That would have been the end of me.
No wonder my heart stutters. No wonder I can't get my balance.
After the latest heart scan, I'm ignoring my heart, even when it swoops and pounds. I don't want to fret about it anymore. I'm not imminently dying so what else is there to do but pretend like it isn't happening? Works for me. As far as the balance problem goes, the remedies seem to be the same, no matter the diagnosis. Do I have BPPV, PPPD, MD, VM, or something else? Who knows, who cares (not the ENT, that's for sure). The usual treatments are changes in diet (for migraines), medications (for migraines, seizures, depression, and anxiety), vestibular rehabilitation therapy (to retrain the brain, eyes, and ears), and cognitive behavioral therapy (for depression and anxiety).
Adjusting my diet seems to have no effect on my disequilibrium, unless I eat processed food, which gives me migraines but doesn't affect the vertigo. As for the second option, I'm not willing to add to my meds list, period. I already feel like a drug addict. Third option: Am I depressed? I don't think so. Am I anxious? Sort of, but not to the point of panic attacks. I think anyone contemplating moving everything without knowing their destination would be entitled to feel some anxiety. As for therapy, I'm always happy to dump my problems on someone who gets paid to listen to them, but it seems like a lot of work, and I don't think it would be all that productive. What would they tell me? It's okay to feel anxious, your life is a mess? Thanks, I already knew that. The only option worth pursuing in my inexpert but essential opinion is vestibular rehabilitation. I might try to get a referral but each session with a vestibular therapist will cost me, so I'll probably stick with Dr. Google. You can bet I've been reviewing all the videos I can find, and there are thousands.
Meanwhile, I didn't think I was much of a gambler, but maybe I was wrong. I'm putting all my money on location, location, location. I recognize that packing up and heading west might not produce the desired outcome. What I mean is, doing a geographical might not make my spinning head feel better. What is Plan B? Thanks for asking. I have some ideas, but for now, let's stay out of the wreckage of the future.
