Your turn will come

I'd like to focus on the victory of the week, whch was that I figured out how to format an epub book that passed muster with IngramSpark—but all I can do is obsess over an ingrown hair on my upper lip. Dermotillomania strikes again. When I'm cold, skin imperfections are magnets for my roaming fingers. Every hangnail is an invitation to pull hard. My cuticles are bloody meat. It's a wonder I haven't died of flesh-eating strep. Does that sound familiar? Sorry if I repeat myself.

There's nothing new in my brain. The ruts are deep. I rehash the same tired complaints week to week, month to month. Usually people are kind enough to ignore the fact that I repeat myself. I'd like to apologize but actually I feel a bit smug. They don't yet know the frustration that awaits them when they reach for a memory and come up empty. Meanwhile, I keep picking at my lip, rubbing that hair the wrong way. 

I am regressing to my cultural mean. That is to say, like a narrow-minded person with trash roots, I'm circling the wagons on my willingness to be open-minded. I don't want to stress my brain cells with new things. The idea of learning for learning's sake sailed out the window when I got laid off from my teaching job in 2013. I have no more curiosity. This is partly why mastering the epub was such a victory. I use the word mastering hoping nobody will actually ask me to explain what I did to succeed. I went in circles for several days, punching holes in html and css with little knowledge and a lot of desperation. I kept telling myself failure is not an option, but of course failure is always an option. One day it will be the only option. I just hope it doesn't hurt much.

Meanwhile, it's the little things. Like hairs sprouting on my upper lip. 

The dark ones don't last long. If I see one, I pluck it. I'm not afraid to go in after it. If the hair is white, I can't see it. That makes me crazy. As I sit here picking at my cuticles, I contemplate the nuclear option.

Yesterday I had to thread a needle. I threaded needles for many years in my former life as a garment maker. I can thread a needle by feel, which is lucky, because my eyes no longer work right. I can't see things far away, and I can't see things up close. That means I can't see the thread or the eye of the needle. Muscle memory is the only kind of memory I have left. What's more, lately my right eye has occasionally been blocked by what looks like a round thumbprint. You could call it a flower. I guess it's a thing that happens sometimes. Oh, it hasn't happened to you? Well, your turn will come. Meanwhile, if you want to talk to me, stand about twenty feet away. 

I try not to think much. Thinking is over-rated. I do as little as possible. I used to admire people with robust intellects, you know those smartasses who read lots of nonfiction books. Not anymore. I think they are wasting brain cells in the pursuit of something that can't be retained. Sort of like Arizona uses water. 

I peaked in my twenties. It's been downhill ever since. This is ironic, because I was emotionally stunted when I was in my twenties. All those brain cells with so much capacity, like a high-powered nuclear reactor generating power to illuminate and solve all problems, and all I could do was apply them toward chasing codependent relationships. Now, forty-plus years later, I have so much more emotional intelligence and no brainpower left to use it. The nuclear power plant has imploded into dust. My weary thoughts sit mumbling around a campfire, singing kumbaya and trying to remember how to make s'mores.

In fairness to me, my capacity to think has been reduced somewhat by the washing machine in my head. Being off balance saps my will to care about anything. I'm going to the ENT for a follow-up this week. Maybe she will be able to tell me what particular brand of inner ear washing machine I have. I'm skeptical. Last year it was "Vestibular Migraines." That brand works for some people, but me, I give it zero stars. This year, the new fad is "PPPD," which stands for persistent postural perceptural dizziness. It's the brand of the week. As vestibular specialists do more research, they come up with more brands of vestibular insanity. We'll see what the ENT has to say about PPPD. She might tell me I'm really insane, like, Carol, it's all in your head. Duh. Doctors tend to blame the patient when they are too embarrassed to admit they don't know what is going on. Who could blame them? All those years in medical school, right? It's gotta hurt.

Let's keep it simple. Instead of adding up my victories and defeats to arrive at my value as a going human concern, let's just give me an attaboy for managing to cross something off my daily to-do list. As I'm going to do after I upload this blogpost.  

 

Things that don't heal by themselves

I've heard time heals all wounds. That sounds nice, but time doesn't heal everything. A few things come to mind. Cars. Teeth. Hearts. Money can heal some things, though. Cars, for example. If you have enough money to throw at the problem, you can definitely get that dreaded check engine light to go off. For a while. 

A business person once said something like, "I know half my advertising is wasted; I just don't know which half." I feel that way about car repair. When Charlie the mechanic says things like "Well, first we'll replace the coil, and if that doesn't work, we'll replace the fuel injector," it makes me suspect I just got a new coil for nothing. Not that you can't always use a new coil, but generally, I try to wait until I really need a new thing before tossing out the old one. It's the guess-and-by-golly approach. You guess, and if it works, you say, well, by golly! If it fails, you say, golly, sure screwed that up. The approach works, either way. After $2,300 worth of new everything, my car is running great. 

Another thing that doesn't heal by itself is teeth. Repairing teeth chews up a lot of money (ha, see what I did there). As I lay stiff as a board in the chair, with a drill, a water pick, a suction hose, and four hands in my mouth and the whine of the drill blasting my eardrums as it ground #3 and #26 to smithereens, I had a solid two hours to really savor the feeling of money being siphoned out of my bank account. I kept picturing the moment when I would be sitting at the receptionist's desk, pulling out my debit card. While I suffered in the chair, I couldn't wait for that moment. Once I survived the grinding and was actually pulling out my debit card, I felt somewhat less enthused. However, my deal is, I pay as I go for services rendered, even if they render me impoverished. How could I refuse? I got two new crowns for the bargain (Medicare) price of only $1,500. Such a deal. 

Speaking of dental deals, I hear that my insurance company has denied the $1,550 cost of last month's root canal re-do. I'm going to call them and weep into the phone, but I don't have a lot of hope. You can't petition the insurance company, not with prayer or anything else. The root canal had to be done, though, to save the tooth. So they say. Do we have to save teeth? I'm starting to think I'd look pretty good with dentures. I wonder if the dentist would let me customize them. Could I get them sharpened to points, maybe? That might come in handy in the upcoming zombie apocalypse, when I might be called upon to bite the throats out of water thieves. 

My bank account is starting to resemble Lake Mead—that is to say, a lot going out and not much coming in. I am not good at math, but even I know that is not sustainable. 

I knew this was going to happen. I was mentally prepared. Cars and teeth do not repair themselves. As long as I have the money, I will pay to maintain them. After that, it's baby food and bicycle. 

The other thing I'm thinking of that doesn't heal on its own is my heart. I don't mean that I'm grieving the losses of the past three years, although I am, and I probably always will miss my mother, my cat, and my sense of "home." I am actually referring to the actual meatball beating in my chest. Taking up yoga and jogging won't fix the valve that is gradually calcifying. My father used to lift weights to "muscle" his way through his maladies. It seems likely that I have inherited his genetic heart condition. I doubt if lifting weights is going to save me, any more than it saved him. But I understand his motivation. After a long walk, I feel a sense of sweaty accomplishment, like, yeah, take that, you stupid meatball. I'll outlive you yet, you just wait.

Speaking of dead, I'm pretending there will be a tomorrow, and I'm making plans accordingly. In a couple months, I'm going out in the world to seek my new home. Am I too old to go on a quest? I haven't heard that there is an age limit. This might be the adventure of my mediocre mundane lifetime. Or it might be the stupidest thing I've ever done. It's so hard to know ahead of time. Most of my bright ideas fall into the second category, but I've been lucky a few times before. It could happen again.

The path is less-traveled for a good reason

 

I'm blogging tonight because it is a task on my calendar. That is the only reason. My brain is a stinky pile of pudding. I've spent the past few hours formatting a dissertation that refuses to conform. 

It happens. Not all Word documents are built to my liking. No use complaining. It's far too late to do anything about it. The dissertation is done. The dissertator is defending in a few weeks. 

I can imagine the desperation she felt when her reviewers said, clean this thing up or you don't graduate!

Word is not a user-friendly program. I know it pretty well, but sometimes it is hard to figure out the quirks of a new template. There are a hundred styles in this thing. I picture bored academics sitting in offices drinking beer and gloating over their next creative ploy to make dissertators insane. And editors. Although I doubt if they are thinking of us. Me. No, they don't care.

They probably think they are making the formatting task easier for their dissertators. And if they knew what they were doing, I would say, right on. But it's just stupid to set a style to all caps and then assume the dissertator will figure out what to do when their page numbers suddenly appear in the Table of Contents in uppercase Roman numerals. I mean, I ask you. It's a travesty.

My brain is mush. I think there was some big game today? Did your team win? I hope you are fully recovered from whatever happened. I'd rather stay immersed in my resentment against Microsoft Word. It's easier to gripe than to see the news and be reminded that so many people around the world are suffering. 

Today as I walked along the bike path, enjoying the sun as I dodged the bikers, I thought about a crossroads moment in my young adult life. It was more than a moment, I guess. Maybe you could classify it as a three-year-long crossroads moment. I was in college (the first time around). It was around 1975 when my life forked into two distinct paths. One path headed toward the practical world of business, probably accounting (can you imagine?). The other path headed toward the mystical realm of art and creativity. It was never a real choice to me, but looking back, I wish someone had pointed out to me that I did have a choice. I didn't see it. I only saw one path, and so I took that path. 

It would not have taken a crystal ball to show me the possible outcomes of the two paths. One path would likely have led to a decent income, probably a house, a nice car, a growing bank account, and a retirement fund. In other words, wealth. The other path, the one I chose, has given me an interesting life of creativity, magical thinking, and constant struggle. 

Other crossroads presented themselves over the years. I took a few of them, in my quest to be a normal person. I went to school multiple times to reinvent myself. The editing skills I have now are a direct result of one of those detours. My detours have led me in some pointless directions, mostly because I let others persuade me it was the right choice. I wonder what sort of life I would have had if I'd ignored them, settled on one art form, and stuck to it. Painting, maybe. Or writing. I might have actually had a career. On the other hand, I wonder what my life would look like now had I chose to become an accountant. I can guess. Safe. Secure. Predictable. Now that I'm old and tired, it doesn't sound too bad.

I suppose it's not too late to look for another crossroad. As long as my brain still works, I'm probably employable somewhere. However, my best years, physically and mentally, are behind me. Barring a miracle, I fear my best earning time has come and gone. I should be living on my wealth now, and instead, I am still chasing the dream. Or it is still chasing me. 

Taking life at thinking speed

Today as I walked at thinking speed on the Huckelberry Loop, baking under 77°F sunshine, I reflected on the almost two years since I moved from Portland to Tucson. I realize now I had some expectations about what life would be like when I got here. For example, I thought I'd finally have time to write and publish. I thought I would be enjoying endless summer. I thought I'd have a cute little apartment somewhere, where my creativity could flourish, and I'd finally lose ten pounds and get into the best shape of my over-55 life.

Well. Some of those expectations did come true, but not in the way I'd hoped. For instance, I found that cute little apartment, but it turned out to be infested with roaches and located in a neighborhood prone to homicides. That nearly endless summer turned out to be a brutal phenomenon that could kill me. Nevertheless, my creativity did flourish. In spite of roaches, bullets, blazing hot sun, and drenching monsoon rains, I managed to crank out two books. It hasn't been all bad.

Thinking speed is the speed at which I don't have to pay attention to my swollen ankles and laboring lungs. Today I was thinking in particular about this past year, my first Medicare year. Before Medicare started, I remember being cranky that Medicare would start docking my tiny social security income, like, come on, Medicare, how did you expect me to live? I didn't think living itself might be in question. I mean, I knew I had high cholesterol, but I didn't know all the other things that turned out to be wrong with me. If I'd had a choice, would I rather have kept the money and eschewed Medicare? Would I rather not have known about the osteoporosis, the aortic stenosis, and the undiagnosed blood disorder? Possibly. 

In the space of one year, I went from being a healthy person to a person who could drop dead of a heart attack or stroke at any moment. Probably the only thing saving me from a real chest-clutcher is the fact that I haven't eaten red meat in twenty years. I thought I'd be able to gloat a little—look at me, the amazing vegetarian! Instead, I have earned a big fat fail. My so-called exemplary lifestyle (i.e., no meat, no processed food, no sugar, no alcohol, no cigarettes) has not earned me the coveted gold star of perfect health. It is starting to look like I missed out on some of the finer things in life, and I'm thinking specifically of the food groups I have avoided, mainly ice cream and potato chips. Mmm. Ice cream. Now I wish I'd pounded down a few more cheeseburgers and chocolate milkshakes. Well, it's not over til this fat lady drops dead. 

I don't feel like myself. I used to feel invincible, or as invincible as a slightly overweight, out-of-shape older gal can feel. If you subtract the vertigo, I was doing really well. So I thought. That is why this year has been such a shock. I used to be strong, and now I'm not. 

Realizing I am running out of road has changed the way I see myself. I'm not confident of my ability to do simple things, like climb a ladder, reach a high cupboard, or walk in a straight line without falling over. I can't trust my body anymore. 

Of course, I know everyone is one breath away from death, but it doesn't feel real when your heart is ticking along at an even pace, or when you don't worry about what will happen if you fall off the curb. It's some abstract unhappy fate that will happen sometime far in the future. 

Thanks for listening, Dr. Blog. I feel ashamed for whining about my tiny parched life. Many people have it much worse than I do. I'm just taking a long while to come to terms with my own mortality. 

I think my next road trip is going to help me with that. Instead of planning everything, I'm going to intentionally be a "pantser," that is, I'm going to travel by the seat of my pants. Instead of choosing my destination, I'm going to let the destination choose me. Over and over. I don't know if I can do it without panicking. I'm not used to the rock star roadie lifestyle, where you park in a different city every night. This is either going to kill me, or it's going to make me sick, and then it's going to kill me. 

The only interesting question is, how long before life kills me, and what will I do with that time?

You face the same question, too.