Not missing you, Sonoran desert

I know you are all wondering what happened with the medication. Let me get this out of the way. Good news. I presented my calculations (via the message portal) to the neurologist (her assistant, actually), and begged again for help (implying it's their damn fault I am running out of pills). I think it was the plaintive line that did the trick:  "I am far from home, and I need help." Who could ignore that? The prescription was forthcoming forthwith. It only took a long walk and a long train ride to get to a pharmacy in Boston's Back Bay (one of two pharmacies the neurologist had "in their system," whatever that means.) Lucky for me, I had an escort: My sister, is an expert navigator of Boston trains.

I am now in possession of a 30-day supply (supposedly; I didn't take the pills out and count them). So my head has calmed down, and I'm once again able to enjoy my endless roadtrip. 

After Boston, I went through New York state, Pennsylvania again (but a in Kentucky. Each state has a unique personality, I have discovered. Crossing a state line sometimes means southerly route this time), a bit of New Jersey (avoiding toll roads), a bit of Maryland, West Virginia, and now I'm crossing a river, but sometimes it's just an imaginary boundary. If not for the GPS Lady saying "Welcome to New Jersey," for instance, I wouldn't have known I left Pennsylvania. But after a few miles, I can tell I'm not in Kansas anymore. 

The one thing all the states on this trip have had in common is the extraordinary lush greenness of the land (with the exception of Indiana; I only saw the northern tip so it hardly counts). The decidous woodsy forests all along the highways are just starting to change colors. I'm sure the ocean of trees will be spectacular in a few weeks, but I'm from Oregon, I've seen a lot of leaves in all stages of decay, from glorious orange boughs to yellow blizzards to slushy mushy piles of gray muck in the gutters. It's fall. Been there done that. I admit, that is one thing I kind of like about the desert. Hardly any fallen leaves. Just those damn cactuses everywhere. 

I've seen wondrous things on the eastern leg of this journey. GPS Lady sent me on some backroads, where I passed dozens of old cemeteries dating from the 1700s. Around every bend was a farmhouse with a steep roof, some in the final throes of collapse. Some were newly built mansions cleverly designed to look old, perched on the crest of a hill where the landowner could survey his kingdom of cows and hay bales. Barns in all stages of decrepitude. Truckloads of cows who (I'm guessing) would rather live than be slaughtered. Roadkill so destroyed by a vehicle, it looked like someone dumped raw hamburger on the pavement, just for the hell of it. 

I've seen many wondrous things, and I am forever changed as a result. 

It was 114°F in Scottsdale a couple days ago. Desert, I'm not missing you, glad you aren't here. 

Running to stay still

As I'm driving over hill and down dale in the green farmlands and woodsy forests of the hinterlands, trying to avoid toll roads if at all possible, I have lots of time to ponder my next blogpost. By the time I map to some Walmart, Lowe's, or rest area approximately three hours from the previous Walmart, Lowe's, or rest area, I've forgotten all the content, even the parts I wrote in my head and spoke out loud. Such is the nature of the aging memory. All that biting humor and pithy wisdom, lost. Alas, alackaday. 

What you are left with is me in the moment, trying to remember what it felt like to keep calm with the grill of a huge pickup truck inches from my back bumper. I'm just grateful to be stationary for a while, especially because here in Catskill, NY, I have a choice between a Walmart Supercenter or a Lowe's, both with enormous empty parking lots on a Sunday afternoon. Clouds have covered the sun. What a relief. It's not easy living in a mobile greenhouse. 

I bought some concoction at Walmart that is supposed to take the odors out of my car. Ha. Now I know how they get that Motel 6 smell. It comes in a can. Even with only one tiny slit uncovered, the smell is overwhelming. One thing they don't tell you about van life on these YouTube channels: You will spend three times as much money as you need to (or should) living this life, because most of the things you buy to make your life easier will actually make your life harder. You can't pack your mistakes around with you. Into the trash they go.

I don't think I've complained recently about the condition of my vestibular system. That's because I've been cured. Well, almost cured. The antiseizure med the neurologist prescribed actually started working. For the past month, I can happily say I've felt normal. I should have mentioned it, I suppose, but since when do you go around shouting, hey I feel normal! Yay. Let's hear it for normality.

Well, the happy days have come to an end. When I started getting low on the pills, I emailed the doctor to ask for a refill. I received what I thought was an affirmative response and gave the doctor's assistant the contact info for the nearest pharmacy that would have me in their system (Westerville, OH). I drove two hours south of where I wanted to be to pick up my refill. When I got to the pharmacy, no prescription. I emailed the doctor. Help! Refill! Now! Eventually the assistant called me on the phone to say no, no refill would be forthcoming. The "90-day supply" should last me until I return to Tucson at "the end of the month." 

Begging availed me nothing. 

I went back to my car and counted the pills. Then I counted the days on my calendar. Then I looked at the pill bottle. Then I panicked. Then I calmed down. Then I panicked again. I started trying to do math in my head, which is never a good sign for me, especially in the middle of the night. It took a while, but I figured out I got shorted 81 pills. My so-called 90-day supply was really a 63-day supply. I don't think she calculated the period of time during which the dosage ramped up to three pills a day. Today I have eighteen pills left. That means if I taper off to one pill a day, I will run out on October 9.

After two days of taking only one pill a day, rather than three, I am feeling the vertigo symptoms increase. Somebody put quarters in the the washing machine in my head, and it wasn't me. Here we go again, back into the swampy mess. I hope my calculations will convince her to rethink her refill refusal. She's out of the office until Tuesday. Surely she will see the light when she sees the facts. Facts are so convincing, so reassuring, right? Everyone trusts facts, even if they don't trust anything else, right? I have a feeling the response will be no, and don't call me Shirley.

The grass is definitely greener

One thing about doing a lot of highway driving: You see a lot of roadkill. Given that roadkill has been in the news lately, I have a heightened awareness of the possibilities. For instance, when I see deer, should I think, hmm, venison? I expect wackjobs will screech to a stop and scoop the carcass into the trunk of their Dodge Ram pickup. However, I don't know what to think when I see what looks like the flattened remains of a fox, a raccoon, a possum, a skunk, and what I fear might have been a guinea pig. Hard to say. After time baking in the sun, you can't really tell what it was. But seeing a fawn on the verge with its legs frozen in air saddens me deeply. I will not drive at night, mostly because I can't see well in the dark, but also because I don't want to hit anything that would prefer to live. I don't want to eat them, either.

The wildfire smoke chased me all the way across Montana and North Dakota. I did my best to stay ahead of it, running in the yellow zone, hoping it would dissipate before the red blob caught up to me. I was going to stay in Fargo, but my lungs were burning. I checked the smoke map and saw the red blob directly on top of the blue dot, which was me. It's like I somehow had attracted my own little bubble of smoke. Is that even possible? Fargo, I hardly knew you. I moved on and hunkered down at a Home Depot in a place called Fergus Falls. It was an uneasy night. The last few employee cars departed at 1:00 a.m., leaving me all alone, feeling like a sitting duck. I didn't think I would sleep. I woke when it was still dark to find my car surrounded by the cars of the 5:00 a.m. day shift. More were arriving. They got the drop on me, for sure. 

Chagrined, I scrambled into my pants, shucked my window covers, and eased out of the parking lot. Then I looked at my gas gauge. Note to self: It's better to get gas in the evening rather than in the dark before dawn. I found a 24-hour gas station nearby, which means at that hour, the pumps are on but nobody's home. I don't mind pumping my gas (used to it, California, Arizona, etc.), but I don't like pumping gas under bright fluorescent lights all by myself in the dark. When the gas started flowing, the little TV screen lit up and a man started shouting. I almost jumped out of my skin, until I realized he was hawking the services of a local bank. Sitting duck, again. 

Luckily, the only people out and about in Fergus Falls were the dozen or so Home Depot employees showing up for work before dawn. I had the streets to myself. I hit the road. Fergus Falls, never again.

If you like rolling hills and fields of green grass, yellow grass, occasional corn fields, and herds of cattle and sheep grazing under hundred-foot-wide watering machines amid scattered copses of green trees, Montana and North Dakota are for you. Montana was a bit yellower than North Dakota, with more open land, but along I-94, all the land in both states seemed to have been tamed by tractor ploughs. The beauty I saw on that drive belies the hell I know is coming. Probably soon. Snow, wind, ice, all the stuff I am desperate to avoid. 

Minnesota is green, too. So is Wisconsin. I'm gobsmacked by how green everything is. I always thought Northwest Oregon was the greenest place I'd ever seen, but goes to show how little I've seen. Oregon grass turned a dusty yellow-brown in the summer because we don't get rain for two or three months, and we have the kind of grass that does that naturally. The grass grew increasingly greener as I moved east. Is that a word, greener? More green? In sum, this part of the country is nothing like I imagined. 

I met a friend in Minneapolis. She offered me a bed for the night. I declined. We all know house guests who show up out of the blue expecting hospitality are just plain rude. She put aside her plans for the evening to take me to dinner. That was a gift. I was happy to spend the night on a quiet side street. As daylight was breaking, I headed southeast toward Madison, Wisconsin . . . Why? Just because. Why not? I've never been to Wisconsin. One place is as good as any when you have no destination. All of this is just because—all the parking lots, rest areas, Walmarts, and gas stations. It's about the journey. I'm leading a just-because life now, because I can. You probably wish you could, too. 

Oh, in case you are thinking of heading to North Dakota, don't bother to get off I-94 to see the Enchanted Highway. These gargantuan iron sculptures are the clickbait (should I say drivebait?) of an eccentric rural artist, designed to entice you to go an hour out of your way on a narrow windy road through a patchwork of green and brown fields, and you thinking, just over the next hill, just around the next bend, art, where is the damn art! I followed my blue dot on GPS out into the middle of bumfart nowhere. When my blue dot passed the spot of a supposed sculpture, with miles to the next art site, I realized I'd been conned. I turned around and called it a bust. I saw two sculptures. People I've asked said don't bother with Mt. Rushmore. I can now say the same thing about the Enchanted Highway.

I've learned that the best way to get a feel for a place is to GPS to the Walmart. Sleeping at rest stops might be more restful than bunking down on city streets or in Home Depot parking lots, but rest stops tell me nothing about the local area. I'm learning. Tomorrow I'm on my way to a town called Evanston, just north of Chicago. I have a friend there, who might be able to take time out of her busy morning to meet me for coffee. 

Outer solar system or bust

When I was an adolescent, I shared a room with my sister. A large black fly got in through the window and hung around. We named it Fred. Fred was big and slow, and he didn't make a mess. Fred was a perfect pet. One day our father visited us in our room after work. He was still wearing his senior trooper uniform and tall boots. Fred made the mistake of flying by, and our father clapped his hands. In a moment, Fred was flattened. 

"Dad, that was Fred!" we cried. Dad looked both surprised and sheepish. He probably thought he was doing us a favor. I don't recall if we had a funeral. I'll have to ask my sister. If she's still talking to me.

Despite misgivings from family, I'm firmly committed to continuing my epic roadtrip. After Portland, I headed east and then I turned north, hoping to avoid the heat wave that was coming to the west. I passed through Spokane and then crossed the border into Idaho. I spent the night in Coeur d' Alene. After the artsy energy of Spokane, Coeur d'Alene felt lacking for some reason, or maybe it was just the uneasy night I spent alone in a Fred Meyer parking lot. In any case, I didn't feel a connection to that city, so onward I went. I crossed the Idaho panhandle, winding through spectacular forests, thinking, oh boy, one tossed cigarette and we are literally toast. Note to self: avoid living in a fire zone. And on a flood plain. And while you are making a list, try to avoid earthquake fault lines, tsunami zones, tornado alley, and gulf coast hurricanes. I guess that leaves Corvallis.  

I made it as far as Missoula, MT, before the wildfire smoke in western Montana caught up with me. I checked the smoke map and saw that I was caught in a eastward drifting plume. I liked Missoula. Charming college town. I'd never live there in the winter, not being a cold weather person, but in the summer, it would be a great retreat from the Arizona heat. I would have stayed longer if not for the smoke. After two days, I left Missoula and kept going east, hoping to outrun the smoke plume, if not the heat. 

I found a place to park in Bozeman that felt pretty good. In the morning, smoke obscured the view of the mountains. My lungs and eyes were burning. I had planned to stay another night, but I was more interested in breathing, so I filled up the gas tank and hit the road, thinking, Billings, maybe Billings. 

The smoke map showed Billings on the edge of the smoke plume. Argh. I'd asked the long-suffering GPS lady to lead me to a mall, and she delivered. I parked in the lot outside the main entrance and checked the smoke map. I could have gone indoors and breathed fresh air-conditioned air along with a thousand other pairs of lungs. But what about after the mall closed? Where would I go? Assuming I wanted to avoid spending $150 on a motel room. 

It didn't take long to figure out Billings was not going to be safe, so I got more gas and resumed my route on 94 east. A few hours later, I fetched up in Miles City, Montana. The sky was clear when I got here at about 1:00. The temperature was a toasty 92°F, hotter than the Oregon coast, but not as hot as Phoenix. 

Now I'm sitting on a side street around the corner from Walmart, parked in the shade, waiting for the sun to go down, and wondering if I could get in trouble for transporting flies across state lines. 

Yes, I've unintentionally picked up a few winged hitchhikers on my journey. Usually my windows are closed when I'm driving to avoid losing my nice cool AC air. However, when I stop, when it's hot, I have to open the windows or run the risk of melting in my own juices. Right now my door is open and I've given up the fight. I've been overrun by flies. Not biting flies, not giant cluster flies, not slow and lazy flies. Just zippy little dudes curious to see what new smells and tastes have come into their territory. Yum! I have given up trying to shoot them with my only weapon:  a little plastic spray bottle of 70% rubbing alcohol. They seem impervious, and I'm almost out of ammo. It's hard to type with flies crawling on my arm and dive bombing my head. I don't know why I think my life is more important than theirs, but I'd still like to murder them. Sadly, they outnumber me, and they are fast. If only I had wings. Or some better ammo. 

Speaking of wings, I'm on my epic roadtrip, as I mentioned, and it seems some of my family aren't exactly happy with my bid for freedom. My theory is that they are envious because I'm free to travel and they are not. I'm trying not to let their fear and criticism stop me from enjoying my adventure. I imagine a rubberband stretched between me and the west coast. The further I push eastward, the tighter the band stretches. 

"Why don't you go back to Oregon?" family said.

I said, "What's in Oregon?"

"What if you get sick? What if you break down?"

"Medicare and road side assistance," I replied.

"What do you want?" they said. "What are you running away from?"

Those questions flummoxed me, so I consulted a friend to help. "Adventure and nothing," she texted.

I got back on the other text thread. "Adventure and nothing," I typed into the text window.

After some more back and forth during which I felt the box around me tightening, I finally texted, "Why don't you want me to have my adventure?"

After a few beats, the message came back: "Go, have your adventure! Have fun!" The subtext, I think, if I'm reading the faint smudges between the lines correctly is, go, have your adventure, even though I'm stuck here. Go, have fun, even though I'm not having any. 

I almost caved. I almost turned around, partly to assuage the fears of family, and partly because the smoke was getting to me. I started getting scared. Even though I know only the courageous cross the Continental Divide, doubt and fear cluttered my mind. 

Then I thought, when am I ever going to have another chance like this? If not now, when? I didn't get my adventure when my family member got theirs, gallivanting overseas. Did I worry? Of course! But I never said, don't go, better go back to Oregon where it's safe. I spent five increasingly intense years taking care of our mother. Five years during which I was blissfully unaware of all the physical maladies that would soon plague me. (Well, except for the vertigo, which started in 2015, but certainly all my other infirmities weren't yet on my radar.) 

Let's face it, sooner or later, if we live long enough, we become the primary adult caregivers in our own lives. I feel old age breathing down my neck. Decrepitude, dementia, and broken hips are just around the corner. Soon I won't be able to attempt a journey like this one. So, let the adventure continue! Next stop: outer solar system, or the Enchanted Highway, whichever comes first!

Finding myself in the now

One thing I've disccovered about living in a car is that my environment requires me to be present in the moment. Being present has never been my preference. In fact, I've gone to great lengths to avoid being present. For many years, I was a bystander in my own life. Back then, I didn't realize how great I had it—I was born in the right place (the U.S.) in the right time (the late 1950s) to loving if mostly out-to-lunch parents. I went to a mediocre public school, learned right from wrong (although I frequently chose wrong), and I had the right color skin (pale, prone to freckles). I was lucky on so many levels, but all I could see was what I lacked. In my self-centered distress, I did whatever I could to check out. 

Now, living in my car, I can't check out of anything. That is a byproduct of mobile living. I drive a lot. Checking out while I'm driving is not wise. About fifteen years ago, I had a dissociative episode while driving at night in rainy fog, and it freaked me out, but good. I did not know if I was driving a car or snuggled at home in bed. I wasn't sure I was conscious. I was not even sure I existed. I made it to the Christmas party, but that experience left a mark. Now I make sure I am parked before dark. 

Now-ness is physical. I am reminded of the physicality of my existence every time I pee in a jar or poop in a plastic bag. There is no handle to flush away the bioreality of my disgustingly repetitious human systems. I live in a perpetual hazmat zone. 

Preparing food is a Tetris game. There isn't enough room in this small space to lay out everything I need all at once. To use that thing, I have to move this thing. Everything happens on the bed, well, I think of it as a couch. The dry things come out of ziploc bags. Those must be stowed in their cubby before I can add the wet things. Adding blueberries is easy. Apples are a little more complicated, requiring a chopping board and a knife. Everything has a place, and everything has to go back in its place the moment I'm done with it, otherwise I will cave under a tsunami of stuff. The things that don't have places clutter up the aisle. I hate that. I'm gradually paring my possessions down to essentials, like a hiker packing to trek the PCT. 

On the bright side, I'm learning the beauty of now. I think it's hilarious. Now-ness is the temple of meditators, not of senior nomads like me. Well, I should speak for myself. It could be that all other senior nomads spend an hour meditating on their yoga rug before they hit the road. Not me. When I wake up, usually it's time to beat it, before some homeowner looks out their window and says, honey, that van is still there, do you think we should call the police? Sometimes I sleep at stores that allow overnight parking. I don't like the feeling of waking up to find my car surrounded by employee cars. I feel like a lazy bum. They are all in there working before dawn has cracked, and here I am rolled up in my blankets like a mole in a burrow, hidden (I hope) behind my homemade window covers. 

But this is where I am, in the now. It's confounding to be this present. I'm coping the way I always have, by pretending I'm not here, this isn't me, it's someone else living this bizarre life, dealing with the fallout of the structural shortage of affordable housing. 

The apartment manager I talked to last week said she was in the same boat. 

"I'm getting old," she said. "Sooner or later, I'll have to stop working. My apartment comes with this job. Where will I go then?"

"They need to build more affordable housing," I said. 

"They never will," she said. "They don't care about people like us. We don't matter."

I left feeling somewhat vindicated that I am not the only Debby Downer in the world, but also thinking, crap, I could be living in my car for a long time before my name bubbles to the top of a wait list somewhere. 

So, let me channel the optimist in me: I have a working car that should last a while (having spent $2,400 last week to make sure), I have money in the bank, and I have few obligations. I don't know how you would interpret these three facters, but to me, they all add up to one thing: road trip!