Living life on the floor

I have one small victory to report. With a little help from my friend, I managed to replace the support struts on my minivan's liftgate without braining either one of us. It's always great when DIY car repairs don't kill or maim anyone. There's enough killing and maiming going on in the world without my car adding to the carnage. In addition to the satisfaction of accomplishing one thing on my endless list of tasks, I saved quite a bit of money. I would have saved even more money if I hadn't had to go to the dealer for a replacement bolt that sheared off when I was about to embark upon my camping trip to Flagstaff. Remember that? That was a fun morning. Not. 

But now the liftgate is working, which is more than I can say for my right butt muscle. I have a severe hitch in my gitalong. In other words, I can barely walk. The pain is excruciating, radiating from a knot in my gluteus . . . I want to say maximus, but I don't actually know. I've stared at the anatomy drawings and all I see is a mushy red version of Autopia, with roads of muscle overpasses and underpasses and the whole thing looks like the Santa Monica Freeway in rush hour. 

I chalked up the pain to arthritis, and I'm probably diagnosing myself correctly, considering my mother had a hip replacement and my brother somehow managed to dislocate his hip while stretching in his sleep. Ouch. Mom got a metal shank in her shanksmare, and my brother got a new ball and socket. Thus, it wouldn't surprise me if my turn was coming soon, even though I'm just barely sixty-seven. This is not the kind of precociousness I admire. 

Anyway, I got to thinking as I was stumbling around my room with my mother's cane, which she never used, having leaped straight over the cane to a metal wheeled walker, figuratively speaking. This pain does not seem to emanate from the actual hip ball and socket joint. I have been consulting with Dr. Google and it won't surprise you to know I now have multiple diagnoses, ranging from benign to dire. Dr. WebMD was equally creative. What did we do before internet doctors, I ask you! Go to real doctors? Ick.

I refuse to quit going out for my evening constitution around the mobile home park, despite the fact that every step burns and despite the fact that the vestibular spasms put me off balance as the waves sweep through my head every thirty seconds. I know I'm a broken hip waiting to happen, but that doesn't stop me. This evening my walk took on a meditative tone as I placed my feet carefully on the uneven asphalt. I would not have seen a snake or javelina or coyote until I was right on top of them, I was so intent on watching my feet. Besides managing the pain, I was determined to follow the directions of my favorite YouTube physical therapist. Apparently, my gait is partly to blame for hip flareups. 

For instance, he advised me to walk with my toes slightly splayed. In my adolescence, I preferred to appear somewhat pigeon-toed, thinking that made me look more like Twiggy. I'm not pigeon-toed now, although I currently walk like a drunken sailor so there's no telling where my feet could end up. But tonight I really tried to turn out my toes, especially my right foot, while I minced along the road with my shortened stride. I'm not sure, but turning out my toes seemed to ease the pain somewhat. I had my head down, so I couldn't tell if people were watching me through their windows and wondering why I was walking like a duck.

More important than the splayed toes, the PT said I should pay close attention to my glutes. Specifically, I should squeeze them alternately while I'm taking each step. Left, squeeze, right, squeeze, so that the muscles support the inflamed hip. Well, I quickly found out I no longer have anything resembling muscles in my butt. My butt is flat as a board (but not as hard as a board, sadly), so there's nothing there to squeeze. I did manage to coax a little you want me to do wha—? from my left glute, but my right glute was MIA, nowhere to be seen. Just a floppy pile of jello. Now I can truly claim to be half-assed. Ha. 

I made it home and collapsed on my foam rubber bed. My mind wandered into the past, as it is wont to do when I'm trying to figure out a medical mystery, and it occurred to me that I have felt something similar before. Not exactly the same, but similarly immobilizing in the buttocks region. Back then, I was both post-menopausal and vegan, which is not a combination I would recommend, but there I was, trying to maintain muscles on little more than soymilk and tofu. Plus, I was jogging almost daily, trying to tighten up my loose quads. It's no wonder my back and leg gave out. My muscles had atrophied from lack of adequate nutrition. That painful time led me to Dr. Tony, the wacko naturopath, which was another painful time, mainly in a financial sense. He flummoxed me with mumbo-jumbo, but he probably saved my life by telling me I'd better get more protein or else head south with the geese. 

Now I'm going to do that thing that doctors hate so much and diagnose myself. Why not? I did it before with the vestibular issue, and they are starting to get on board, so why not diagnose my butt? Here's what I think. I don't think it's hip arthritis creating this stabbing burning pain. It's either a nerve problem or a muscle problem, brought on by sitting for extended periods of time on a $11.00 IKEA plastic folding chair in front of my laptop, which is sitting on a $17.00 Walmart wooden folding table that is just about two inches too tall for the height of the chair. It could be that lack of protein is playing a role, considering I don't get much these days and I'm not willing to eat animal flesh just yet. However, I think the precipitating trigger was my chair and table setup. The writing life is killing me.

That is why at this moment, I am sitting on the bed with the laptop on my lap, like any sensible sendentary computer user would do. My bed is on the floor, and now my desk is on the floor too. Maybe my hips will loosen up a little and enjoy life if I give them the job of getting up and down off the floor twenty or thirty times a day. Like they have a choice. I can always crawl to the bathroom if I have to. It's not very far. 

The annoying choice between safe and happy

I had a birthday this week. To celebrate, I treated myself to the trifecta. I don't mean I went horse racing. I mean, I sidled on down to my pharmacy and got the COVID-19 booster in my right arm and the flu and RSV shots in my left arm. Then I went home and descended into the misery I so righteously sought and deserved. I can hear what you are saying right now. Just because your friend E got all three and bounced back like a Bobo Doll doesn't mean you can do the same. E is six years your junior! Come on, Carol. Get real!

Clearly, even at this ripe stinky old age, I still have a lot to prove. 

What did I prove? I am a superhero. After a day and night of fairly intense suffering (it's all relative, isn't it?), I emerged stronger, straighter (in a postural sense), and buoyed with optimism. Invincible is how I feel. Confident enough to keep my tube of Preparation H in the same jar as my Crest Cavity Protection. That's pretty darn cocky for someone on the glaucoma watch list.

As is normal for a chronic malcontent, my unearned sense of optimism wore off fast. Now I'm back to my usual gloomy self. The alarm clock in my head relentlessly chimes once or twice per minute of every waking hour. I can't say for sure what happens after I finally fall asleep, but judging by the amount of time I spend awake and staring out the bathroom window at the stars, I'm guessing the alarm rings while I'm sleeping, too. During the day, like for instance, right now while I'm typing, I can tune it out. But when I'm lying on my foam rubber mattress on the floor, the noise in my head is deafening. I wish I were deaf, but I have a feeling this kind of sound is the kind you hear through your eight cranial nerve. Sort of like the way trash truck noises travel through the floor of the trailer at 4:00 a.m. and permeate my bones. Oh, the humanity.

It's so fun to hear other people express righteous anger on my behalf. I have to remind myself, though, that they might possibly be right. I'd rather not consider that possibility. Some of their suggestions are downright annoying. For example, people give me suggestions (advice) on everything from eating to dressing to finding a home to managing my healthcare. Some of it I've heard since I was a kid, so it's easy to tune it out—get a job, wear a bra, grow your hair, learn to type, draw flowers and fairies. Lately, I've been told to apply for senior housing, move closer to family, put my art on t-shirts, be more assertive, sell on BookTok . . . The list goes on and on. I suppose I do the same to them, so I fair's fair.

I usually fall into the trap of trying to defend myself and justify my choices. Later I berate myself for once again falling into the trap of trying to defend myself and justify my choices. It's futile, yet I still slip and fall right in. More like I dive in headfirst. I'm self-trained to defend first and self-berate later. And of course, because I live in constant doubt, I wonder, are they right? Is the problem that my hair is too short? Or I don't eat the flesh of dead creatures who would prefer to still be living? Or that I should just accept where I am, even though I don't like this town, and focus on being safe, forget about being happy? 

I've done so many things wrong in my life, it's easy to nod and say, you're right, I'm sure you are right. Everything would be different if I just put on a bra once in a while. Or stopped picking my teeth with toothpicks. Or yelled at my doctors instead of sucking it up and whining to any friend who will listen. 

In the end, with all the noise in my head, I can't hear my own voice among the voices of all my well-meaning advisors, mentors, and fixers. How much of my predicament is the product of a lifetime of thoughtless choices, and how much is attributable to a structural problem in the U.S. affordable housing market? I read an article today about someone who works in Los Angeles but has to live 100 miles away to find affordable housing. That's a 2- to 3-hour commute! I did not create this housing shortage. Neither did I create the fiasco that is the U.S. healthcare system. I just happen to be caught up in the vortex of ill health, age, poverty, inadequate housing, and a deep desire to rest in silence. 

A good friend's mother is dying. Another friend just found love for the first time in many years. The refrigerator is working. My check engine light went out. My sister's cat finally pooped after days of constipation. Lives are cut short from war, earthquakes, sea-level rise, gun violence, and COVID-19. The world is busy. I want to be busy, too, writing. I don't need much to do that. Maybe I can find my own version of Walden Pond. Is it out there? I won't know unless I go look. One thing I am sure of. It is not here.

Fear of freedom

During the several years I was waiting for my mother to die, I daydreamed about what life would be like when I was finally "free." Free of obligation, free to come and go, free to pick up and leave, free to say no. I had contingency plans for contingency plans, trying to manage and control how it would all go down. Of course, that is always a futile quest, but it relieved my anxiety to plan in excruciating detail for the day when I would finally be free, when I could pack up my meager belongings, and drive away from all my problems.

Well, wherever we go, there we are, so you probably aren't surprised to hear that all my problems came along with me, dragging behind my minivan like a scuzzy half-deflated parachute. I thought Tucson would be a place where my creativity could finally flourish. Find a little apartment, enjoy the endless summer, and make good use of my time to write and volunteer . . . perfect, a lovely idyllic dream. 

Tucson didn't turn out to be paradise. You've heard it all before, so I won't bore you with the recap. You remember it all much better than I do, I'm sure. I have to write it out all over again just to remember it, as if I'm watching someone else's biopic. Suffice it to say, rents are too high, summer is sizzling, and after two years, my inner ears have still not settled. This week the ENT admitted she hasn't a clue, which means she thinks I'm crazy. 

Two friends I've recently met in real life (who do not know each other) have looked at me with envy, saying things like "You could go anywhere, you could do anything, you're free." These are friends who have some or all of the elements of modern life: money, family, property, obligations, routines, and commitments. They are not free, or they don't perceive they are free. They have security, safety, resources, a home, and they feel trapped. They would trade all that for freedom. So they say. I wonder how the stars in their eyes might dim the first time they had to poop in a bucket. 

I felt trapped while I was waiting for Mom to die. And let me just say, I didn't want her to die. I wanted her to be my mother forever, because I never grew up, and I still could really use a mother. However, the hungry baby bird she turned into toward the end needed a lot of care and feeding. I knew the moment would come eventually. She was 91 when she finally kicked off. But she could have lived to 100. I would have been there, right to the end, no matter what, still dreaming of freedom and planning my escape.

Be careful what you wish for. In my irritable chafed wizened life, I didn't really imagine that unlimited freedom could have a downside. I just wanted out. Maybe if I had unlimited resources, total big-ass freedom would be heaven. Maybe someday I'll find out. In this incarnation, however, my freedom is not absolute. I have three big constraints: my health, my car, and my bank account. It's the king hell bummer trifecta of puny-ass freedom. Poor man's freedom. Freedom to drive as long as there is gas in the car and I remember to take my blood pressure pills.

In Tucson, I traded my freedom for a series of ledges on which I could wipe my brow and catch my breath. I fought off roaches and ducked bullets at the Bat Cave. Now I hunker inside a safe but stultifying gated community and dream of my next launch into the stratosphere. At this time I have no ledge to land on. All I know is, I'm headed west. As I my heart pounds and my ear crackles, I am organizing my few possessions. I'm breathing each moment, ignoring the washing machine in my head, wishing I had half the energy of my dynamo housemate, and wondering what the hell I am doing.

I just got off the phone with a friend. Maybe a ledge in the San Fernando Valley has found me, I don't know. More to be revealed. I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile, I whine, but I'm getting things done. I pulled up my britches and bought my own ISBNs. I learned how to format an epub book (for the second time) and uploaded it to a place where librarians might see it. I paid cash for two crowns (and had them installed). I defeated the check engine light with a bottle of mechanic in a can. I walked two miles without falling down once. I started my taxes. I ignored the one inch of snow and celebrated the return of 70F and blue sky. Life happens in the moment, I know. I have to stop trying to run ahead, but old habits die hard.

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. 

Visualize a perfect life

Howdy Blogbots. Sorry to keep you waiting. I usually post on Sunday evenings, but last night I had a deadline on a work project. I'm trying to catch up today, but the Universe seems to be conspiring to send me back to bed. The morning temperature was below 60°F, which, if you know me, is not in my optimal operating range. My preferred temperature range is 85°F to 95°F. I went out to hunt and gather wearing fleece. One of my neighbors was standing out in the sun waiting for the Sunvan in Bermuda shorts and a no-sleeved blouse. With my hat, mittens, and fleece jacket, I felt like an alien desert Eskimo. She said hello anyway, which I thought was nice. I managed to persevere and get my shopping done for the week. I really dislike shopping, especially when it is cold. 

Shortly after returning to the Trailer of Creative Minds, I was on a What's App call to a friend and the internet went out. Our connection froze and then disappeared. I thought, oh, no, her internet went out. I went over to my laptop to check my email. I was shocked to see the dreaded notice: No internet connection. Oh, no, my internet was out! Lately, it is happening almost daily. Every time it happens I am reminded that I am an addict. Curse you, Universe! I started to Google how to live without the internet and then remembered I had no internet. I took out the recycling to break the broken brain loop. 

The air pressure ebbs and flows like ocean waves here in the desert. The air breathes, and as it breathes, it takes my inner ear along for the ride, up and down, up and down. I usually notice the moments of relative calm after they are over and I'm back in the rocking boat. Then I realize as I'm holding onto walls and chairs, hey, yesterday actually wasn't too bad. I was able to work without the washing machine in my head constantly running on spin cycle.

I don't know for sure if there is a geographical location that might have steadier air pressure, or if being in such a place will actually make a difference for my head, but the only way I will know is if I go look, as my intrepid housemate points out to me. E is undaunted by the challenges of nomadic living. I'm calling it car camping to lessen my fear. Moving at the speed of light, E sees the adventure in overcoming challenges. Life is a puzzle to be solved. Moving at the speed of an erratic heartbeat, I see only my own fears. Life is a spin cycle to be endured.

As my aging body is starting to betray me, I begin to understand why people resort to magical solutions for illnesses. Visualize perfect health! If a dose of licorice is good for what ails me, then certainly cutting that dose into a fraction of the original dose and putting it into a tiny white pill would have to have more power. Right? The remedy doesn't stand up to reason, but it is so tempting to believe in the miracle when a pushy naturopath is saying trust me, it works. (Curse you, Dr. Tony!)

It is so hard to think sometimes with this hissing snake in my ear. I wonder what it is trying to tell me. Probably something like give up, go back to bed. 

I am not a quitter. Maybe I hang on too long sometimes, clinging long past the sell-by date—jobs, relationships, cities, cars. It's what I do, I guess. Drive it all until it drops in a rusty heap. You can learn some interesting things about the power of stick-to-it-ness when you simply refuse to lay down and give up. I complain a lot, as you know. I'm chronically malcontented, after all. But I still get a lot done, for a self-professed pessimist, and I still keep showing up for life, acting as if I were an optimist. Sometimes it actually works.