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.  

 

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. 

A talkative passenger gets the Chronic Malcontent thinking

Thinking is something I do a lot of, maybe too much of, considering that thoughts don't necessarily lead to action. Maybe you have figured out how to think and make things happen—think and grow rich? Think and get happy? Think and create success? If so, I applaud you, you dynamic thinker, you. For me, thinking is a convenient way to avoid doing stuff. It's so much easier to think (dream, ponder, ruminate) than it is to take action.

Consider the ritual of setting our clocks back one hour in the fall, such a colossally arrogant manipulation of our ridiculous human perception of time. Wait, what? Sounds like I still haven't caught up on my sleep. The cat, of course, did not set his clock, being a creature of earth rotation, so he's been on me all week at the hint of dawn, not my best time.

This year, I celebrated the clock-changing ritual by flipping my mattress, changing my sheets, and vacuuming the rugs. I like to do that twice a year. No need to be overly ambitious, especially when it comes to vacuuming. Dust mites have to live too, you know. I try to welcome all god's creatures.

My right leg has been falling asleep when I sit at my kitchen table. I looked it up: leg falls asleep while sitting. Lots of exciting possibilities. (How did we survive before Google?) Thanks to multiple web authors of dubious repute, I'm having one long continuous stroke, I've got a pinched nerve (not sure what that is), or I'm enjoying some sciatica.

I attended an event in Salem last weekend. Salem is an hour drive south of Portland. I attend this event every year. I look forward to the hypnotic drive down I-5 to our state's capital. The drive there and back is better than the event itself, mainly because I get to be alone and out of my house. This year, a member of the group texted me to ask if she could ride with me. Caught off guard, I discarded my first thought (no fricking way, eew) and texted back, okay. She gave me her address, which I recognized as being in the heart of what we for many years have disparagingly called Skid Row, long before our entire city has become one heartbreaking Skid Row of houseless, homeless, sad, cold, tired, hungry, messed up people.

“Just cross the Burnside Bridge and turn right,” she texted.

“I'll pick you up at 8:30,” I responded, wondering if I would be able to walk by the time I arrived in Salem.

Despite the fact that the Burnside Bridge was closed for repairs that weekend, I managed to be ten minutes early, because besides being chronically malcontented, I am chronically early. I sat outside a decrepit apartment building in the loading zone, watching men and women shuffle by with backpacks and shopping carts. I perused their attire and demeanor. I saw their social interactions. I'm learning through observation—in my precarious world, homelessness is always lurking around the corner. I'm lucky, though: I have a car.

Eventually, my passenger appeared. Let's call her Lee. Lee hopped into my car and off we went.

From the time we left her door until the time we arrived at the event venue, Lee talked incessantly. I found out she is a poet. She works as a caregiver for an obese woman, often taking her client to the opera. She told me things I would never have dreamed of asking, stories of childhood trauma and abandonment. She shared about unsuccessful marriages and relationships. I heard about her mother, her father, her siblings, and the siblings from her father's multiple extramarital escapades, some of whom she'd recently met.

I kept my eyes on the road, nodding occasionally, grunting a few times, reluctant to say anything substantive. Lee didn't mind. In fact, I don't think she noticed.  The angst in her voice began to grate on my nerves. It took me a while to figure out that she is drama junkie. I cannot match that level of excitement. By the time we reached the event venue, I was thoroughly blockaded behind my personal bubble, determined to ignore her as much as possible during the day until it was time to make the return trek to Portland.

At 4:30, we were on the road home. I was hoping she would be tired, inclined to doze off, maybe, but no, she seemed as energetic as ever. At one point, Lee said, “I know I talk a lot.”

I took the opening. “Are you afraid of silence? Some people don't like too much silence.”

She was silent for a couple breaths. I thought, oh, yay, is she going to finally shut up? Then, oh yay, did I insult her enough to get her to shut up? Less than twenty seconds later, she said, “I wanted to show you that I was thinking about your question.” Oh, no. Thinking too much traps even drama junkie poets. No one is immune to thinking overload. I can claim no superiority: There's nothing special about me falling into the thinking sinkhole.

A less self-obsessed person would have realized my passive aggressive question was really a cry for relief, a desperate plea for silence. I'm the fool. It wasn't worth the battle. I dropped my passenger at her front door, avoided the hugging ritual, and said I'd see her around. I drove slowly home to feed my hungry angry lonely cat.

An hour later, I dragged myself to my mother's and collapsed on her couch.

“What's wrong with you?” she said. “You look beat.”

I told my mother about my passenger from hell. “She never shut up,” I moaned. “She kept staring at me while I was driving. The entire time, she stared at me. And she kept leaning over and tapping me on the arm.”

“Oh, I hate that,” my mother commiserated, and just like that, I felt the heaviness lift. After all these years, a kind word from Mom takes all the pain away.