Literary Rhetoric and The Guy with the Flags

Everyone needs an airport ground crew and air plane staff in their lives. (“Air plane staff” is not right… What do you call the group of people who work on a plane? Don’t answer that because I know there is an answer but I have been reading entire books on Irony and books like “The Act of Reading” which actually deconstructs what we do when we read… a whole book! Like, you know when you sit down to read and you string the words together… A whole book is written about that. So my brain can literally take in no new information. Even if you told me as a favor, I am so angry at the book about reading and the B+’s I am still getting despite all the reading, I would be rude about it. Just the other day I was rude to one of my best friends. It is indiscriminate though; I also decided it was fine to insult all redheads as well. I guess for a moment I thought it was okay because I live with two redheads. But this is like producing misogynistic music and saying it’s okay because you know a woman. It still doesn’t make sense though, because normally I try not to insult anybody… I blame the reading book. Any text that puts so much effort into making your mind feel like scrambled eggs should be banned, or at least sit unread on your shelf, making you look smart. Anyway, I severely digress.)

          Back to the airline people: everybody needs them but there would have to be lots of them because they have to be specific to each person’s needs, on a case by case basis. For instance, I would specifically need people who fly me where I want to go and people to bring me tiny food whenever I want it. You may be thinking, I just want to be rich… and you would be right but my needs are very specific. I need to see my family whenever I want to. But also my metabolism runs roughly at the pace of an alarm clock: slowly ticking over one minute at a time… reliable enough to keep my heart beating but if I eat anything bigger than tiny prepackaged plastic food it freaks out and gains twenty pounds. It’s afraid I will soon be participating in a famine. However, what I really need is people driving my stuff around in tiny little cars with miniature little trailers behind them. You know the one’s with the cool spinny wheels so they can get in and out of tight spots. (It would be cool if they could also get you out of a metaphorical tight spot as well… I find myself in these way too often and it would be nice if they could drive you out of these too. But it would be hard to drive someone out of a metaphor... maybe in the future when we finally have flying cars.) Because I live forty minutes from the town where I spend the majority of my time, I have to take all of the things I may or may not need with me. Which is fine, until late one night in the library, I meet a lovely tiny lady in the elevator. We have a friendly impromptu conversation about how I am failing at life. (I am doing this everywhere so the conversation is not unique but the stranger partaking in it is… normally people just cut me off after the third time I beg them to understand how horrible it is that I am getting B’s in my Master’s class.) She is lovely but when she exits she says “oh, it’s raining…” and tries to make her small body smaller against the wind and rain. I offer her a ride but then must clear a space for her by moving the sixteen books (including the stupid book about reading) off the front seat, the cooler with bottled water (in case tap water is attempting to kill me… this is real - don’t judge me) the yoga mat, see this post. The pre-yoga clothes, the soaking wet post-yoga towel, the computer, the computer cord… Meanwhile, she says, “I could just sit in the back…” not realizing the back is covered in seven winter coats (yes, there are only three people in my family but I get cold! Not like “oh I’m a bit chilly…” it’s more like: “Oh my body uses energy to produce cold instead of heat …” Like a fridge; so they need one each and I may need to borrow their back up coat at any moment.)

This is why I want that guy in his tiny spinny car. He could follow me around and help me carry things.

          If I can’t have the guy in the tiny car, I at least need one of those guys with the flags that help the pilots park the plane. (Again I am sure they have a title but I have done too much research in the last two weeks and I am tired of finding meanings and spelling of words I should know - but don’t - IT MAKES ME FEEL STUPID!) Anyway, I want one of those guys because, over the last few weeks, Alan and I have had way too many “brilliant ideas” that needed to be waved off with a big X or even two flags shooing us to the left or right.

          First, Alan decided we should buy a house. These may seem like normal words to all of you reading it. They may even seem like they are in the right order. But ever since we owned a downtown apartment and went bankrupt and subsequently fled the country, (if a law enforcement agent reads this, we didn’t really flee the country, treat this as metaphor you literalist bastard - sorry that anger may be misdirected from the book about reading…), we are completely scared of houses. Now when we look at houses online we say, OOHH and AHHH appropriately and then we are mad at each other for at least two weeks, fighting over things like. “You are trying to torture me by telling me the electric blanket is on and then making me get into a cold bed.” (Remember, I feel like I live in a fridge most of the time.) Or this may just be me… but Alan is worse. He just sits in his room in the dark listening to rap music for two weeks and I accuse him of torturing me from the hallway. This is what happens to our psyche when we think about owing the bank money.

          But this time we didn’t get depressed right away. Which was strange. So he went to an actual bank to try and figure out what all the money things actually meant. (Not the bank we would use but another bank because I convinced him to go get all of our stupid questions out of the way before we went and saw the people we were going to actually ask for a loan. He said this was unnecessary and that we could just ask the loan people. But I told him they would laugh at us and then not give us a loan. I won this argument… with him rolling his eyes and sighing.) So, while I spent endless hours on the phone and doing math calculation that I am not good at, Alan went and asked questions which he is not good at. He asked things like, “can we have more money so we can make the house look like we want it to look?” As I clearly predicted she laughed at him and said, “No. Why don’t you just buy a house that looks the way you want it to look?” Then we went and saw the house again and realized it might fall down soon. Since we can’t even fix the safety chain on our door (please don’t see this as an invitation to rob us, think of it as metaphor) we thought we would be unqualified to fix a house that had fallen down. In this case, I needed the guy with the flags to make a big X. Perhaps he could live close by, in a little apartment. Then, when Al comes home and says we should buy this cute little house, flag guy could run in, blow a whistle and make an X with the flags. He wouldn’t even have to explain why he came bursting into our house; we would just know that he was there for our own good.

          Next, I decided I needed a job. Because of all the above mentioned reasons, I want money. Now you would think the people in my life would have said, “Hey, you just started walking again maybe you should hold off on the job thing for a while…” and by “people” I mean Alan. You should definitely blame him. He encouraged me to get the job and even talked to the manager for me. (Secretly, you should not blame him because I played the “I miss my family card” and I should be very careful when I use it because I get whatever I want when I play that card). I sold myself in the interview because I am (or was) a rock star nurse. And of course they hired me. So what do you think happened? Yep, four hours into my shift, I could not walk and the nurse orientating me kept saying “Are you tired?” as she stopped and waited for me while I took tiny tiny steps to disguise the limp. I laughed, “HAHA! Yes I am tired. Aren’t I pathetic?” Still hoping that the pain I was in was a fluke and I could keep the job. Also I did not want to tell her what was actually wrong. (Because I hate telling people what is wrong with me.) When I arrived home, Alan had to lift me out of the car. He said, “You have to quit this job.” I burst into tears and accused him of trying to kill me again. In this case, I needed the guy with the flags waving me to the right where I wait and see if I get a tutoring job next semester. A job where I sit and talk to people and secretly get the undergraduates to help me with the words in my Master’s classes that I don’t understand.  Please for the love of all of the monkeys will someone explain paleoprofitering!

          Also you should all know I did catering again… the day before a five thousand word essay was due… where IS that guy with the flags? Although, to be fair, I was not at home when I agreed to cater so that would mean I need the guy with the flags to follow me everywhere. It could be weird but I think incredibly helpful. Because, he could stop me from saying yes to catering the day before a huge essay is due but he could also stand just in my peripheral view and wave me off if I start insulting people or asking questions I should not. Like when I asked my professor if I should include some quotes from Wolfgang Iser’s book “The Act of Reading”.

Are we Bluffing or Paleoprofitiering?

You know how, when you are a kid, all job possibilities are open to you? You fight with your friends over who is shopping and who is the shop keeper? And then later, you finally work in retail and before long the ding on the cash register makes you want to poke your eyes out? And then you get older and you rule out things like cowboy because riding on a horse all day seems glamorous but is really about lots of poop, mud and infrequent showering. Or astronaut, not because you are not smart enough (although, secretly, you have your doubts) but because the void of space seems claustrophobic from the isolation it brings. Plus astronauts in the movies are always floating away screaming into the abyss or having their face sucked out of their helmet. So you start narrowing your career opportunities to jobs where your feet stay on the ground and pressurized-oxygenated helmets are not required. Some would call this old age, I prefer maturity.

I seem to have gone through some sort of regression (I prefer this term to mid-life crisis) lately, thinking the whole world is still full of opportunities for me and I embarked on getting my Masters in English. Having received two Bachelor’s degrees, I thought it was about time to prove my brains and move up the intellectual food chain. At first, things seemed to be going well. I got an A- on my first assignment. Then I got the dreaded B (for me this is panic time) and of course I went running (yes, literally running) down the hall, waving the essay in my hand at the teacher. “What did I DO?” I asked. She had stated beside the grade that I had failed to include an annotated bibliography. This confused me because she wrote this on the page that I had titled “Bibliography”. She graciously stopped mid step (during a break in class) to explain annotated meant actually annotated. I needed a summary of my sources under each source. Whoops. It turns out most of my English degree was earned by taking Creative Writing and Screen And Media classes so I assumed ‘annotated’ was a metaphor. Or a fancy way of saying list…

Next, I had to do a presentation on Primo Levi’s If This Is A Man. Harrowing reading but plenty of things to ponder and discuss. My copy of the book looks like a kindergarten craft project, with all the little pink Post-Its flagging out the side. I had my outline and had started putting together my Power Point, but then I thought I’d better make an appointment to see the teacher, to make sure that “presentation” wasn’t just a fancy way of saying lecture…

I entered her office and laid out for her the main points in my presentation. Silence filled the room. She rubbed over her eyes the weary hand of a person who spends her days trying to pass on knowledge to deadpan faces and then proceeded to tell me gently and with excellent teaching skills where I had gone utterly wrong. This would have been great, seeing as I still had time (about an hour between soccer and laundry and dinner and “Mom look at this mine craft thing!”) to work on it before class but the professor began to speak another language. Well I am pretty sure it was English it was just all the words in the dictionary I had never heard of. There were entire sentences where I didn’t recognize a single word she was saying (I am pretty sure she didn’t even use a, an, or the). At first I just sat there staring but kept my face shaped in an “I’m listening and pondering” look (you know: crinkled forehead, leaning forward in my chair, chin on hand, finger tapping lips.) Then I thought, this is probably really important. So I began frantically scribbling these foreign words, spelling them based on how they sounded. Then our time was up. She wished me good luck and sent me on my way. The problem became evident when the only word I could find on Google was pedagogical; which I had managed a close enough spelling that Google worked it out for me. Unfortunately, none of the other words were recognized so I had to do my presentation without considering these important points; points such as Paranthenanialism,  prescriptionalinasetion, or irony which I knew how to spell but I had trouble defining because I really do think Alanis Morrisette’s song is ironic. So whenever I go to define it in my head, I think of a guy taking his first flight and the plane crashing and I am confused. (You may think I reference this song a lot and you would be right. It bothers me more than a little… although I will admit it is on my mind way too much.) In the end I showed a clip from The Office. You may be thinking, not really WWII related and I would agree but I needed to be reminded that it’s okay to laugh. I then launched into my actual presentation, sweat pouring from my armpits (Which I considered when picking my shirt in the morning but thought, Hey that is what “anti-perspirant” is for. Apparently the deodorant was scared of my presentation too and ran away. So my thin, light blue shirt looked like I had dipped my armpits in grey paint.) When I was finished one of the other students asked me “What was your point exactly?” To which I replied “Ummm I didn’t really have one…” thinking, maybe I should not be getting my Masters. But then, after a moment, I said “But I think that is what Primo Levi wanted. He wanted us to consider his book not just make a point about it.” Which at the time seemed a little weak, like, I was bluffing. But then I thought, that’s what has been bugging me all along: everyone seems to be bluffing all of the time or maybe not bluffing but getting all caught up in words like paleoprofitiering. And I don’t really care to second guess what the author is saying every other sentence. I want to get into the story. To taste the metaphors. To have the lessons that can only be learned through a story burrow into my heart making me better. Not to dissect every sentence saying, “this is what the author really meant.” I think the author may have meant what he spent hours and hours trying to get exactly right on the page. He analyzed and rewrote every sentence over and over till it said exactly what he wanted it to say. Or maybe he just slapped something amazing down and then said, “Gee I hope some English Master’s class figures out what I am trying to say here because I have no idea!”  Perhaps I should go back to science where the words all make sense. Words like, ventral striatum and locus coeruleus which, come to think of it, I still can’t pronounce. Alright, forget it. Will everyone please just Share or Repost or whatever it is kids do these days so I can have a real job writing? Because it looks like I will never make it as a scholar and my window for remembering Latin is slamming shut.

(P.S. I say, “Whatever it is kids do these days” because a fellow student informed me the other day that “Facebook is for old people…” I laughed and agreed and then cried in my car… Apparently maturity is not quite the right word.)

Namaste

As some of you know, I have started practicing Hot Yoga! (I ended that sentence with an exclamation point because I love Hot Yoga!) I say practicing because that is what it is supposed to be – a practice of mind-body connection. I learn something cool almost every time I go. What I find though, is, it hasn’t quite made it into my everyday life. It is supposed to.  For instance, you should be able to be mindful throughout your day, as in stay in the moment. While I find this is a very helpful reminder when singing to my daughter as she is going to sleep, (holding on to those precious moments before she is too cool for a song) I find I am less inclined to stay mindful while on hold with a giant-not-to-be-named-evil corporation. I am not sure how to practice mindfulness when they want to keep you talking to the robot as long as possible (pressing option 1 then 4 then 6 then 9 then 403, then it says, “Would you like to return to the main menu?” and you consider crying). Or once you actually get to talk to someone they ask in the most patronizing tone if you would mind if they put you on hold. What am I supposed to say? No! I don’t want to be put on hold, because I am calling internationally and I pushed zero to talk to a person. But of course I say yes. (For some reason, saying it through gritted teeth doesn't have the passive aggressive effect I was going for…) Then they proceed to play, not just an instrumental country song, but more of a country-style ditty you get on keyboards. You know the ones where you can push the button for “samba” or “reggae” and it plays you four bars of a sort-of recognizable tune. It was that… on repeat.

At first I try breathing (this is how all mindfulness starts). Unfortunately it starts coming out like a growl every time the song repeats. As an emergency backup option, I grab my smart phone and start playing Candy Crush. I sense mindfulness clucking its tongue at me but Candy Crush is making it possible for me not to smash the phone on the table. In my mindful state, I see the evil corporation coming back on the line saying “Hello? Hello? Hello?” And each time I bash the phone down on the table in response. So I continue to pop little packages of candy to avoid having to buy a new phone. Thinking, perhaps this is when I am supposed to be applying the “let it go” philosophy of yoga. But the yoga masters couldn’t have meant to do that without the protection of Candy Crush.

 I am also reading a book about becoming your true self. I find it is best to flood your life with "good advice that you just can't take". (Isn’t that right Ms. Morrisette? Or is it ironic?) None of this “small steps” stuff. I say, try to do it all at once; cure yourself from anxiety, insecurity and insanity all in one go! DO hot yoga and read all the “you’re doing life wrong” books at once. That way you can be a perfect person right away. Or if it fails, you haven’t wasted a lot of time… One thing the book mentions, is being more humble and honest about one’s self. I figure this is good. Then the guy gets back on the line to tell me I have to repeat the process of filling in the forms and send them all again. Even though I sent the letter they needed, they don’t want that letter, they want a different form filled in. I thought it was best to allow him to be his true self and ask him to look honestly at himself. Simply stating, “If you can’t submit a letter instead of filling out part four, it should not say on the application that you can submit a letter instead of filling out part four of the application.” To which he said, “You can but it is better for us if you just fill out part four.” To which I said, (really wanting him to gain the freedom of becoming honest with one’s self,) “Why does it say that you can submit the letter? Namaste.” (I did not actually say “Namaste – I acknowledge the divine spark in you”. But I thought if I had been practicing yoga, I would have said it. I just forgot he had a divine spark for a minute…) He said he didn’t know and he would pass it on. I then wondered why it had been okay for the last three years to submit a letter and suddenly it is not. To which he said, “Sorry for the inconvenience. Is there anything else I can help you with?” To which I said, “No thank you.” He then informed me that there was an optional survey at the end of the call. I then completely forgot he had ever had a divine spark within him and decided to paint him black with 2’s and 3’s. (I also seemed to have forgotten I was calling internationally and this was actually costing me money.) Only realizing later, while describing to Al the intense rage I was feeling, that perhaps practicing mindfulness had been a failure.

Next I think I will start perfecting the “no judgment” aspect of yoga. I thought I had been doing pretty good at this and was learning to stop judging (and hating) my body. (Because, let’s be honest, it has been a little stupid; immune system going rogue and other nonsense.) So I was trying to be nice to my body and “accept the body I have today” which my yoga teacher keeps reminding me. I have been wandering around for weeks… ok months… ok it may have been a year… with my vision getting more and more blurry. It has gotten really bad over the last month or so. I kept saying. ‘Oh my eyes are just tired…’ Then I decided to find my lost glasses… Yes I have not been wearing my prescription glasses, getting blurry vision and telling myself not to judge it. So it is true I should not judge or despise my eyes for being less than optimal. Turns out you have to balance this with a little common sense. And while my glasses are broken, I can see again… like a Christmas miracle. You would not believe the amount of writing you can do in a day when you can see the letters on the keyboard.

Namaste everyone!

 

My Version of Sister Stories  - The right one (maybe, but I have the blog...) Volume One - Part 16

So I have been threatening since I started this blog (please see sidebar to the right) that my sisters, who encouraged me to start a blog, would one day find themselves mentioned in said blog. So times up girls! All of your lovely wishes for my birthday reminded me of all the stories I had yet to tell… insert music indicating doom: dum dum DUMMMMM.

For those of you who don’t know, I have two older sisters. I will not say their age or mine because who needs to know these things. What you should know is that the gap is wide enough that I was too young to remember much of the mean years. (Although there are a few stories…) Instead most of my memories are of my cool teenage sisters who could drive, taking me with them.

I begin this series of tales with our first trip alone together. It is just us, no parents or anything. We fly to Hawaii. Our Grandpa lived there who we love and miss. Now, one of the many things I love about Michelle is that when she travels, she plans fun side excursions to places she has seen on TV or the movies. For instance, on this trip, we need to have a few days in Maui to visit the Seven Sacred Pools which Meg Ryan mentioned in I.Q. Also we have to visit the waterfall used in the opening scene of Fantasy Island. You know, “Da Plane! Da Plane!” We fly from the Big Island to Maui on one of those little planes that make you feel like you might die. But on this particular plane, you know you won’t die because they are playing a Hawaiian song on loop and the stewardess sings to it as she dances up and down the aisle. I am pretty sure that you will never crash if the stewardess is dancing and singing.

We arrive in Maui and rent our convertible. That’s right, a convertible because Michelle planned the trip and if you are going to rent a car in Hawaii it doesn’t make any sense to have a normal car. And we drive straight to the waterfall.  I am sixteen and expecting my future boyfriend to be around any corner or the one I just came around or the one just up ahead. Any boyfriend would do… JUST ANY BOY… I digress. So I was wearing a knee-length flower dress with buttons in the shape of roses, white fold-down socks and the generic version of Keds. Because dresses and tennis shoes are awesome. And one should really look their best when shopping for their boyfriend in Hawaii . Anyway, Michelle, as always, is impeccably dressed in cute shorts, a fancy top and some gold-embellished strappy sandals.

We park at the trail head. Marleen eyes the steep start of the climb and decides someone should stay up the top and take a picture… One of the things I love about Marleen, is her ability to endlessly encourage you and she is always up for an adventure. Hand her a plane ticket to anywhere in the world, you don’t even have to tell her the destination, she will have a small perfectly packed bag and go. However, this is balanced with her ability to say “you all are nuts” and “I’m out”. But she does it with such tact. For instance, in this case. she looks at the trail head and says with actual sincere encouragement, ‘I am sure you guys can totally do it… you might just want to wear… like different clothes and shoes… I mean Mel is wearing… like …’ she eyes me up and down trying to decide what exactly I am wearing… ‘Her party dress.’ Michelle and I decided that it can’t be that steep all the way. It's not that we are reckless; we just assume things can’t be as bad as they seem. We are wrong it only gets steeper… vertical would be the best way to describe it. Also for some reason the ground is the consistency of peanut butter (which could be why it seems so steep). I become slightly worried about my boyfriend-meeting dress and suggest to Michelle that we come back another day perhaps more, hikerly dressed… Now one thing is for certain. In our little circle of sisters Michelle is in charge. We do as she says and if she says, “We are going to have fun” then you snap to attention and do as she says. This may seem unfair but it is not because she would throw herself in traffic for either of us and can be counted on in the scariest as well as the best moments of life. Also. I am quite confident that if I ever need anyone murdered because they are very bad (I would only murder very bad people) she would  help set that up for me or (because she is a law abiding citizen and apparently in this hypothetical I am not) she would bail me out or visit me every day in prison. Also, if I was in prison, she would make sure no one was mean to me in there. So because of this, and the fact that, if she says we are going to have fun, we probably will… And because she says so… I follow her on.

We come to a point where it is so vertical you have to navigate using a climbing rope. It is a steep drop over one side. I am wondering why they didn’t just use one long rope instead of several short ones when it becomes clear. She and I find ourselves on the same rope. Everything slows right down for a few seconds - I see her slip on the cute little sandals in front of me and then I feel a jerk on the rope. Instead of dropping it, I hold on tighter and suddenly find I am dangling off the side of the cliff. I can’t quite place where I am. I seem to now be hanging in some sort of foliage with no ground under my feet and I can’t understand how I got there.  I am perfectly calm, just confused.

Michelle starts screaming, ‘Melody! Are you dead?!’

I look up to see her panic stricken face above me.

‘No I’m fine!’

‘I couldn’t see you! I thought you were dead!’ She says as she hoists me back up. Michelle then decides we should come back ready for a hike. I follow obediently and she takes the sandals off deciding barefoot is safest. We climb a ways when I hear.

‘Shoe… shoe. Save the shoe!’ The slippery sandal is careening down the peanut butter slope, but I make the dive and retrieve it. Sandal saved. When we get to the top, my dress is covered in mud. Marleen laughs at us and takes a picture of the dress. I never did get the stain out; this I use as exhibit A for why I never had a boyfriend. There are exhibits B through Z as well but there will be time enough for that humiliation later.

Epilogue - We returned the next day with proper foot gear and dressed in swimming suits… you know because we were going to swim in the waterfall. I am followed the entire way down the hike by a swarm of mosquitoes.

I keep saying, ‘I think I am being attacked…’

Michelle keeps saying, ‘There are no bugs! Stop being dramatic!” (It may come as a surprise to you that I have a slight tendency toward the dramatic but this should not sway you. I was not being dramatic here. In this case, it was the normal amount of drama being falsely blamed for previous excessive dramaticness.) We reach the bottom and Michelle is determined to get to the waterfall. I watch as she navigates the edge of the lake which looks like a vertical rock wall into the water. This is confirmed when, in order to continue, she must do her best impression of spider man and shimmy her way across. She does this while yelling, ‘Mel come on! It will be great!’ I am sure that I will not make it on the strength of my finger tips but I have come this far so I yell back that I will swim. (If you need a visual for how I "swim" see this post… ) I scoot into the water and flail forward a bit until I see something moving in the clear water. It is a Black Water Scorpion the size of a small dog and the most deadly kind. (This may or may not be the scientific name. Also, there may or may not be any such thing actually in the world but I am sure that is what it was.) I flail and sputter my way back to the edge. Michelle is waving me over. I try to explain about the Black Water Scorpion but she has made it to the water fall and can’t hear me. We pose for Marleen taking the photo above us. On our return to the hotel, Michelle states she has a few mosquito bites. I have a total of 40 on my legs alone… Marleen just shakes her head.

New Year's Retribution

I do not do New Year’s resolutions.  It feels bossy. And I don’t like to be bossed. You may think how do you hold down a job? That is a very good question and I have held down many jobs quite successfully. My need to make others happy carries me for a while until I feel bossed by stupid people making stupid decisions or they make me read 'Who Moved my Cheese?' and then I quit… It is the same with New Year’s resolutions. I say this year I will _____. And about a week in, I start saying to myself: “Who are you to tell me what to do? You don’t know what is best for me. How can you possibly know that eating healthier will add even one month to my life!?” And then chocolate is eaten with a sneer on my face that says to my healthier self - don’t mess with me; you are an idiot. So I don’t do them anymore. It’s not as if I don’t make positive changes in my life; I just start in December or March and don’t write it down or anything. I just change it.

Anyway despite my strict no Resolution policy, this January I found myself on a cucumber and celery juice fast followed by eating nothing but vegetable broth and rice and taking up hot yoga. Now these may sound much like resolutions. In fact, many people in the world probably set these very resolutions for themselves. However mine was a desperate attempt to control something that is out of my control. My meds are not working and my pain is like the boss who was always mean but suddenly became deranged and started screaming at everyone about things they can’t change and stapling everyone’s work to their foreheads. Also the whine in my voice reached such epic proportions that I worried the neighbors would call the cops. Although, I sound pretty much like a three year old and people rarely call the cops for a three year old whining... that someone (Al) put the lid on the water bottle so tight that you are sure you are in prison where they taunt you with water that can't be opened. And Al is the warden. 

Somehow, even though I have lived with this disease for over 15 years I suddenly felt it was unfair. And so to the internet we turned. Looking up every story of anyone who had ever cured themselves of an auto-immune disease. We ruled out people who cured themselves of diseases that cure themselves.  Then we put together the crazy people's and the doctor’s research, boiled the vegetable broth and bought a rice cooker. I felt great for the fast days but everything after that was a crap shoot, lots of pain one day less the next. Plus I had the strange sensation that I was out of pain but still could not manage to sit up and get off the couch. It turns out I was consuming roughly 50 calories /day and still trying to work out at the gym so my body just tried to shut down and go to sleep.

I added hot yoga to the mix because lots of stories included hot yoga as the cure. I went to my first class and within minutes I was sure I had made a mistake. I thought, I think they are actually making this room hot… Like, from the floor… Secretly I thought the 'hot' in Hot Yoga was a metaphor. The guy in front of me was already dripping with sweat but I thought I would be ok because I have worked out before and managed to keep my sweat to myself. However, ten minutes in, I am sweating - now not just sweating. I am sweating from my shins! I didn’t even think I could sweat from my shins. I mean I knew anatomically it was possible to sweat from your shins I just assumed mine never would because they never had. I start to panic because I can't figure out why the room is on a boat and slowly rocking from side to side so I literally run out the door, the instructor calling after me “MELODY! WAIT MELODY!” I do not wait but not one to quit, went back in and finished. However, that night after driving home thinking, I never want to go back there again, I slept all the way until 3am!!! This never happens. I have since become that person who carries a yoga mat everywhere and declines invitations because "I have to go to hot yoga..." I drop Namaste into conversations at regular intervals and think it is perfectly normal to lie on my friends living room floor in Savasana (dead man's pose) for as long as I want. (Since my rapid fleeing, the instructor has started saying, “If this is your first class make sure you stay in the room for the full 90 minutes. If you feel dizzy, just sit or lay down. But don’t leave.” I am pretty sure she looks right at me every time but I make myself seem busy, adjusting my pants or something.)

As far as the food goes, I got so frustrated being in pain, then not, then in pain, then not. AND not eating anything. I had everything I wasn’t eating all in one day from coffee to pizza with a Vietnamese rice noodle bowl (yes at the same time) topped off by chocolate ice cream and donut holes. It was fantastic. We are still researching and are trying everything at the moment because it feels like I am doing something.

And that really is the point. When things in your body go wrong the first stop is the medical profession; we see them as the answer. Until they start saying things like “I don’t know.” And “That doesn’t matter.” That is the first stage, the stage where you start to think, hey I don’t think they know all of the stuff I want them to know. But you talk yourself through that stage. This is especially true for patients who are also healthcare professionals like myself, because we think, Hey I really love my patients, want only good things for them and REALLY want them to get better. So you believe that other healthcare professionals share this sentiment. And they do, for the most part… although now that I actually sit down and think about it 10 minutes of my 15 minute appointment is usually spent discussing whatever is bothering the doctor. For instance, out of the last three doctors I have seen, one has gotten cut off by another driver on the way to work (which is really annoying and dangerous and road issues… people should be in jail… people shouldn’t be allowed to drive… more discussion… etc…) The next doctor was just really tired and really wanted a cup of tea. I offered to wait while he went to make one but he declined discussing instead the sacrifices one must make in life. Maybe it’s because I ask them how they are. Maybe I should stop asking but I always thought it must be annoying hearing everyone’s problems. And what if you had a really bad day or something? It would be nice to be asked how you are. But then, really, they should put extra time in for the consultation. Or really, if you are a doctor of people with a debilitating illness, it would be good to remember that you don’t have it and wanting a cup of tea is dumb especially when the person sitting in your office would find it impossible to even lift a kettle of water. Anyway, I digress. I still don’t think of my doctors as malicious just tired and here is the big aha moment. They are working for the drug companies. They don’t know it of course they think they are working for us but really the drug companies say this will help your patients and they think yay! And even better the drugs work… sort of … most of the time… yay! But then the drug companies are only researching solutions that will make them money not cure us because if they cured us they would not make any money.
 So that is how it starts, you think someone is in control of your health and that you can trust them and then you realize you can’t and no one is in control and then you freak out and start drinking cucumber juice. And really none of it may work but at least you feel like you are doing something besides waiting for the drugs or the disease to kill you. That’s what it really is about; feeling like you have an ounce of control. That you can tell your body, “Hey! You do what I say now. And if I say it is only cucumber juice today then you better deal with it.” It feels good instead of your body saying, "No you can’t get up. No you can’t use the bathroom because it is too far away and the toilet is too low and no you can’t use your hands.” It begins to think it is the boss and we all know how well I do with bosses… Cucumber juice gives the power back to you even if only for a moment. And as for Hot yoga that is really where I get to stick it to my body. I get to say, “You will stay in this hot room for an hour and a half and you will like it and yes you will bend (sort of) and no complaining! If you do this you will leave feeling strong and relaxed.” So if your New Year’s resolution does this for you, more power to ya! Otherwise just start in March and don’t tell anyone…

The Endless Pool

 

Today’s question: can trying to avoid drowning count as a work out? My body is still being a bit stupid and I have to be creative with my workouts. Running – bad. Spin class – bad (for now, but good soon I hope!) Elliptical – been doing it so much it is a bit boring. So I thought, Why not try the “endless pool” at my gym. It’s a small 10 x 6 foot rectangle but you can swim in it because you can turn on a current.  Sounds fun, like a ride at an amusement park!! And all the people say swimming is the best thing for me... So I reserve my hour long session and head to the gym.  On the way, a little bit of doubt creeps in because I don’t swim. Never have. I just don’t drown. I make the motions of swimming in a general direction and kick for the surface till I get air. Most of the time, I am out of breath; not from the work out, but because I am drowning. 

In fact, a long time ago, I decided I would be an avid (aka thin) swimmer and took up the sport. I never lost any weight and the process was so involved with hair washing and chlorine and knots in the hair that I got rather frustrated. So one day, Al came to the pool to “see what I was doing wrong” because he had grown up by the beach and could swim his way out of a rip tide if required. (Also, I think he was sick of me complaining that I was working out so hard and not losing weight and just in general complaining.) So he came and walked along side of me while I swam a length of the pool. When I reached the end, I looked up hopeful he would have one or two easy fixes. Instead he says,

‘What are you doing??’

I have no response to this because I thought it was clear I was …swimming…

He says ‘I mean, you are moving along, slowly, but you are like a foot below the surface. Every time you want to take a breath, you have to doggy paddle your way to the top.’ I agree this is what it feels like and then he just shrugs his shoulders and offers no further advice except ‘maybe you should try some other form of exercise.’
So, because I am in significantly better shape than those dark days, I think swimming should be better… but I was wrong. I arrive at the gym and say, to the perfect bronze god at the front desk, ‘Hey it’s my first time using the endless pool. Is there anything I need to know, like how to turn it on or is it pretty straightforward?’

 

‘Umm yeah someone needs to help you,’ he says, calling for backup.

I am led down the hall trying to explain why I am limping in ten words or less. I find it awkward to have a disease that no one really understands but think they do. It would be better if I could not limp at all but I digress…

The back up bronze goddess leads me into the room with two pools and explains I am in the shallow pool. I think to myself, I wish I was in the deep pool because that seems like the grown up pool… She walks me through how to turn it on and etiquette for changing room use. (Apparently leaving your clothes in there - bad but judging by the state of it, leaving tiny curly hairs everywhere - fine…) Then she says, ‘Now, there is an emergency button up here,’ she says reaching up high on a pole outside the pool. ‘So if you are drowning, get out of the pool and push this.’ (To be fair, she clearly realizes this is ridiculous but is contractually obligated to have the conversation with me.)

I am excited and dressed in my new bathing suit that I bought about twenty-pounds-heavier ago so it is a little loose but loose clothes make me happy. I struggle with the pool’s stupid bubble wrap cover because my hands have ceased to be functioning as hands and have decided to be stumps. Eventually I get in and turn on the current. I am confident and turn that puppy up to ten miles per hour. And I start “jogging”; well, more like just trying to stay upright. I notice that the current is in the middle and so I think to myself, on the edges it must be going the other way so maybe I can do something like laps! I try running along the outside edge against the weaker reverse current and my plan is to run up against the fast current from the back of the pool. Unfortunately, when I reach the back of the pool I lean down. I have no idea why but I do. The full force of the current slams into my chest pinning me against the back wall of the pool. I cannot get up. I am flailing and eyeing the emergency button which is 15 feet away and, let’s remember, out of the pool. I flail my arms and legs and charge forward against the current when another swimmer enters the room. I do my best to look like I should be in the pool but he is not buying it. I struggle forward to turn down the current and decide I better swim if this guy is going to be in here because the loose swimming suit is doing nothing to hold important bits in place as I flail/run. I put on my daughters goggles, only one size too small, and start “swimming”.

 I notice this little pool has a mirror. I am not sure what for … watching your form? Or, what I used it for, watching my wobbly bits wobble and making sure my swimming suit stayed up as the current was determined to pull it down. (As a side note, it also helped me figure out I was wearing the tiny goggles upside down which was why they were cutting into my nose.) But most of the time, I watch as I sink below the surface flailing frantically and then lose the view because the current is tossing me to the back of the pool again. I spend the rest of the hour trying not to die and switching between jogging when no one is looking, “swimming” and trying to fix the mat that keeps slipping every time I run on it.

It is at this point that I looked up and saw the sign that said “warning: this area under video surveillance.”

I may be paranoid but the golden god at the front desk looked awfully giggly when I returned the key…

 

As far as swimming being better for me, I am now nursing a blister on my foot from the stupid mat... perhaps another form of exercise…

Prednisone... or Possibly changing my blog to: "Angry Ranting Sick Lady"...

Recently my body has collapsed just a little. It happens sometimes and at this stage a doctor will usually put me on Prednisone. It sort of conveniently sweeps everything under the rug so the body has a chance to reorganize itself. Before the doctor writes the prescription, I usually have the following conversation:

‘How do you do on Prednisone? ‘How is your appetite? Are you overly hungry?’ and ‘How are your moods?’

My eyes start to glaze over like a true drug addict and I can feel the pain relief as the small piece of paper makes its way towards me, ‘Just fine. Yeah, no problems at all. Not overly hungry and, because I am out of pain, if anything, my mood has improved!’ I laugh (more like cackle) and try not to yank it out of his hand. And then run out of the office before he has a chance to take it back. Then one night, a few days into treatment, I am lying in bed with Alan and we are discussing some inconsequential future event when I realize that I want to hit him. We are not fighting (not that fighting in any way justifies hitting but at least fighting gives an explanation for the urge). We are just talking and he has his arm draped over me which is really annoying because it’s making me feel trapped. He says something like, ‘Well we could think about this alternative plan…’ and I say, ‘Well that’s great isn’t it? Like REALLY helpful! You are just saying words. Words in no particular order that in no way help.’ And then I sigh really loudly because, really, he should have known better… Now you must understand, I have been through this round of treatment many times before but there is something about this particular moment, his lack of response combined with a smirk and a concurrent flash back to the doctor asking me about my moods… so I ask, ‘Do I get like this when I am on prednisone?’

AND HE LAUGHS. ‘Yeah, you do.’

More sighing, ‘Why didn’t you tell me I get so angry!?’

HE LAUGHS AGAIN!

‘Yeah, that would have gone really well!’ he snarks.

I have no response to this, so I take a deep breath, calm down and assess my previous two weeks. I am sure I hadn’t been overly angry; there were just a lot of stupid, idiotic people in my path. And I wasn’t really mad, just in more of a... questioning mood. I had a lot of questions like:

Why is absolutely everything in the world so depressing? I mean like everything. People are dying, wars are raging, the earth is actually dying. And, closer to home, why are people driving when I want to drive? They seem to think they can just get on the road the same time as me and drive however fast or slow they want and they don’t even care about me at all.

 Why was that guy in my class speaking, and why did he have a face? He should not have a face. His face makes me mad.

And why do doors open inward sometimes and outward sometimes? 

Shouldn’t all doors be the same?

Why are people who put doors on things trying to make me crazy?

I am always trying to leave and smacking my face on doors that should clearly open outward. (It is normal to kick stupid doors in public.)

And why is everyone so happy?

What the hell are you so happy about? I am not happy. I am tired and I want a nap. And you being all happy when I am sad and THE WORLD IS DYING! And there is Ebola! And some new person  at the smoothie place put two bananas in my smoothie so I had to throw it out because it tasted like banana. You should not be happy when the world is dying. You should all be sad AND you should definitely be sad that I’m sad. No, I don’t know exactly why I’m sad but you should at least make a sad face with me. Actually, I am pretty sure I am sad about the extra banana in my smoothie you should understand that extra banana makes it taste like banana!! I was trying to be healthy and get a smoothie and all I really wanted was a chocolate… something…anything chocolate. I would have accepted chocolate covered, chocolate inside or both. Instead, I am drinking banana mush.

And why is putting mayonnaise on chips so bad for you? It tastes so good. There should be more things I can find to put mayonnaise on like bread dipped in mayonnaise OR PEANUT BUTTER AND MAYONNAISE YES! Or mayonnaise and ketchup and mustard on bread!! A hotdog without the hot dog: perfectly normal dinner!

Why are there so many loud noises? Just stop speaking. Your voice is like projecting across the planet. I know I asked you a question but why do you have to answer so loud?

Why is the couch weird?

It is annoying to sit on. It is trying to be annoying isn’t it? It has been waiting all day for me to come and sit on it and annoy me.

Why didn’t you close the pantry door?

I JUST TRIPPED OVER A SHOE!  A shoe people… an actual shoe was in the middle of the place where I was trying to walk to get to the bathroom. Why is there a shoe THERE?

Why is it only eight o’clock? Why isn’t it nine o’clock, so I can go to bed? If I can’t go to bed, can I at least have a sandwich with mayonnaise on it?

Why are there commercials when I want to watch TV?

Why are there rich people?

Why can’t I be rich?

Why are the rich people trying to kill us and confuse us? It’s a conspiracy! They know something we don’t know. And they have secret clubs where they share information and become landlords and then go on holiday whenever they want and I just want to go home and see my Mom, Dad and sisters.

Why isn’t there some way we can own property and not have to stay in it? I don’t like staying in places; it makes me feel trapped. And houses are bad because then you feel like you are trapped in a box. They have a very suspicious box shape and they get smaller sometimes.

I feel trapped here, on this island, where the rich people are keeping me trapped and they won’t let me have strawberries in the winter. I want strawberries on my really expensive cereal that the rich people made expensive and then laughed when they watched me buy it because I can’t get my cereal anywhere else.

And I want Monterey Jack cheese! There should be more cheese on more things. There should be mayonnaise on cheese!

Are the rich people stealing my cheese?

And they all control the airlines and make it really expensive to go home.

Why am I in prisoner on this island?

And why did they take away my mayonnaise? They had the healthy, yummy mayonnaise and then the rich people said ‘No! You can’t have the yummy, healthy mayonnaise and you can’t go somewhere else to get it because you live on an island and then you would have to get on our very expensive plane and we will laugh at you.

They are always laughing at us, in their big houses so they don’t feel trapped in a box, and on their planes so they can go see their Mom and Dad or go get yummy mayonnaise whenever they want mayonnaise...

So, I feel, I handle the chemical inbalance of prednisone with grace and ease. It was just a run of really stupid people and, when you think about it, mayonnaise is really yummy and it is not odd that I should think about it for a while. Or try to find new things to put it on.

I do fine on prednisone.

It is a great drug.