So…. nothing to write about except for this colossal day, filled with terribly ordinary, extraordinary things. Things that suddenly inspire me to write pages about each. This day follows days filled with thinking I might never write again, because I was never going to be inspired because Lyrica has killed my ability to recognize a thought worth contemplating much less writing about.
“Let’s not blame absolutely everything on the Lyrica,” said Dr Shaikh. Fair enough. But let’s blame what we can on the Lyrica because if we don’t we’ll have to blame it on my writing ability or lack thereof.
I posted something I wrote about Ralphie. I wrote it to prove to myself that I actually can still write, if only I can find an inspiring little pig. Ralphie, my muse…. and then on the following day everything is suddenly demanding to be written about, like this:
My fragile immune system kept me from sharing the burden during my mother’s C. difficile adventure. I was away for a few days, lying in a swimming pool and hiking to water falls, while my sister changed poopy adult diapers. While she spent 3 consecutive weekends in the ER with our mother, I went out to dinner yet again. While I went for a bike ride, she ran down the infectious disease doctor and tongue-lashed her into discharging Mom. She slept on our mother’s floor, she wiped down every surface with the special wipes I ordered (it was literally all I could do), only to tell me the next morning the big D started again. Of course this is concurrent with caring for our mother’s wound, and dealing with her gum-ache and recent case of gout. All this has confirmed a long held suspicion that my sister has no breaking point.
A gesture Mom learned on her 91st birthday. It sums up her past few weeks.
And this: Cameron, with injured knee, used the 8-foot long branch on my porch, the one I intended to cut down for a walking stick when/if I become an old woman, to hobble to the car for her first visit with her new primary doctor. Fletcher & I took bets on whether she would also use it to get from the car into the doctor’s office, thereby looking like the shaman that she is.
And this: My treatment today was a piece of cake. I’m getting used to dropping my drawers on command. Then I had my final visit with Jan, the radiation oncology practice nurse, who discharged me saying, “You have enough people here looking after you.” True that. We talked for a few minutes about the tragic loss of Dr. Schupak, which I can’t talk about without tearing up. Not only because of the loss of someone so skilled. Not only because of the fact that while she was treating patients she was herself a patient, unbeknownst to us. But mostly because she was so very kind and reassuring and I wonder if she knew how much it meant to me.
And this: Laila and I were again chatting and dining, this time excellent Afghan food (apparently she’s not sick of me yet), while Fletcher took Cameron to the orthopedist who pronounced her lyme-riddled yet again, I learned by text. I warned Fletcher via reply text to be prepared for the wrath of Cameron when they get back in the car, but they were apparently preoccupied by transporting bodily fluids drawn from her knee to a lab just minutes before it closed.
And this: Julia wants to know what train to take. Ooops. I’d forgotten that she is also coming home tonight. Initially I had forbidden the overlap with Cameron being home because I refuse to again schlep that cat litter into my bedroom since they both refuse to host it in their rooms while they are home. “Are you saying I can’t see my sister? I could tolerate cat litter for one night until Cameron leaves,” said Julia, who has apparently grown into a complete adult since the last time I saw her. She can both host cat litter and wants to see her sister? Wait a minute! Is there a glitch in this here matrix?
And this is only my own family. I can do more. How about a story about a couple seeking to rent an apartment that only allows small dogs, trading their sweet but neurotic and gigantic dog named Loki for their friend’s smaller dog (say, one the size of a small pig) just for the interview. What could go wrong?
How about the thought that every time you dig in the garden you might be maiming a creature or destroying its home. We realized this when, as we savaged our out-of-control front garden, taking the lawnmower to it, the dirt began moving on its own and a precious, gray, silken creature emerged and scampered about, among hundreds of crickets who’d also just been rudely evicted. The vole looked around, bewildered by the changes to its above-ground world, before it slipped back underground. Add the Terror of Voles, triggered by home demolition, to the Sadness of Birds when you trim back their favorite bush. And the Anger of Hummingbirds when you pull out their favorite flowers. The sweet william were entangled with honeysuckle and virginia creeper – there was no saving them. Our hummingbird hovered by the window where the flowers used to be for a surprisingly long minute staring at us in disbelief, and, I swear, gave us the finger before flying away. Who knew gardening could be so emotional.
OK, enough! I said, that will do, Pig!