It’s been a week since my airport misadventure with food-poisoning. I’m home. The holiday weekend is behind me. The work trip to Palm Springs is a handful of memories and photographs. I’m finally back on all the various medications I currently take, and back to my proper timing on those. I’m fully hydrated. I’m getting back into the gym starting tomorrow morning. Life is good.
…Why am I so fucking grumpy and cross with the world, today?? I feel like I’m taking all the right steps… all the right medications… I smile, sipping my afternoon cup of (decaf) coffee. It’s that, isn’t it? It’s the medications. I’m literally “on drugs” and it does actually take a day or two to settle down into that routine all over again, even after a minor disruption. It’s something we often don’t give much thought to. Mind-altering drugs? That’s all the damned drugs, people. Yes, and the coffee. And the Tylenol. All of it. All. Of. It. Changing your chemistry has the potential to change your mood – and your mind. So.
Take another sip of coffee. I breathe, exhale, relax. I look at the clock. The work day is nearing an end. My Traveling Partner rather sweetly made afternoon/evening plans to make room for me to just deal with my own bullshit without it becoming our bullshit. I feel loved. Understood.
Here it is, the fourth of July. A holiday, of sorts, in the United States of America. Our national independence, we say, begins here. It doesn’t, actually, but that’s the story we tell nonetheless. Today, folks will party, BBQ with friends and family, and perhaps go blow some shit up or fire off some rounds, maybe lose a finger, a hand, an eye, a family member, or set off a massive blazing wildfire. Peculiar sort of celebration.
…”Can’t you just let people have fun, damn?!”… Yeah, okay. Moving on.
I’m in a shit mood this morning. Wakened from my sleep by an equally cross partner who could not sleep due to my snoring. It was a less than ideal start to my day, and it’s been unremarkable (if a bit aggravating) since then. I’m in pain – for some reason my arthritis has flared up and I have a vicious headache. Seems like the day will be quite a hot one, so I got my walk in early – and now my feet hurt. So. Yeah. I’m mostly in the mood to bitch about this or that, and less inclined to celebrate my “independence” – although, I do have more to celebrate around this time of year than a lot of folks.
Independence Day also happens to be the 28th anniversary of leaving my violent first husband at long last and for good. I survived! That is something worth celebrating. So much so that for many years, I made a point of saying things on 4th of July like “thank you for joining me in the celebration of the end of my first marriage” to anyone who happened along. lol I eventually gave up the practice – time and distance had offered some opportunity to heal.
Independence Day is also – or at least the weekend of, was – when my Traveling Partner and I moved into our little house here, finally homeowners, with a place our of own and a sense of a fixed address and a reason to “put down roots”. Also very much worth celebrating. I’ll shortly be getting back to that. 😀
Our personal celebrations have so much real meaning and heart. Don’t give up on your independence. Break your chains! Take the bold step in favor of yourself. Move forward and move on. Be free! It’s Independence Day.
I got home around 0230 a.m. on Saturday morning, although my itinerary and planning had put me arriving home closer to 10:00 p.m. on Friday. Flight delay? Mmm… Not exactly. Sort of. Real life got real, is all.
I had awakened brutally early for the day’s plan on Friday, and upon exiting my hotel room and facing what felt like a furnace blast of heat when I expected the cool of morning, I sort of just folded up the idea of one last elegant French-inspired breakfast and dropped it in the waste bin in favor of a purposeful (and early) trip directly to the airport. Waiting for my flight sounded better at that point than lingering anywhere, for any reason. I didn’t have any particular thoughts on why that might be, I just went with it.
Once I arrived at the airport, I went through security relatively quickly; there was no line. It was that early. I got a cup of coffee and commenced waiting for my flight, which would not depart until hours later. I was fine with it. I pulled out my book and started reading. When it came time to board, I quickly did so, and resumed reading my book. Short flight, and it seemed like we were on the ground in no time at all. (For which I was most grateful, since the passenger ahead of me had some pretty severe and seriously noxious flatulence throughout the flight that was literally making passengers – including me – actually gag outloud. It was quite horrible.)
We arrived at the airport in Las Vegas for a planned layover of about 5 hours. It’s a lively, busy, exciting airport, as airports go, and I expected to easily find a meal, and suitable time-passing entertainment, just strolling around the terminal. Funny thing, though, I disembarked feeling a bit… off. Queasy. Uncomfortable. Vaguely ill-at-ease. I bought a soft drink hoping the bubbles would bring some relief. I’d soon regret that choice…
…Very soon…
TW: gross human biological functions and discussion of same in the next paragraph. You’ve been warned.
Looking out the window from a seat near my departure gate.
Less than half an hour after arriving in Las Vegas, and certainly before I made any move in the direction of “entertainment”, I found myself feeling quite ill. That feeling quickly became diarrhea and vomiting, and I didn’t know it yet, but that was going to persist – a lot – for several hours to come. Probably food poisoning. Possibly the ceviche at dinner the night before. I ultimately had to reschedule my departure for a later flight; no way I could have flown in the shape I was in. I even had to ask for medical attention (and the EMT that was sent to the terminal ended up giving me IV fluids). The restroom attendant took pity on me and marked one stall of the insanely busy women’s bathroom between Gates 5 and 16 “out of order” for me, allowing me to reliably have access to the plumbing without having to wait in line. All my clothes were in my checked bag – which had already gone ahead to PDX, with my earlier planned flight. I was limited in how far I could get from that restroom by the severity of my symptoms, so walking to any retail space where I might be able to purchase a change of clothes wasn’t a serious option. I basically spent 10 hours in that airport, mostly in that restroom, shitting myself stupid (literally becoming stupider as I became more dehydrated, no foolin’) and puking up whatever remained in my guts until nothing did, and a bit even after that. It was… horrible. I couldn’t keep anything down, and initially that included all my medications (replacements for which were in my checked bag, along with all my clothes), and even the Pepto-Bismol I initially thought might ease my symptoms. (It didn’t, it just came back up a grotesque Barbie pink.) The Imodium my Traveling Partner recommended didn’t do any better, at least not right away, but I persisted with it, following the directions for additional doses, and refraining from adding to future potential misery (initially) by not drinking more water and definitely not eating anything. Eventually, about an hour before my rescheduled later flight was expected to depart, my symptoms seemed to have subsided. I was distrustful, and remained fairly near to that restroom until it was time to board, and took advantage of pre-boarding protocols to get the front aisle seat, just in case I found myself faced with an urgent need to get to the restroom, again. The flight itself was mostly routine, and I made it to PDX.
…I even found a taxi willing to take me all the way home – a drive of more than one hour, even at that time of night…
Home. G’damn it was so good to be home. I was still too sick to spend much time with my Traveling Partner and after a shower (that I very much needed), I went directly to bed. I think I slept for the better part of the next 10 hours, mostly unable to actually wake up completely at any intermediate point. I woke only briefly to pee again, or to drink water when my partner woke me to offer it, immediately going back to sleep. I lost pretty much the entirety of Saturday to resting from the exhausting airport ordeal, even after I woke up. Sunday was a taking it easy day, and I felt like I’d been in a terrible fist fight, but managed to stay awake and even got a few things done. I got back on track on all my medication, too. Not much of a weekend, honestly, and nothing like I had expected, planned, or dreamed of…. with one delightful exception; my Traveling Partner’s love.
My partner kept me company via text message all day Friday, while I was so sick, helping prevent me from really losing my mind over it. He helped me decide to ask for medical attention, helped me figure out that delaying my flight would be the best course of action. Reminded me to cancel the car service originally scheduled to pick me up and deliver me home, because they would not be able to just wait another 4-5 hours for me to get to PDX. All day Saturday – a day he’d expected to be spent on (perhaps) lovemaking and (definitely) work in the shop – he cared for me, making certain I drank adequate water, took my medications properly, and both rested, and also got up and moved around some. He took care of meals. He took care of chores. He handled everything, and helped me get well. Yesterday? Feeling some better, I got a couple things done with the day, slowly, and he was there making a point to encourage me to go slowly, while also being a steady aware presence, available to help or to offer care when it looked like I could use some. That evening, we cooked dinner together in the kitchen, and it was delightful.
…It was a little hard bouncing back to the work routine this morning. I feel a bit as if I “didn’t get a weekend”. I’m not bitching, just facing the circumstances from a position of relative privilege; there are a ton of people who don’t get enough leisure time, and that doesn’t describe me, outside this limited situation. I can get past that without whining about it (much), but I am feeling it. Short week, though; tomorrow is a holiday. 😀
I breathe, exhale, relax, and count myself fortunate. It could be that in another era, the illness that came over me Friday could have ended this mortal adventure rather definitively. Instead, I paid too much for an over-the-counter remedy, and sat around too long in an uncomfortable environment (for what I was going through). I still got home. I’m still alive to enjoy that experience. I still get a chance to begin again. 😀
Progress can be slow. Progress can be so slow that it becomes useful to play mind games with oneself with regard to the glacial pace of incremental change over time, in order to stay focused, keep practicing, and maintain motivation and engagement with those elusive goals that seem always “out there”, not yet achieved. It’s hard sometimes, and it’s easier – too often – to lose ground out of frustration, or even “losing interest” (in the sense that the commitment to one practice or another is quite separate from the pain of struggling with one issue or another). The tl;dr? Adulting is hard.
This past weekend was an odd one. I fought pain and fatigue most of the weekend. It was a long holiday weekend, but the holiday (Juneteenth) is not truly “mine”. I find it frankly difficult to “celebrate” an event that quite explicitly documents the moral, ethical, and cultural shame (slavery and racism) of my ancestors (and a great many other people who look quite like me). Juneteenth-wise, what makes sense for me, truly, is to make room for quiet reflection; how can I, myself, in this lifetime here/now, do better to eliminate even implicit racism from my thinking, my words, and all my interactions? How can I cast my vote to further improve the quality of life and situations of Black Americans? How can I use my privilege (as someone who is white) more as an umbrella and not as a barrier?
The holiday wasn’t the weekend, though, it was just a piece of it. It was a strange weekend, productive, but also peculiarly emotional and I wasn’t at my best. I had a rough day yesterday, characterized by strong emotions, and in spite of the great start to the day, I mostly felt sort of like I was just a big bucket of slop all weekend long (although it was actually just yesterday that was so difficult). My Traveling Partner did his best to support and care for me. We got a lot done together. It was just a very weird day. I didn’t write at all. Got a couple walks in over the weekend. Got a lot of really good rest. Didn’t paint, or write. Did get a bunch of housekeeping done. There was a lot of honest conversation about deepening intimacy and being closer with my Traveling Partner.
There isn’t that much to say about the details that would have any legit relevance this morning. It’s more that there was honestly a lot of real progress evident, if I take a step back and look at things in a way that directly compares this past weekend to – for example – a similar three day weekend 10-12 years ago. So much difference as to capture a feeling of “being an entirely different person”. I’ve come a long way. I’ve worked at it. A lot. I’ve endured frustration and failure and realizations that this or that practice don’t work out as well as I’d hoped, or that “the progress up to this point doesn’t touch that issue”. My results have varied… but… I have gotten results. Worthy real change in quality of life, for the better (by far). Worth celebrating. Worth making note of it. Worth learning to observe real progress, even when the changes over time seem quite tiny. There’s some hope to be found in this, and I’m finding it. Feels good, even after a day as shitty as yesterday was (though even now I do not understand why it was such a difficult day).
I’m sipping my coffee and thinking about love. I’m listening to jazz in the background – nice change from the insipid pop tracks that are often playing in the co-work space. I am reminded of a quote attributed to Miles Davis, “It’s not the note you play that’s the wrong note – it’s the note you play afterwards that makes it right or wrong.” Sometimes love is like that. Some moment of miscommunication, or a misstep in the way we treat each other, feels “off”, like a “wrong note” in an otherwise beautiful piece of music… and it does very much seem to matter greatly what comes next, maybe even more so than that “wrong note” itself.
I sat down to write this morning grateful for the quiet time to reflect and write before this morning’s unusually busy Friday meeting calendar; back to back for about 4 and half hours. Ouch. My phone rang – before 0600, which was entirely unexpected, but… it was my Traveling Partner. I hadn’t replied to his text messages, of which there were… several. My “do not disturb” settings go to 0600, though, so I didn’t get notifications on those, and didn’t expect to hear from him either. He was alarmed that I didn’t respond, so he called. Fair enough. He expressed surprise that I was already at my desk, and concerned that I wasn’t out walking. I felt surprised that he didn’t remember me bitching about my meeting calendar and that I planned to go into the co-work space since my meetings would begin quite early compared to most days. Somehow, the interaction was less affectionate than it was… something quite different than that. lol Shit.
The morning is a chilly one, and I ache. After the “off moment” with my Traveling Partner this morning (which managed to feel rather “parental” in tone), I’m sort of cross. I know I can move past it. I’m just annoyed to have started the day thinking I’d have this quiet time “entirely to myself”, only to become mired in ruminations, anxiety, and finding myself juggling my baggage. Human, I suppose. Pretty annoying though.
…It’s bizarrely difficult (for me) to get even an hour of completely uninterrupted quiet time for reflection and writing, sometimes, which is it’s own self-care issue worthy of consideration… some other time, perhaps.
Here’s the thing – back to that quote I started on – it matters more what follows that “off moment”, than the moment itself. Whether I react. How I respond. What I say in reply to what has been said. How I choose to take the circumstances as they come. I can do/say/think about it in ways that aggravate things further – or I can “let small things stay small” and practice compassion, openness, empathy, and non-attachment, and move on to enjoy the day as it unfolds. No, I’m not saying it’s “easy” – there are definitely verbs involved, and the effort is “all mine”, at least inasmuch as I only control my own actions, words, and thoughts. My results vary. A lot. I’ve got room to grow and improve. I can do better. So…
Evening Light 