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. 😀
I crashed fairly late last night after a noisy final dinner with colleagues at an excellent local Mexican restaurant. It was a bit “fancy”. A lot noisy. The conversations were lively. The mood was merry. I returned to the hotel still “vibrating” on that frequency and needed to take some quiet time on the patio in the moonlight, with my feet up. I connected with my Traveling Partner. I am eager to return home. He is eager to see me again.
A flower in the desert.
The team spa day, yesterday, was lovely and relaxed. I got an excellent massage. By the end of the day I noticed my feet and ankles were fairly swollen. It’s mostly the heat. In spite of drinking ample water (like for real)(a lot), I felt uncomfortably… puffy. It’s the heat, here. I had the same issue in other hot places, and I’m certain after seeing a new doctor that my various health concerns are likely related – or aggravating each other. I sat outside by the pool after dinner for some little while; it was the most comfortable place to sit with my feet up, sufficiently elevated to be really helpful. I put my ankle brace on my left ankle. I drank more water.
I crashed fairly late (for me), around 11:30 pm. I slept fairly well… until 02:52 am. I don’t know what woke me. The night was quiet. The room was dark. I got up to pee, but there was no urgency in doing so. I returned to bed and spent an hour or so adjusting the pillows as if I were going to return to sleep – I really wanted to. I even felt sleepy, but it just wasn’t happening. My mind was grinding through all the conversations of the week, over-thinking this and that, reflecting on some positives, and feeling irked about some shit that vexed me, while also making a point to let it go. And then let it go, again.
I finally got up at 04:30, finished my packing and laid out my clothes. I made coffee. Opened a can of cold fizzy water. Pulled my laptop back out of my “rolling office” bag and sat down to write and reflect, waiting for the dawn, and considering what to do about my last breakfast here… go back to that excellent breakfast restaurant…? Can I make the timing work and not miss my flight…? The restaurant doesn’t open until 08:00… my flight doesn’t leave until 11:15… the airport is only 2.4 miles from the restaurant…but… it doesn’t at all seem the sort of place one would drag luggage to, so I’d be having to return to the hotel, then go to the airport… I find myself working backward from my departure time, and mentally calculating how long I’d likely be having breakfast. I find myself feeling fairly certain I’d have an entire hour for breakfast, then wondering how long it took me the other day, the morning I enjoyed breakfast on my own. Looks like I spent almost exactly one hour at breakfast that morning… Feeling certain I could, if I wish, I let it go for now; I can decide later. It’s still very early.
I’m ready to go home.
I’m also ready for breakfast. LOL
…I’m less than ideally ready for morning, somehow. I’ll no doubt feel better after a cool shower (it is, after all, the fucking desert here). I drink my coffee and my water, and get ready to begin again.
Memorial Day is sometimes a hard one (for me). The days leading up to it this year were particularly difficult, though I don’t really have a reason why. I’ve lost a few folks over the years. That will never not be true in my life; once we lose the first one, it’s all “more” from there. Spent some time over the weekend reflecting on those losses, and those people. I spent the time with my Traveling Partner, and it was a very healing time we managed to share. I’m grateful.
Losses are hard. We feel our own pain most (and worst, generally). Running from it doesn’t change it – the way out is through. The challenge is not getting stalled in the momentary misery of grief.
The weekend was summery, and fairly mild. We got out among the trees. I got out into the garden. We drove beautiful miles and shared deep conversations. I needed that. We both did, I guess, and we’re better for it.
I’m sipping my morning coffee a bit surprised at how poorly I slept last night after a couple days of extraordinarily good sleep, deep and restful… last night my anxiety flared up with the recollection that today is a work day. Silly, but real. I woke numerous times to double-check that my “sunrise alarm” was actually set. It was. Every time I checked. lol It remains true that a few days of healing and emotionally gentle and nourishing time don’t “fix” anxiety. It comes and goes. My results vary. This morning I got up and managed to start the day without taking it personally or escalating it beyond the obvious; it’s disordered, and there is no reason to feed it and give it more energy.
I smile when I think about the weekend, and my Traveling Partner. Good times.
How am I still so fragile? After all this time? Tears come and go. At this point, after days of it, I’m not even sure why. Post-menopause, it “shouldn’t be” hormones… but… I keep fucking about trying to “fix shit” with my body as I age, so… I don’t know. Anything I take to remedy some ailment or condition has potential to fuck with my body’s systems and my emotional balance, so… yeah. I just know the world is too much for me. Just… all of it.
…I keep finding myself weeping and in real emotional pain… but why, for fucks’ sake, why??
…I mean… I guess it’s enough that the world is this messy strange violent circus of nightmares, with an ever-increasing body count. That, by itself, is worth weeping over. I just can’t sustain doing all the fucking crying, by myself. It would make more sense to stop the killing, wouldn’t it? I drink more of this bottle of water sitting next to me. Tears = drink more water. A lot more.
…I have the strange slightly hilarious thought that maybe the water drinking itself is causing the tears somehow. That’s ridiculous, it’s just a passing notion.
My sleep is chronically disturbed and restless, this isn’t new, it’s just… yeah… chronic.
Ping…ping…ping…ping… work pings on my consciousness. My Traveling Partner pings me eager to iron out details for this or that, or share something cool. Ping. Scam calls. Ping. Another email. Ping. An announcement in a Slack thread at work. Ping. A walk-up co-work colleague with a question. Ping. Ping. Ping. Ping. Everyone, everything, seems to want a piece of my attention, or a moment of my time. I feel overwhelmed, but it’s all quite ordinary. There’s nothing to see here.
A long time ago, in another life, a 14 year old me, feeling something similar, packed a small bag, and lacking any notable experience of the world, just sort of … walked away from her home, her family, and her life, headed… nowhere. Away. I didn’t have a plan exactly… I was “going to Florida”. Why? A rock star I was crushing on lived there, and… I don’t know. I thought I needed a destination? I was fortunate; I survived the adventure to return home to commonplace misery. I survived to see adulthood, to go on to survive domestic violence, military service, warfare, trauma… you know, life. I’m almost 60 now. Still holding on.
…Shit… is this about that? I don’t feel any obvious angst over turning 60, specifically, it’s more… the issues hang on right along with me. How much further does this journey go? How many more verbs are there? G’damn it – when can I relax and just fucking be?? I’m so tired…
Evening Light 