Full Medical Coverage

I told you that I’ve had medical stuff on my mind lately. One of the reasons is that, among my collection of Adjunct Sisters (you didn’t know that was a Thing, did you? It is, and a very important one at that.), one member is battling a disease I’d never even heard of until her doctors diagnosed her: Neuromyelitis Optica (NMO) or Devic’s Disease. Not funny, as you can tell if you look at the link. But the lady I know who is learning firsthand what that ugly condition is, she is funny. She’s fabulous in so many ways, and not least of them is her wildly adorable sense of humor, one of the many characteristics that has endeared her to our family since she joined the gang years ago as a friend and sometimes college-roommate of both of my younger sisters and laughed and loved her way into the whole family’s hearts.

So when I send her love and “advice,” since I am ill (no pun intended)-equipped to offer her anything of medical value, I try to give her, if not a belly laugh, at least a little smirk of silliness to help distract her way through the tough times. Today’s topic was medical masks and the myriad purposes they can serve. Perhaps those of you undergoing health challenges of your own can benefit from this utterly useless but well-meant meandering as well. And I do mean well. Forthwith! Here’s what I sent her today:

I think you know that Sister #3 is sharing your email updates with the other three of your sisters here, and I hope that you don’t mind terribly, because it’s so important for all of us to know what’s up with you and what we can be studying on your behalf and all of that. And of course, keeping you extra tightly in our arms, interwebbian though they may be. At least the latter makes us sound like friendly aliens, which of course is exactly what we are. You’ve known that all along.

Rituxan [the treatment proposed by her medical care team], as I understand it, is a chemotherapeutic drug. With that, I would guess it means that the intent is to kill off targeted invasive tissue, like those lesions of yours. I would also assume, especially with the liver toxicity warnings, that it means your immune system will be working extra-extra hard while you’re being treated, so I say, don’t be shy about watching out particularly vigilantly for your own health and protection during all of this time, whether it’s fending off a “mild” cold or dealing with any infusion side effects. Go ahead and take any old extreme prophylactic measure if your mood or the occasion warrants it.

Those who love you can and will support you in this adventure of yours if you let them learn how to be truly on your team by keeping them as informed as they can handle; I’m betting that those who do care about you deeply know or guess much more than they let on both that this is serious business and that it’s very stressful for you. No doubt everyone has frustrations and impatience that are surely exacerbated by seeing what stress you’re under. I can’t imagine there are too many parents, for example, no matter what the relationship with their kids, who don’t get a little extra crazy when they think their child is under attack and they can’t do that much about it.

As for protection, I can’t speak to the medicinal side of it, but I can offer my two (or two hundred) cents about some practical/tactical issues for protecting yourself from a few flying germs, and possibly, from a few unwanted attentions during the treatment and recovery process. Or how to get more attention, if that’s what you need.

In one word: masks. Medical masks aren’t as commonly used in the US as they maybe should be when what’s floating around us in our breathing air—whether of our making or someone else’s—poses a danger. Asia has been much more forward-thinking on this particular medical front, having had a couple of national crises with flus and other public health problems that resulted in some remarkably fashionable fashion shows, cultural events, and general public expressions of the usefulness of the mask.

A quick web search offers a wide range of options in this regard, and you may choose to consider using some of them either merely while hanging around in the clinic or hospital where you get your doses of Rituxan or as ways to visibly express your current state of being so you don’t have to make constant update reports to everybody when you’re already tired.Photo: Jill's New Wardrobe, No. 1 If you want to go classic, there’s always the familiar rectangular style but with the slight upgrade of some dainty pastel colors for a little fashion flair. The shape and texture tell me that if you want to go classic but super cheap you could always find some vintage style maxi pads and tie them on around your head. This would, of course, have the bonus effect of startling others into leaving you alone.Photo: Jill's New Wardrobe, No. 2

For the classic style with, well, more style, you can find lots of fashion prints online, or you could do as has many a stylish stagecoach robber or gang member of yore, and use your standard medical mask with a bandanna or scarf artfully covering it. This could provide an added benefit in making the nice people at the admitting desk respect you more, and possibly feel compelled to offer you a sudden, steep discount on your treatment, although eventually this latter effect could be hard to defend in court if the security cameras in the facility happen to show you in a poor light.Photo: Jill's New Wardrobe, No. 3

Perhaps a more glamorous treatment of the above effect, and with good germ-averse coverage as well, this little combo can instantly turn you into the health-conscious chef/superspy you’ve always dreamt you could be.Photo: Jill's New Wardrobe, No. 4

While designed to wear one at a time, these babies have the obvious secondary option of being combined as a uniquely-you bra or swimsuit after you’ve recovered from your illness, and for those of the younger set, the advantage of those screw-top central covers for infant-nursing convenience. Or a hot new pole-dancing uniform, should that be preferred.Photo: Jill's New Wardrobe, No. 5

Sometimes just affecting a more cuddly mien (or meow) can help one to feel more cuddly. A touch of ‘kawaii,’ that delicate cuteness our Japanese friends treasure so deeply, could be just the solution. Hello Kitty is a good choice, although I personally would endorse the Hello Miss Kitty line in deference to my favorite writer-artist.Photo: Jill's New Wardrobe, No. 6

There are lots of other cute options out there if you like the idea of others comforting you with a gentle pat on the head or scratch behind the ears, or perhaps a handful of immunity-boosting kibble.Photo: Jill's New Wardrobe, No. 7

When you’re finding it hard to smile and put on a show of concern for your normal beauty regime, you can opt for the Marilyn look. Whether you choose Monroe or Manson is up to your taste and your mood, naturally.Photo: Jill's New Wardrobe, No. 8

Other expressions may be more appropriate for some occasions than others. I like the bronze hat with which this is shown, as you can use it to bonk people over the head smartly if they should refuse to respect your feelings with appropriate alacrity. An alternative version of the hat would of course be one like the legendary bowler sported by Oddjob, who knew how to handle disrespect very directly and succinctly as well.Photo: Jill's New Wardrobe, No. 9

Perhaps a little facial hair would serve to embolden you or divert attention from your sense of feminine vulnerability? Here’s your mask!Photo: Jill's New Wardrobe, No. 10

For those who might prefer to project other ideas than mere germicidal ones, there are numerous elegant choices on the market. Or the black market, depending on how other those ideas may be. The shaven head is not only a good-looking addition to this particular mask format but also offers an excellent location for attaching a temporary thought balloon if you have something on your mind but aren’t sure just how to say it aloud.Photo: Jill's New Wardrobe, No. 11

Just want to embody a fierce opponent to your symptoms? Or to the nosy parkers who insist on offering medical advice like mine? A good wild beastie muzzle is sure to get you fired up and ready for battle.Photo: Jill's New Wardrobe 13

And you should never underestimate the versatility and expressive power of a full face mask, if you want nothing more than to keep your real facial expressions to yourself, along with the veil of separation from the viral vicissitudes of the world. A traditional Plague Doctor mask can be ideal for some persons, but there are numerous other beautiful variants out there. Photo: Jill's New Wardrobe, No. 12

This one comes complete with eye patch in addition to the full-face coverage, a plus for optical injury and illness care, and remarkably self-explanatory facial presentation that says, “Yes, I’m feeling Fabulous, thank you, and I do so appreciate your contribution to the beauty of my day today!”

Well, that’s enough high-powered medical advice for today. If I can ever be of actual support, I hope you’ll let me know, but in the meantime, I wish you amazingly speedy and thorough healing, and lots of love and laughter along the way. All of you!

Big Hairy Deal

It’s bad enough to have a monkey on your back, but when it keeps returning, that’s another sort of trouble. I’d call it a Boomerang-utan.Digital illo from a photo: Boomerang-utan

I don’t know how chronically ill people manage to keep their sanity, but I know that many do. I am far too wimpy and impatient and irritable to imagine just how I would do such a thing. Having had something I suspect is like an underlying infection this winter that meant that instead of the typical one-or-none quantity of winter colds I ended up with three or four successively worse ones, ending (I hope!) in the latest one that arose from my strep throat and morphed through a head cold on into intensified allergies that I had not even known I had, I got a teeny, tiny taste of the miniature germ-monster version of chronic disease. Every time I thought I’d knocked the junk out of my system for good, wham! It reemerged.

Unlike more saintly persons’, my reaction was to become just that much more irritable and old-lady-ish and self-absorbed than usual. Yikes. If any good can be said to have arisen from the adventure, it is that I had some quality time to focus (as much as I was able to do any such thing) on some thoughts that have been lurking in my mind quite a bit lately about health, aging, and the health care systems of this country and others as they relate to an ever-growing and ever-aging world population. Far from solving the problems of generations past, we seem to be expanding upon them and adding to them exponentially while not devoting anything like a proportionate quantity of attention to improving our use of limited resources in caring for our selves, let alone for the world community.

It’s nothing to monkey around with, I assure you. But all wise-cracking aside, I will share some few of these thoughts further with you in a near future post or two. Meanwhile, I am virtually swinging from the trees with happiness at having emerged relatively unscathed and, I sincerely hope, freed from the ongoing attentions of any neck-hanging apes of the illness-related kind as I move onward again. May more people the world over have such good fortune.

What the Rain *can’t* Do

We have been fortunate, in north Texas, to get more than the expected doses of rain in the last number of months. It has gone some distance toward ameliorating the statewide drought’s effects on our county and nearby zones. The lakes have risen a little. The trees are breathing an almost audible sigh of relief. The locals swoon over the magical burst of wildflowers every bit as delightedly as the tourists do.

But it’s no perfect cure. A good rain can’t solve all of the world’s ills. The local drought is not isolated or ended but creeping through the nation in an ominous reflection of the receding polar ice caps, drought that is strangely now becoming a pestilence even on the more typically misty and moist California coast and Pacific Northwest. And there are still countries the world over suffering from much longer and deeper droughts.

Rainy weather can, on a smaller scale, also darken the skies of many individuals’ moods, bring soggy sorrow to brows usually brighter with cheer. It can both literally and figuratively dampen the parade of plans made by folk who rely on sunny weather for their sunny spirits and can seemingly call a halt to normalcy in zones like my home region, where a little struggle for water is generally to be expected. Any stretch of overcast and rain longer than 24 hours sends herds of north Texans running around, mooing nervously like it’s the End of Days in the Old West.

Still, rain can’t kill moods and expectations and obliterate optimism without our consent. While I’ve been moody and something of a little black cloud myself lately, being in the proverbial phrase ‘under the weather‘ (in the non-alcoholic version), I was reminded of this submissive and defeatist, even compliant, element when listening to the web-streamed broadcast of the university jazz concert I didn’t feel well, or wakeful, or cheery, enough to attend last night. The vocal and instrumental interlacing of familiar and wonderful jazz tunes lifted my mood more than the start of my medication kicking in had managed to do. They led me to listen to other upbeat music, from further jazz classics to pop, drumline rhythms, and one of those sorts of music that I find is fairly impossible to hear without breaking into a crooked grin: reggae.

It would seem, on reflection, that among those things rain cannot accomplish is keeping a good reggae number from cheering me up, and that is something I will happily and readily forgive the rain for failing to do.

Digital illo: Let It Rain, Mon

Let it rain, Mon.

Pity Me If You Will, but I’ll Admit…

…I’d rather you throw money.

What, you think because I feel lousy I’ve become less crass and ridiculous? Mais, non! When I’m sidelined by big mean germs and have little strength left in my flimsy carcase, never mind my moral center (if any), what is there to keep me occupied and involved in life besides celebrating those last shreds of my identity that haven’t yet slipped fully out of my grasp? And I’m feeling a little extra bumptious tonight because it’s been a long week and I feel kind of worse tonight than I had in the last three days or so. Apparently, behaving myself and finally going to the doctor and getting started on treatment for the colorful mashup of strep, cold, and allergies that converged on me doesn’t make me feel all shiny and new in a couple of mere hours. What?! I don’t get tough customer bonus points for being stubborn, and a sentence reduction for time served, and stuff like that? Or at least a piece of candy from the nurse at the desk?

Yeah, yeah. I have it so much easier than so many, it’s not even funny, and I know it. But it won’t stop my whinging, wringing my hands as much as my handkerchiefs, and singing elegies of self-pity. You knew it wouldn’t. The world is suffering genuine trials and disasters and I just curl up in my little coracle as it drifts and caroms off the craggy banks of the Slough of Despond as though I were a little pinball of perfect sorrow.

But really, there is room in here with me for a couple of bags of soothing cash.

No? Ah, well. See you when I drift back into port. End of transmission. Over and out.Photo: Defying Logic

Because I Can

Photo: Homemade ToothpasteEverybody does certain things for no particular reason—sometimes to show off just a little, sometimes to test our limits a bit, and sometimes for the Everest-scaling excuse “Because it’s there.” Some of the things we do with the latter brand of casual offhandedness might, of course, be far better thought through, given that the utterer of that famous phrase died on the mountain and his body wasn’t even found until about 75 years later. But I’ll grant you that sometimes, too, a seemingly aimless act can lead to more useful ends.

As a person seriously devoted to both comfort and safety, I am more than content to leave any because-I-can acts of physical or psychological derring-do to anyone who wishes to live on the edge. I like my secure and restful life, thankyouverymuch, most especially the life part of it. But I’m willing, on occasion, to do small and non-dangerous experiments, if they seem to offer any interesting byproducts of use or entertainment.

Like making home-mixed shampoo, skin lotion, and toothpaste.

Sorry, if you were hoping for something really exciting! My inner life of fantasy has all of the elements of danger that I have the slightest interest in experiencing. But my day-to-day life and its practical requirements offer plenty of areas for potential improvement. If I can make my chores simpler, my needs smaller, the products I use slightly less expensive or toxic or complicated, and any other kinds of fixes that seem likely to make daily living pleasanter in any way, I’m generally glad to make the attempt at some point.

I don’t like most perfumed products. Nature gives me lots of wonderful smelling stuff to enjoy without my wanting to complicate those scents with artificial add-ons, so I’m more likely to buy an unscented, hypoallergenic version of any product if I can, and just enjoy the benefits of some of my favorite real-life ‘byproduct perfumes’: coffee brewing, freshly cut alfalfa hay, wet sidewalks after a long-awaited rain, a sleepy baby’s milky breath, sun-heated cedars and Douglas-fir trees, yeasty cardamom bread coming out of the oven. Flowers bursting into bloom in the garden. Salt spray at the shore. Spiced cider steeping on a cold night. Maybe it’s because I just recovered from a two-week cold, saw my poor spouse go through his own afterward, and woke up stuffy-headed again this morning, but the idea of all of those very lovely perfumes is the more alluring without thinking of their being masked by any artificial ones.

Then again, not only do I like to be clean both in my home and my person, there are some scents that do enhance my sense of cleanliness and good health in their ways, so I am not averse to adding those that I like, in the quantities I find appealing, to home-brewed stuff of personal- and home-care when I do make them.

My shampoo is almost always the all-purpose blend of a very plain liquid hand soap like Ivory (one could also use a similarly simple, if slightly more expensive, liquid Castile soap like Dr. Bronner’s) with nothing more complicated than tea tree and peppermint oils added in for their refreshing and slightly antimicrobial/antiviral qualities. The plain, oil-free soap is good for nearly any sort of (personal or house) cleaning that doesn’t require scrubbing, and with the oils it’s sufficient for my showering or bathing and hair care, no creme rinse needed. I don’t invest in any special skin treatments beyond the same home-mixed blend of skin moisturizer I’ve used on my face since my eccentric old dermatologist gave me his “recipe” of one part oil-free, hypoallergenic skin cleansing lotion + 1 part oil-free, hypoallergenic skin moisturizer + 1-2 parts water to use daily about 35 years ago. I have far better skin now than I did back then, so I guess it still works just fine.

The toothpaste-making is a work in progress, but I’m generally happy with that little science project as well. I have excellent teeth to begin with, so I wouldn’t recommend everyone jumping into fiddling with homemade toothpaste without consulting your dentist first, but these are also pretty standard toothpaste ingredients, so I’m not especially fearful of ruining my pretty white choppers. The blend at the moment is 1 cup baking soda (very mildly abrasive, and has some ability to remove or lessen stains and freshen breath—not, mind you, baking powder, unless you’re intending to bake your teeth into some sort of snack food) +1 cup coconut oil (melted for blending) + 1/2 cup powdered xylitol (the sugar alcohol sweetener, currently thought to be a cavity-fighter when used in moderation) + 2-3 Tbsp peppermint extract (flavor and breath freshening) + 2 drops blue food coloring. The latter is primarily to remind me that it’s toothpaste, since it’s just stored in a 2-cup jar in the medicine cabinet at the moment and I am, after all, occasionally forgetful. I might try the addition of a little Bentonite clay for better light abrasion, but didn’t have any on hand.

Let me just add that this little project is not my attempt to avoid fluoride. You are all free to choose to use it or not, but I am delighted that my first dentist happened to be among the first adopters of dental fluoridation and my home water district among the first adopters of fluoridated water. I have as near to perfect teeth as any 50-something I know, along with my three siblings, and our parents had typical earlier-generation rates of cavities and other dental problems; my dentists since then have agreed that early and consistent application of fluoride is very probably a significant contributing factor in this one-generation upgrade on general oral health. I don’t doubt that there are potential problems with overexposure or tradeoffs in other areas of health and well-being, and yet I wouldn’t trade any of those for a set of strong, healthy teeth with no caps, fillings, or other major interventions having been necessary, never mind growing up without fear of dentists and their tools. That’s my story. But I’m dubious that the occasional batch of homemade toothpaste without fluoride, at this point in my life, is going to threaten my dental magnificence. If my dentist tells me otherwise, I’ll switch back without a fuss. I’d hardly risk my teeth any more than I would life and limb for a little experiment.

I’m not, after all, that much of an adventurer.Photo: DIY Dentifrice

Foodie Tuesday: Up to My Elbows in It

Photo: Fat, Glorious FatYou already know that of my many edible obsessions, fats are among the most prized. Butter in virtually any form is the glistening Sun of my oblations when it brings its sleek graces to the sweet and the savory alike. Meat fats, vegetable-derived fats: yea verily, I can’t imagine how I would find culinary happiness if it weren’t for the kind kisses of olive oil, duck fat, tallow, avocado oil, sweet and mild nut oils, leaf lard, coconut oil, and all of their slick cohort bringing the foods I eat to their most well-rounded state. Barbecue of the highest order doesn’t even exist, in my book, unless I have to scrub like a surgeon after eating it to clean up the goodness that ran up my arms before getting to my mouth. The mere sheen of the translucent butcher paper sticking to the smokehouse table is enough to start a Pavlovian response in me.Photo: Brisket, Burnt Ends, Ribs, & Sausage

The thing is, I’ve learned over a long and avid career as an eater, that it’s not fats, per se, that make me rounder, but which fats I eat, and when, and how much. I am well aware that food is faddish, and you know I’ve posted about such things on many a Tuesday of yore, but I pay better attention to my own body’s definition of what works and what doesn’t than I used to do, and by now I’ve seen that while it’s not very helpful to me in terms of my physical fitness or comfort to indulge as much as I wish in eating like a ruminant or like a three-year-old with a credit card, I can be more generous with my desire for fat. You can cringe if you like; I know it’s not for every body, and Fat has been made a dirty word for generations not only because it’s been considered unhealthy, unseemly or both but because it’s been considered dangerous and therefore ugly on people.

But I’ve known folk who lived long, happy, productive lives without ever being particularly svelte, let alone stick-figure thin like fashion models are wont (and expected) to be. I’ve known of dietary health or fitness fanatics who died young of health-related causes. They aren’t the supposed norm, no, but then most of us aren’t, one way or another. When I get my medical checkups I have consistently high cholesterol levels, enough so the doctor sends me off for sophisticated coronary calcium tests, and I come home with a chart that could just as well have a grade school star sticker or happy face on it to go with its perfect Zero score; it defies not only the odds but logic, yet there it is. My blood pressure remains on the low-moderate side, my heart keeps ticking, and the amount of cholesterol in my pipes seems to be irrelevant to my general health thus far in life.

On the other end of the scale, for me, is the unfortunate truth that two things I adore eating, wheat (breads, cookies, pasta, and the like) and uncultured dairy products (ice cream, ice cream, ice cream, and a few other items), almost instantaneously expand my gut and make me feel logy and uncomfortable. I would love to be that grass-eating goat who can munch on wheat-based goodies endlessly without consequence, or that toddler with a bank account running amok in a forty-flavors ice cream parlor, but I’m learning to face the reality that I’m not one of those for whom that’s a good or even fun choice.

One way I am learning to deal with the profound sense of loss that not indulging those wicked-tasty urges very often, if at all, is of course by simply substituting temptations that I like as well and that like me back a little more kindly. Fats. As my spouse just read to me from a newsmagazine, pretty much anything can be improved with a drizzle of browned butter, and who am I to argue with printed infotainment? I suspect there are few foods that, if listed on two menus with one touting Beurre Noisette as an ingredient and the other not, wouldn’t sucker me right in for the sale with the former version. And don’t even get me started on low-fat and nonfat foods being offered as supposed temptations to my fat-loving palate. If they were low-fat or nonfat in the beginning, say, leafy greens, I’m quite happy to eat them, but I promise you I’ll dive in so much the faster if you cook ’em and offer me a good dollop of butter melted on top.

Inspired by Emeril Lagasse‘s skillet cornbread recipe, I merely added a little seasoning, slightly more fat and Voila! It got even better. See how easily that works?!Photo: Slightly Fatter Cornbread

Slightly Fatter Skillet Cornbread

Preheat oven to 450°F/232°C (or whatever approximates those temps in your oven), with your well-seasoned cast iron skillet in it.

Combine dry ingredients with a fork or whisk in a large measuring pitcher (I like my 64 oz pitcher, because it makes ingredient transfers so easy) or bowl: 3 cups cornmeal, 1 tsp baking powder, 1 tsp baking soda, 2 tsp salt, 1 tsp smoked paprika, 1/4-1/2 tsp cayenne pepper. In a separate measuring pitcher or bowl, beat together the wet ingredients: 3 cups buttermilk (or my on-hand substitute of 1 cup heavy cream, 2-3 T lemon juice, and enough whole milk to bring the total to 3 cups—which combination I think I might like even better than the buttermilk), 3 large eggs, and 2/3 cup of melted [salted] butter. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry and stir just until mixed.

When the oven’s temp is right, pull out the skillet, melt 2 T bacon fat in it and tip the pan to coat it thoroughly. Pour in the cornbread mixture, pop the skillet back in the oven, and bake until a rich, russety golden brown, somewhere around 30 minutes. In a household of two, I find it’s useful to cut the cornbread into 12 wedges, and as soon as it’s cool enough to handle, package two at a time in bags or parchment wraps and seal them in a big zipper bag in the freezer, where the residual steam will help keep them moist and manageable for thawing for later meals.

But I do keep a couple of pieces handy for the day’s lunch or dinner straight from the oven, preferably slathered with yet more [browned] butter and topped, perhaps, with some sweet honey, molasses, jam, fresh fruit…or more butter. Don’t tell anybody. They’ll know when they see the shine on my lips, anyhow.

Sometimes It’s Better to Part Ways with One’s Parts

When something goes wrong inside, for most of us it’s no big deal; just an off day in the old innards, whether physically or emotionally, and it’ll pass. But when something goes wrong in a more complicated way, I tend to think it’s pretty good luck if “all” one has to do to get well is remove a malfunctioning part and either replace it or live without. Modern life makes that possible: a swift appendectomy with a tiny scar to show for it, a manufactured hip here, a transplanted kidney there. Lots of things that, if not chronic, are reparable and survivable when they used to lead to long, slow, miserable declines or instant death.

There’s still plenty of the latter kind of illness and injury to keep doctors busy and patients unhappy and money funneling from the latter to the former in ever-widening streams, and that’s no joke. But I think it remarkably good that I live in an era when far less stuff is fatal by default. I was especially glad that when my poor brother-in-law was violently attacked by his own gallbladder recently and it tried to stone him to death, there was adequate artillery to fight back and win. What did he ever do to it, to deserve such lousy treatment! I can tell you from (supposed) experience that gallbladder pain is horrendous. I can’t tell you what it’s like to have the offending organ removed, or even have the stones destroyed and extracted, because either I don’t have a gallbladder at all or it is an expat living in a foreign part of my body from where they are normally located: the doctor and ultrasound technician spent a lot of time hunting and could never find the little hunk of meanness before the pain, thankfully, dissipated on its own.

Photo: Plumbing

Don’t you just hate it when something goes wrong with your plumbing?

My BIL was not such a fortunate escapee, and the pain persisted and worsened until he ended up with several exceedingly un-fun procedures to zap the stones and remove the offending organ, which if you ask me did have a heck of a lot of gall to treat him like that. I am ever so glad he has already begun a full recovery! I wrote him a silly poem, ’cause I love him.

Parting with Parts

is Such Sweet Sorrow

Can anything be worse, or sadder,

Than to give up one’s gallbladder?

Well, perhaps one worser quirk:

Still having one that doesn’t work…

And one worse yet: the wails and groans

Induced by one that’s filled with stones.

So I’ll amend Assertion One:

Having a gallbladder’s no fun.

But then again, I must concede

That surgery is bad indeed.

It all comes down, if I should guess

To what will save my happiness

More fruitfully: intact gallbladder?

None? Can’t say: it doesn’t matter,

Since the choice will not be mine—

‘Til then, I s’pose I’ll be just fine—

I hope. Of course, I still don’t know

Whether I even have one, though.

Revival

My subject in today’s poem is identified as a woman, but mainly because the pronoun ‘her’ fit the text that was already emerging in the sonnet. In my heart, the subject is meant to honor all of my friends and acquaintances [regardless of persuasion] who have battled, or are still battling, their way up from the abysses of fear, anxiety, depression, abuse, or any form of personal darkness, whether inwardly generated or externally imposed. What you have done, and are doing, is powerful. What you can do may be more than you, or I, or anyone can possibly yet imagine. Continue your journeys upward, my friends. Sing from the branches of the Tree of Life for a change. Newness can be a beautiful thing!

From Her Grave

Arising from the heart of silent night,

the poignant voice of one whose singular

accomp’niment was always, only, her

own shadow, takes the unaccustomed flight—

Ascending, she now meets the morning sun

and hears at last a sound she’d never heard;

the brilliant singing of a splendid bird,

a song that chases shadows, ev’ry one—

And hers, along with all the shadows, flies;

now wakened, she is free to wholly shed

her residence in shade among the dead

and fly up, singing gladly, to the skies—

So freed, she dares to trust her new-fledged wing

to raise up others from their dark to sing.Digital illustration: Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life

A happy, healthy and hopeful New Year to everyone!

Contagion vs. Compassion

“One bad apple spoils the lot.” That creaky aphorism is based on equally venerable experience. Rot is contagious.

Bad company makes bad behavior seem the norm, and we adjust our own standards ever lower accordingly. One or two disheveled houses bring down the values of the others in the neighborhood, and those, in turn, fall into neglect and decay as their owners lose the courage and determination to resist the incredible pull of entropy. What isn’t growth is death.

What leads otherwise good and sane people to fall apart like that? Doubt; fear; despair. These are the hallmarks of contagion: the plague succeeds in felling us not only through its own virulence but because rather than seek its cure with full courage and determination we flee with it hot pursuit, and when it eventually catches up with us, we topple, curl up in the fetal position, and succumb.

The fall of one member of the world community—like Mr. Duncan, who was felled by Ebola in Texas—is a very real and terrible loss for all. The loss of thousands—those dying in West Africa—is indeed a plague and a thousand-fold grief we all must recognize and bear. The response, though, cannot be equally contagious doubt, fear, and despair. That can only make us choose unconstructive, even destructive, responses like blame, xenophobia, retreat, and the neglect of our fellow citizens of the earth. Then, no matter how many or few have been overtaken by disease and disaster, the contagion will have won.Photo: Snakebit

The Great-Greats

Naming things is an endlessly fascinating and complicated way of creating and better understanding our relationships with them. Different cultures have even devised quite distinct ways of classifying and identifying the kinships within them, to the extent that families and relations in the different cultures affect the very ways people interact and consider themselves connected, responsible for each other, and much more.Photo: Great Great Grandparents

One of the appealing (or appalling) quirks, depending upon one’s view, of the American traditions of familial identification and the names given them in English is the way we use the word Great to specify layers of distance from ourselves. This photo, for example, is of one of my sets of great- and/or great-great grandparents (my maternal grandfather’s forebears), if I am not mistaken, and there is much to pique my curiosity in this image.

First, of course, is the question of whether I have identified them correctly at all. But then, in what ways—besides the nominal—were they great? Clearly, being among my ancestors is an easy in to that category. [Ba-dum-tsssssssshhhhhh!]*

Seriously, though, what distinguished these people? Safe to assume, from what little I do know of my relatives in Norway, these two lived on a small farm, and they worked hard. I mean, incredibly hard, by my standards. I’m inclined, actually, to think that the gent is my great grandpa and the lady next to him is his mummified mum, but having seen many a portrait from that era whose subject I was shocked to discover was eons younger than I’d have imagined, I can’t be sure. If this is a couple, I am extra, extra glad I have such a lazy and comfortable life. I may be no spring chicken, but I like to think that people will be able to tell whether or not I’ve already died, and when it does occur, won’t be able to make work boots out of my hide without tanning it further.

This could be the great-grandfather who was a tinsmith. A pretty skilled one, at that. The hands I see here could easily be tough enough to have put metal in its place. As for the farming, what little I’ve gleaned [enough with the shtick! I’ll try to behave myself]* from the various family stories and photos indicates that my family were subsistence farmers, growing what produce would feed their own households or be swapped with neighbors for  further goods, and raising enough sheep and goats, chickens and cattle to keep them in meat, eggs, hides and bones as needed. Agrarian life, until more recent decades, was generally a far more solitary and jack of all trades kind of existence. My grandmothers, great and otherwise (and I can only assume all of the neighbor women of this ancestress’ approximate vintage) did such work as probably made them all look equally leathery.

I would like to think that the sober, if not condemnatory, expressions in the photo sprang from the typical problem of holding still for the interminable exposure time a photograph required in those days, not to mention doing so while squinting in the sunlight. But I also suspect that a combination of that hardscrabble life of theirs and the grimly perdition-obsessed brand of religion to which many of my relatives have subscribed means that these two generally took life mighty seriously as well. They probably didn’t see so much to joke about or room for fun and games in their daily lives.

What I can safely assume about my relatives still gives me some hope. Obviously, they knew enough about how to survive and yes, thankfully, to procreate, that I am here generations later to tell the tale. I consider my existence a fine thing. Although they weren’t either wealthy or showy, they are dressed in well made, tidily kept clothing and lo, my mustachioed male relative even sports a watch chain, so theirs was not, even from the perspective of my privileged and cushy life, a torturous life of pure privation. So I don’t feel enormous existential guilt for their suffering. But I’m not inclined that way like they might have been, anyhow.

My late Norwegian relatives lived and labored in a landscape and climate rather like where I grew up in the American northwest, so I know that even if their daily work was hard they did it surrounded by beauty and nurtured in a mostly benevolent natural environment. They raised children who were able to go out in turn into the wider world and make their ways, eventually finding own their paths, making their own livings, and raising their own families, and eventually crossing many mountains, borders, and seas. I think all of this a fine, if modest, sampler of human existence with [dang it, I just can’t help it!]* relatively little grand tragedy or overblown drama. Most of all, I am glad that the long-gone beings who posed for this rather inscrutable image contributed to the production of a line of pretty good folk, culminating in my immediate family. That’s greatness enough for me, and makes me very thankful indeed. Happy Thanksgiving, my friends.