A Good Day

Today was a good day. After the preceding weeks almost anything would be an improvement. Last night the nausea compelled me to take another of my hoarded, three-year-old Ondansetron. This morning I awoke hungry & able to drink. Breakfast was a few delicious bits of ham w cheese shreds on half a tortilla "waved" for 35 seconds.

If it weren't for the nausea, I'd be suicidal from the boredom, but I've had some interesting literature: Airline: Style at 30,000 Feet is a bizzare reminiscence of the heyday of flight when stewardesses had to have fifteen inch waists and know how to endure Trump-esque misogyny with a smile.

After the section on clothes came food, followed by interiors. In those days people dressed up to travel and business & first-class came with interesting food creatively presented and  complimentary champaign. Still, it felt a bit like dredging the barrel.

After weeks abed, I was sore and, arising from my labors, took myself off to the Chinese Massage place. Last time my hip had been acting out and after some prelim on my legs I directed her to the area of concern. She was amazingly strong and her ministrations lasted the better part of a month, but this past stint had me aching again. I was a tad apprehensive about returning as when I left last time I had the feeling she was annoyed at my not having requested a happy ending.

This time, as she did my legs, she came even closer to my groin. I endured. When I finally forced a look at the clock and saw there was only ten minutes left and she was working my left foot again, I interrupted her and said, "Back" and rolled onto my side. 

At $60/hr with a $10 processing fee for using a credit card plus a $20.00 tip, I can only afford it once a month, if that. Her touch is wonderful and I'm afraid I'm gonna have to succumb to the tantalization. That'll add at least another half hour. If anyone feels my pain, Phoebe's maintenance fund is in the upper right of the desktop view.

On the way back from Michelle's catsit I was able to go into Trader Joe's where, as I approached the entrance, a comely young Security Guard complimented me on my overalls. She followed her opener with an extemporanious singsong advert: "Overalls feel good over all." 

That was more than enough for me and we commenced. Over the following fifteen minutes I got to admire her Shirley Temple curls, sparkling eyes and delightfully full figure; learned she'd trained as an auto tech and taken some courses in animation. She enjoys working on vehicles but security pays better. Despite my assurance I've only nine readers, she declined to be videoed saying, "I don't wanna go viral."

Now, at nearly midnight, the angina is nagging, but the nausea is still absent.

A good day.

Soul Feet Retreat - Connie McDonald

The power of touch...

There was a period, I've forgotten how long, perhaps as much as two years, when I split the week between the Michellles (three els when mentioned collectively). The partings were always tearful, but we needed each other...and now, thirty-five years later, though not as often, still do.

It's that poignancy that now, again, tears at my heart. Sitting, alone in the theater...the footlights still on, they gave me a key so I could lock up when I leave.

How to leave you?...the few who care. To give heart....to, in some way, make this final transition easier...fun even? Can you imagine?

 Blue along the narrower side

I'm drawn, time and again, to a recollection of Laura Huxley telling how she agreed to Aldous's request that she inject him with LSD as he died. It's been years since I read her account, but my awe at his curiosity...and their resolve, remains.

Each of us, in our own little universe...our theater. 

After four months of barely able to "do," I increased the isosorbide another 30mg twice a day...60mg over the maximum suggested dose. It caused a flaring like those Kübler-Ross said happen now & then. I was in the Gold Beach (Oregon) library reading *Your Brain On Art* (Magsamen & Ross, Random House, 2023) and emailed the mention of Jeff Thompson's sound-healing work to a friend with similar interests. In his reply he enthused about his escape from Albuquerque, his return to his home-town (Seattle), his enjoyment of reconnectioning with family and friends and his many new projects.

Googling, I discovered the Seattle Opera is presenting Das Rheingold. I bought a ticket and booked myself into four days at an Airbnb south of the downtown. 

This morning I awoke to the tiredness. I contacted the hosts and in an embarassed synopsis explained why I was cancelling. The ticket is non-refundable.

Granny spent her last ambulatory years (approx 6) living with my mom and sister. When she became bed-ridden Mom could no longer care for her sufficiently and began looking for an assisted-living facility. In the meantime, Granny spent nearly six months in the New Mexico Home for the Aged in Las Vegas. Mom made the 244-mile, round-trip drive several times a week to be with her. I went a couple of times. 

On one of the early visits I watched as Mom spent time with the woman who shared Granny's room. She lay on her back with her thin, arthritic hands held in front of her in a posture similar to a praying mantis; her fingers curled claw-like. She appeared unresponsive, but each time Mom took a few minutes to hold the woman's hands and talk with her. 

As the time neared for Granny's move, I went to help gather her things and do what I could. When I entered her room I was astonished to see her roommate sitting up in bed, eating....holding a bowl and using a spoon. Mom never said much about it, just that, over that six months, with that little bit of touch, the woman had returned to life. I have no idea how old she was; she looked to be in her mid to late eighties.

The other night I dreamt I was running. I knew in my dream it'd been years since I'd been able to run and I was exhilirated. I awoke feeling enthused, not in anticipation, but with the memory of having once been able.

My memory has never been good and now, even sometimes with substantiative promptings, I can't recall things.

I keep notes to try and guage my acuity while speculating about Alzheimer's. The blog serves its purpose as a reference. But lately there's been little exhiliration and that needs to change. Perhaps intermittent cat-lackeying?

The YOUR BRAIN ON ART website

Connie McDonald's massage (Soul Feet Retreat) today in Crescent City was incredible!