This fragile body

Being sick makes me feel very vulnerable and human. No natural protection, like claws or a shell. It is just me, uncomfortable, in this fragile body. I've been ill for about a week. I even went to the ER, though I think even that was more out of fear than pain. A very dismissive doctor did nothing to assuage my anxiety. He looked at my body, but not my expression. He missed the signs that I needed something other than a CT scan with contrast. Just for a moment, I needed him to pause and pat my hand. Such a simple gesture would have gone a long way. I could write an entire chapter about the state of physical and mental health care, but I won't. I'm too tired and my belly hurts. Instead, I'll just say this: I need a hug. I need a very fluffy throw. I need an icee, or chamomile tea. I need a pat on the hand. I'm easy. I simply need someone to say, "I see you. You're going to be ok."

Welcome to the Thunderdome

During Trump's speech last night, a reporter asked a young man what motivated him to vote for Trump. He said he'd been watching Harris/Walz events on TV and the net. He came to his final decision because he thought the Dem ticket seemed, "too good to be true." Have a little think on that for a second. I'll wait. In other news, medicines that fight disease seem too good to be true so I'm voting for the Cancer/Covid ticket.

Into the Blinding Light of the Unknown

While making coffee this morning, my mind drifts to memories of firsts. I love hazelnut creamer in a very dark brew. I vividly remember the first time I drank a cup of coffee this way. I lived in the birthplace of Washington Irving, and worked in a biodynamic farming community. My first girlfriend fixed me the best cup of coffee I'd ever tasted. I thought it tasted like love. As it turns out, it would become one of the few warm memories I have of that little house. She was another first. My first "girlfriend." I met her at a small potluck dinner. She took my breath away. Her buzzcut paired with her doe eyes with long lashes and her pink, heart shaped lips. The combination of gender play was intoxicating. I'm a bit conflicted, admitting that I knew before the night was over that I was going to leave my husband and run away with her. She hadn't asked but I knew. Once in New York state, our relationship became brittle and unforgiving. Still, standing in our pj's in our little kitchen for the first time, learning each other's favorite tastes, is a very sweet memory. I'll be forever grateful for the opportunity to leap off the edge of the known, into the blinding light of the unknown.

Welcome to the World, Baby Blog!

Welcome to the World, Baby Blog! Although I've been on Blogger since 2011, this month felt like the right time for a fresh start. I cleared most of my posts, so here goes. Ready or not, a baby monkey says...

Renegade Hand

I once read an article about a rare disorder called "Alien Hand Syndrome". It's usually associated with a brain trauma, like an infection or a stroke. Usually, but not always. It happens like this -- One hand becomes alien to the body, working independently from the rest. You might not even know it is happening until you catch a bit of movement from the corner of your eye, only to discover that your own left hand is flapping away, wild and untamed. Here's the part that is most frightening: some people with this disorder report that the hand doesn't just operate independently, it undoes what the first hand has done. It may be discovered sneaking up behind the first hand, unbuttoning buttons or unzipping zippers. It may catch a door just before it latches. It may jerk the wheel into oncoming traffic. This hand, this alien hand, becomes a renegade. I think about this condition from time to time, the renegade hand. I wonder if this unlikely condition could be to blame for some of my misadventures. Maybe it's the hand that reached up and unraveled an otherwise quiet life. Maybe it's the hand that pushed his button or poked her bruise. Maybe it's the hand that tipped the glass of red wine onto the cream-colored rug or dropped that burning cigarette. Maybe this renegade hand is to blame for the wild and untamed condition of my life. Maybe this renegade hand is to blame for the wild and untamed condition of my hair. Hmm. I suppose that does seem rather unlikely.

This used to be me

This used to be me. Another life.