Enough with the D word already

I promise this is not going to turn into a "My Diabetes Journey" blog! There are still lots of things related to it that I'm sure I'll be writing about, but getting through this first week has been huge and exhausting and right now I kind of just want to write about other things for awhile.

Like losing weight. I'm obviously a lot more motivated to Just Do It now than I was before, but this is something I've been talking about doing for a long time. Just how much weight do I need to lose? About 40 lbs. That seems like an awful lot to me, and it's hard to believe I've allowed myself to get that fat ... but the reality is, I have. And now it's time to start moving in the opposite direction.

Don't worry – I also do not plan to turn this blog into "My Weight Loss Journey!" But I am, at least occasionally, going to post this little ticker, just to help myself stop wanting to hide so much about it.


It's funny how people are so sensitive about their weight ... when someone is 40 lbs. overweight, it isn't exactly a secret! Still, I'm just as sensitive as the next person, so I'm not going to reveal the actual magical number – just the amount I want to lose, and my progress toward the goal. So far, in the last two weeks, by radically improving my eating and exercise habits, I've lost about 5 lbs. Yay, me!

Although, at the same time, not so much. I know it isn't popular to be fat, and I now believe the people who've been saying it isn't healthy – I had tended to suspect these people were promoting self-hatred and body-oppression for marketing purposes, more than real health concerns – but this morning when I got out of the shower and looked at myself in the mirror, I felt sad to think that my sweet (too sweet, I now know), round little body is already beginning to shrink away. I know I'm not supposed to love myself when I'm fat, but I can't help it! I'm always attracted to large, round, snuggly people ... I want to climb into their laps and hug them, and have even been known to follow certain people around the farmer's market and the grocery store, because even just looking at them makes me feel calm and happy and safe.

I know I need to change, and I will change. But I love my body the way it is, and I do feel sad to be saying goodbye to the way it's been for so long.

Still, being forced to lose weight – that's only one way of looking at it, right? It doesn't have to be this dire and oppressive thing. I could think of it as self-transformation for a good cause! Leaving something behind, yes, but also turning toward or emerging into something new. Better health, longer life (barring accidents, alien abduction, etc.), more energy to do things that are important to me, etc. etc. Plus, it's more socially acceptable to be thin, and when I am, I'll have to get to buy all new clothes! That could be fun.

I've started riding my bike to work again, which feels great. It's lucky I got my diagnosis in spring, when it's so easy to exercise outside – I'll have half a year to get back into good habits before the weather starts turning lousy again. We are buying a treadmill tomorrow, to use early in the mornings in summer (when the afternoons get too hot to do anything), and in winter when I don't feel like riding in the dark and the rain.

This weekend I'm going to sit down with the mountain of literature I've managed to amass and put together some shopping lists and meal plans – also something I've been meaning to do forever. I'm also going to write a letter to my doctor and let him know how I felt about the treatment I've received (actually, not received) from him, and what kind of experience I would have liked to have.

Thanks, everyone, for the kind words and encouragement. I'm taking this seriously, because it is serious, but I'm not really freaking out anymore.

Next week I will get the camera back from Mr. A, upload my photos from last week, and write a trip report.

The diarrhea means it's working

Oh, I’m sorry. Was that too much information for you? Well, welcome to my world – the world of information overload and incessant uncontrollable visions of things I’d really rather not have to see.

Actually, that sounds much more bitter than I really feel. As of this morning I’m actually feeling pretty much back to normal – calm and generally optimistic, with a pleasantly familiar undercurrent of anxiety that now, for a change, finally has a real (not imagined or undefined) target: my diseeeezze.

I tested my blood sugar at home last night for the first time, and again this morning, and the numbers I got have convinced me to give up my hope that this might have been just a lab error or a temporary glitch in my blood-making machinery, and admit to myself that the diagnosis was correct.

I’m diabetic. There. I said it.

So I’ve tested myself twice and taken my pill twice, and if the side effect (luckily there’s only been one so far) is anything to judge by, the medication is indeed producing the usual result. Today is not so bad as yesterday though, and apparently for a lot of people this particular effect doesn’t last long anyway, so I’m hoping my body adjusts to it quickly and I can go back to my regular routine of waking up at night only to pee … And supposedly, once I get my sugar under control, that routine will also go away and I’ll once more be able to sleep all night without waking up to pee at all, which I haven’t done in probably at least five or six years.

That’s why I never thought of it as a symptom, you see. Because it’s been going on for a long time, and up until about three years ago (the last time it was tested) my blood glucose was always well within normal, healthy range.

Anyway. I’m getting used to the idea that the changes I’ve made over the last couple of weeks are going to have to be permanent, and that this is probably not such a bad thing. Losing weight, learning to eat better*, exercising a lot more – these are all good things, things I should be doing anyway.

*About the eating better part – I’ve never been big on junk food, don’t really enjoy soda, and except for a sweet tooth I usually eat pretty healthy. My eating problems are more related to portion size (trying to keep up with a man who’s a foot taller than me and over 60 lbs. heavier) and timing. Ever since I started this job my eating schedule has been completely insane – skipping meals, eating late, eating the weird food that people leave lying around the office … So my goal for today’s visit with the dietician is to come up with a schedule and several lists – what to eat for each meal, what time to eat, what to eat before or after exercise, how to correlate carbs and calories and exercise with the numbers that are showing up on my meter …

It is kind of interesting and exciting to have a big new topic to research. And I have to admit that I’m more than a little fascinated with the meter, and already feeling energized by the challenge of figuring out exactly what I need to do to start bringing those numbers down. It’s possible (probable) that there will be times when I feel anxious and depressed about my lack of progress, but I’m not going to worry about that now. Right now I’m going to try to just stay in “curious” mode and keep learning as much as I can.

I did talk to my little brother last night, and he was awesome. He said he diagnoses this almost every single day in his practice, and that the things I need to do are all things I can do, and that if I do them, there’s no reason to think I won’t live just as long and be just as healthy as anyone else. The people who tend to have complications are the ones who don’t take the diagnosis seriously, or who won’t or can’t follow the lifestyle changes. Which I can. And will.

Right now I’m feeling very hungry and a little dizzy. I’m still kind of afraid to eat anything, but after my appointment I expect to know more about what to do about that. I read somewhere that being overweight and being diabetic are related, but the causal relationship is being called into question by several recent studies – meaning, being overweight appears to trigger diabetes in people who have the gene, but it’s also possible that diabetes may contribute to people being overweight, because it makes you hungry all the time. That’s definitely been the case for me – I’m constantly hungry, even right after I’ve eaten. Essentially, being diabetic means that the glucose stays in your blood instead of going into cells where it can be used as fuel, so hunger and food cravings (especially for sweets, my greatest weakness) are the body’s way of trying to get the energy it’s lacking. Eating more raises your blood sugar even more, etc. etc. … Crazy! The good news is that supposedly, once I get my sugar under control, my appetite will go back to normal and I won’t always feel like I’m starving all the time. Something to look forward to.

Another good thing to come of this is that it’s given me an idea for something I might like to do with myself one of these days (assuming I’m ever able to quit this job and go back to school) – and that is, to become some kind of health educator. I’ve always loved teaching but don’t want to be involved in the school system, public or private – and I don’t really love kids enough to want to be around them all day. I’m also interested in counseling and psychology, but I absorb other people’s energy too easily to ever think it would be a good idea to plan on spending my entire work life around people with serious mental health problems. But teaching people about their health – that might be a good way to go. I thought of it while I was reading the pamphlets I got from the nurse on Monday. Somebody has to write that stuff, right? Somebody also needs to write my doctor a one-sheet to give people when they’re diagnosed, with phone numbers and websites and suggested reading and all that stuff – I was shocked he didn’t offer me anything like that. And somebody has to sit down with people who are freaking out at a new diagnosis (like I’ve been doing all week) and help them calm down and figure out what they need to do. I think I could be good at all those things.

So maybe being diagnosed as diabetic really isn’t the end of the world. And no, I’m not going to say, “Maybe … it’s only the beginning.” That would be corny!

What Are You Grateful For?

That's the text of a bumper sticker on the car that was in front of me as I drove to the pharmacy this afternoon to pick up my first-ever prescription for Metformin, 500 mgs. You can look that up if you don't know what it's for. Personally, I am not ready yet to say the word, or apply it to myself. If you don't mind, I'm going to spend at least a few more days Not Saying it at all.

I feel guilty and afraid and incredibly pissed off. I took a sick day today just to give myself time to freak out in the privacy of my own home – to cry and wail and smash flowerpots against the back wall with an old axe handle. That did seem to help some. I feel calmer, at least for the moment. Other things I did today:

1. Woke up way too early, in semi-panic mode, just like I used to do when my anxiety disorder was in full bloom lo these many years ago. Charming.

2. Waited almost three hours before being able to call in sick, because the voicemail at my office was not working for some reason.

3. Spent six hours online, trolling for information and support.

4. Agonized over whether to eat anything, what to eat, when to eat it, how much to eat, etc. etc., and over the fact that I will never be able to relax about eating ever again for the rest of my life.

5. Finally did eat a little of the tuna salad Mr. A made for me last night, felt better, and realized that yeah, learning how to "manage my blood sugar" probably will make me feel better than I've felt in a really long time.

6. Talked on the phone to a nurse from my doctor's office, who was heartbreakingly kind and called on her own initiative because she saw how upset I was yesterday and had gathered some more information and phone numbers for me, and set up a private appointment for me to see the registered dietician who's only really supposed to see people in a group class – the next series of which doesn't begin for another TWO MONTHS.

7. Talked to the registered dietician, who also sounds very kind and reassuring, a real take-charge kind of person, which is exactly what I want right now.

8. Decided to change doctors. My current one has never struck me as especially warm or engaging, and after yesterday I've realized this relationship is just not going to work for me at all. He started our visit by asking me (as I sat on an uncomfortably crumply tissue paper sheet, vulnerable and naked and only half-covered by a ridiculously small "gown") how I felt. "I feel totally fine," I said. Which I did. "Well, you're not fine," he replied. "You have __ (the word I don't want to say right now)." It felt like a slap in the face, the way he said it. Under the circumstances though I decided to let that go, and launched into my questions – I'd done several hours of research before my appointment – which he responded to very briefly, almost sort of just brushing me off, and finally by saying, "You sure ask a lot of questions." Well, yeah! I'm trying to understand what I need to do about this supposedly life-threatening medical condition you've just told me I have! At the end of the appointment he left me with a prescription, a flyer for some stupid class at the hospital that doesn't even start until June (I later found out), and instructions to come back in a month. A nurse left me a voicemail later with a phone number for some organization that will send me a glucometer, but I have no idea how often I'm supposed to test, or how to use the meter, or what to do with the information when I have it (that's all going to be explained in the class, which – did I mention this? – does not start until JUNE). I'm totally freaking out, and I'm getting nothing from him. I'm outta there.

9. Took Tater for a half-hour walk at a moderate pace.

10. Ate one cup of Cheerios with a half-cup of 2% milk (total carbs: 27) and got in the car to go pick up my prescription.

At which point I saw that bumper sticker, which reminded me that really, despite the crazy-scary-enraged mega-tsunami of emotions I'm being battered around in right now, I am actually, at this moment, still alive, and lucky enough to have access to health-care (though that's one of my greatest worries right now – have I just become permanently uninsurable? Am I ever going to be able to go into business for myself now?), and there are plenty of things still to be grateful for – not the least of which is the fact that now that I know why I've been feeling generally crappy and lackluster for so long, maybe I'll finally be able to start feeling better. Everyone on the message boards says they feel better now than they ever did, even before they had it – you basically HAVE to take care of yourself or suffer dire consequences. Plus, once I lose all this weight I'll look so much better naked. So I guess you could say I'm motivated.

Motivated, but still just totally overwhelmed and exhausted, and fairly weepy and anxious, and just generally wanting to Not talk about it, or think about it, or tell anyone (Mr. A already knows, and has been living up to his name – Mr. Amazing, which is what the A stands for, in case you'd forgotten).

Tonight I have to start taking this medication, which is reported to cause nausea, vomiting and diarrhea. So that'll be fun. Tomorrow my meter should arrive in the mail, after which I can begin stabbing myself on a regular basis ... although I still don't know how regular, since my &#% doctor has neglected to give me any instructions on its use. Luckily I will be seeing the dietician on Thursday, and she specializes in this particular condition so I'm hoping to get some good information from her. And possibly a referral to a different doctor. Maybe that guy who talked to me when I called the hospital last week – he seemed like a gentle, compassionate type.

One thing my doctor did say that I was happy to hear was that all the other numbers in my blood work were excellent, and so were my circulation, reflexes, ears, eyes, heart, and everything else he looked at. He said he was shocked when he saw that one particular number; apparently I'm in very good health except for my blood sugar. He also said that if I do everything I'm supposed to do, I will most likely not have to be on medication for very long, and that most people can live just as long and healthy a life with this condition as without it, if they take good care of themselves.

Ugh. I'm tired of thinking about this for now. I will close with this text from the front cover of the May issue of Shambhala Sun, which I happened to pick up at the pharmacy because it has Alice Walker on the cover – and I love that woman.

Alice Walker: This is the best of all times to be alive.

Pema Chodron (one of my heroes): Why we have to turn our usual way of thinking completely upside down.

Traleg Rinpoche: Training your mind to turn adversity into awakening.

Susan Piver: Why more openness means less fear (something I already know works - hence, this blog).

When I opened the issue to flip through and see if I really wanted to buy it, the first words that caught my eye were, "Let difficulty transform you. And it will. In my experience, we just need help in learning how not to run away."

Largely because of my meditation practice, I can say I'm much less afraid of life than I've ever been before, and more willing to be transformed – which is good, because my life is going to be different now than it was before yesterday, whether I want it to be or not. I don't really have the option of running away from this; it's something that has to be faced, and right now – not later, when I feel "ready" or "motivated" or whatever. Today.

And to the person who commented yesterday, thank you. I feel stronger being able to share. If it makes someone else feel less alone, I'm glad. It makes me feel less alone, too.
diabetes

Whistling in the dark

I'm back from a fabulous trip to the Southwest, rested, relaxed and rejuvenated. This is a good thing, because half way to the airport last week I got a call from my doctor's office that scared the bejeezus out of me. The nurse informed me that my doctor wanted me to go in right away for more blood work – they had just received the results from the tests I'd had done the day before, in preparation for a routine physical I have scheduled for today, and the numbers were not good. One number in particular was so far off (all others being more or less within normal range) that they thought there might have been a mistake at the lab. They wanted to re-do the test so they'd have the second set of results back in time for my appointment today.

Of course I couldn't go back to the hospital that day, so instead I spent the next two hours until my flight left freaking out and crying and calling anyone I could think of who might be able to shed some light on the situation, about which I knew basically nothing except that my HDL and iron were a tad low, and my glucose was high enough to inspire an unscheduled call from my doctor. I did finally get someone at the hospital to talk to me (the nurse from my doctor's office must've called me just seconds before closing the office for the day), and after that I felt calm enough to sit in an uncomfortable airport chair and attempt to read my magazine, hiccuping and hiding my red eyes behind an enormous pair of sunglasses.

This is the kind of thing I used to write about in my other blogs – the stuff that feels really personal, the stuff I instinctively want to hide. More than that, it's the stuff I'm ashamed of. I need to lose some weight, and I need to exercise more. I've known this for a long time. I just never thought it was urgent. I'm fat, but I'm not all that fat. Or am I? Maybe I'm just so used to it, and used to not feeling all that great, that I don't even notice it anymore. When those television reports about the obesity epidemic show enormous people waddling down the street with a bacon double cheeseburger in one hand and a 64-oz. Pepsi in the other, I look at myself in the mirror on my closet door and think, "I don't look like that." But maybe I do.

But I really don't think I do. I don't weigh 300 pounds. I don't even weigh 200 pounds. Still, I guess it isn't so much the number on the scale that matters, but the way each individual body responds to being overweight and under-exercised. I keep trying to think of this as a challenge and an opportunity – I can research exercise and nutrition, apply what I learn, and finally start feeling better again. Sometimes I feel like I've been exhausted for years ... that's why I scheduled a physical in the first place.

Anyway, I'm scared. And when I get scared I always want to hide, and when I hide, nothing gets resolved. So I'm writing about it instead. I have no idea how serious this is going to turn out to be, but even if it turns out there was a lab error (which I have a terrible feeling is not going to be the case), I'm sufficiently scared to start finally making these changes. Meanwhile, I'm trying not to entertain all the horrible visions that keep pushing into my mind – for example, me with an oozing kidney transplant wound and both feet chopped off, blind and bald and strapped to a dialysis machine that looks like the gurney they put people on for a lethal injection.

Yeah, how's THIS for a cheery Monday afternoon topic of conversation!

Isn't it funny how just when I finally start feeling like I have a decent command of my tendency toward drama, something happens to test my new-found confidence? The fit of crying at the airport was understandable and maybe even kind of therapeutic, but it did feel a little drawn out. Probably if I'd been at home, or someplace where I could thoroughly melt down and get it out of my system, it wouldn't have lasted as long ... I really felt the extra stress of attempting to hold myself together when all I really wanted to do was fall into bed and wail.

It's also funny that I feel more nervous about all this being read and known by people who know me in real life, than by people who don't. Why do I care so much what people think of me? I half want to just delete this whole post, and write about it only after I know exactly what is going on – maybe not even then. But part of the purpose of putting any of this stuff online in the first place is to try to wean myself of the habit of shame, by simply stating the truth without judging myself or making excuses. I've been lazy, I got fat, and now I'm seeing some health consequences. Feeling some anxiety and regret over these facts seems kind of inevitable, but wallowing in shame would be pointless. I've already changed my diet and exercise (for a whole week already!), I'm reading everything I can find, I'm seeing my doctor in less than an hour, and, and ... well, I'm doing everything I can at this moment to make things better. For this moment, that will have to be enough.

Well. All this is neither here nor there. I'm leaving for my appointment in 20 minutes, and even with new blood work done this morning I don't know if they'll have enough information to tell me anything I don't already know – namely, that I need to lose weight, exercise, be rigorous with my diet, and (undoubtedly) come back for more tests and followup.

I've been feeling like I didn't have anything interesting going on in my life to write about lately. Be careful what you ask for, eh?

P.S. One of these days I'll write about the trip, too.
diabetes

Rich and mighty (me?)

Augh! Today Julie wrote about the possibly impending demise (though it may yet be saved!) of a club she likes, and cited this monstrosity as a contributing factor. Go take a look!

Now seriously – how does anyone live in a place like this? As I said in my comment to her post, I would have to be a cadaver to be comfortable in a kitchen like that, and the artist's rendering of the living room makes me feel anxious, like I'm perpetually either about to miss my flight or plummet to my death. As for the views – it's never struck me so much as today, but looking out over the Manhattan skyline (I assume that's what it is) all I can think is that living in a huge city must be very much like living in the desert – vast expanses of sheer, unclimbable cliffs and hard, unhospitable terrain, with little vivid oases of life tucked in here and there and a lot going on under the surface ... Beautiful and windy and harsh up there above all those buildings, I would think.

But no, no penthouse suite for me, no thank you. I like to keep both feet more or less on the ground.

Anyway, it was funny to see that today because I was already kind of working myself up to a rant about the rich and frivolous (you should stop reading right here if you don't like my pissy, self-righteous side), in response to a piece I've been working on about someone I know who's building a 15,000 square foot replica of a certain famous house that used to be here (now destroyed), and the fund-raising party (for the organization whose board I quit last fall) featuring, among other things, views of the behemoth-in-progress and an abundant (one might even say over the top) menu of auction items including four days of luxury accommodations for six at the Burning Man Arts Festival in Black Rock City, Nevada.

That last item ... I don't know why that makes me so mad, but somehow it just freaks me out to think of anyone who would go to THIS party, also going to THAT party. Or really, not so much GOING to it, but paying someone else (via a donation) to take them there and pamper them, rather than making the arrangements themselves and actually participating in the spirit of the event, i.e., radical self-reliance and a GIFT economy (not purchase economy!).

I know, I know, I'm way too uptight about these things. But you know, I've seen the books – for six years I saw them – and I know what they bring in on an event like that, and I have to say – all these self-congratulatory people partying for a cause ... god bless them for contributing anything at all, because a lot of people who have homes here don't participate in the community at all. But I think of the houses this person already has, and I can't help thinking – what if, instead of building yet another super-ginormous tribute to his own Wealth and Taste (and ostensibly, a Cherished Legacy to the Future Citizens of This Valley), he were to take the money he's spending on this new project, and give that to the organization?

Yeah, I have issues about money! Lately I'm even more fascinated than usual by the uber-rich folks I know around here, because I've become a little obsessed about my own financial future, and in trying to figure out the best way to take care of myself when I'm old and gray (should I be lucky enough to live so long) it's occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, having an awful lot of money isn't necessarily the worst thing I could try to aim for while I'm still reasonably young and more-or-less able-bodied.

I guess I've always just felt like it was wrong to put so much energy into amassing great amounts of money, when there were so many other worthwhile things to do that were not getting done. Like it was selfish to spend time on that goal, and to spend money on things I don't really need, when I could instead be spending time helping other people.

But now I'm trying to see if it might be possible to look at it from a different perspective. If I had more money, I wouldn't necessarily have to spend it all on frivolous and extravagant purchases for myself. I could spend it on frivolous and extravagant purchases for my friends, as well. If I had more money, I would be better able to take care of myself when I'm old. I'd also be better able to help other people – friends, family, community. Like those folks on the hill do.

Somehow (I know I've already said this recently) it feels to me like right now things are trying to happen with my career. Another sign: last Thursday I got home from work and found a door-hanger on my front doorknob, announcing that Comcast is FINALLY extending their network down our road, and when I called the 800 number for details, I found out that service should be available at my house (that's broadband, baby!) within the next month or so.

Which means that the biggest obstacle to expanding my own network of clients and side-projects is soon to be no more, which means it now begins to make sense to invest in new software and equipment and business cards, and build myself a real website, and join the local professional organization, and figure out the taxes and deductions, etc. etc. – which means that this might actually be the year when I finally begin to take myself seriously as a Professional Artist and Business Owner, instead of thinking of myself as a semi-faker who never went to school for art, who sort of fell into this line of work and does a nice enough job of it, and bills it out so cheap she still gets clients anyway, every once in awhile.

Not that I expect to get rich this way, or at least, not rich enough to build a 15,000 square foot house. But I wouldn't mind getting some real curtains up in the living room one of these days.

Anyway! Tomorrow I leave for the Mesa Verde trip. I did finally get a new camera and have spent about a week learning how to use its many interesting features, so I'm hoping to have lots of nice pictures to share when I get back.

P.S. That fluff piece I wrote is publishing in a couple of weeks. Fluff or no fluff – I'm pretty happy with it. That feels good.

P.S.2. In the near future I want to write about my habit of vigorously resisting certain kinds of change, and digging in my heels whenever anything is trying to happen very fast in my life. It has been referred to by certain persons as "a tendency to not go for it," or more popularly as "driving with the emergency brake on," which sounds about right. I want to figure out what that feeling is all about, and how I can let it go. Just the fact that I'm starting to want to let it go feels like a big step in a direction I think I'm going to like!

Taming the Jeeps

Julie commented that in yesterday’s picture of Tater, he looks almost human. And I just wanted to confirm: he really does! It’s something I’ve always loved about him – this way he has of looking at me when I’m talking to him, as if he actually understands, or is trying to understand, what I’m saying. And actually, he does understand a lot, at least about things that concern him. He often surprises me by doing something that shows he’s been listening, even when I wasn’t even talking to him – for example, I’ll tell Mr. A I’m ready to go somewhere, and suddenly there’s Tater standing at the door, even though I haven’t gotten up from the couch or started putting on my shoes or anything.

The Jeeps is totally different, and not just because he can’t hear anymore. He’s never taken any interest at all in what I say to him – all he wants is Milkbones. When I talk to Tater, he makes eye contact, and there’s an intelligent, alert expression in his eyes. He has a million different facial expressions and even little sounds he makes sometimes, that make it seem like he’s trying to communicate the same way I do, even though I have no idea what he’s trying to “say.” Jeepers mostly just stares with the same dull, determined expression, no matter what I’m saying. He doesn’t care what i’m trying to tell him. He only wants to know: “Can I eat it?”

I don’t think this is because Tater is smart and Jeepers is not. I think it’s because I met Tater when he was only a few hours old, and have been holding, petting, and talking to him almost every single day of his life ever since, whereas the Jeeps spent the first ten or so years of his life with Mr. A’s uncle, a curmudgeonly gentleman of the old skool who loved him in his own way but (reportedly) rarely even talked to him and certainly never threw him a birthday party, took him to restaurants, taught him how to find the stairs in a swimming pool, or let him sleep on the bed with his head on his own down pillow. The Jeeps was never socialized the way Tater was.

Although this seems to be changing somewhat, a result of my civilizing influence in the household, I think. For three and a half years I’ve continued to talk to the Jeeps whether he responds or not, and have even succeeded (very slowly) in turning him on to the pleasures of heavy petting and super-snuggling. One of the first times I had the opportunity to be close to the Jeeps in the house we now share, I made a sudden movement he didn’t approve of, and he bit me in the face and gave me a huge black eye. Since then I’ve managed to socialize him to the point where he smiles and puts his ears up when I get home, and the other night he actually came to me and asked to be snuggled – something he never used to do. Once recently he even kissed me on the chin while I was snoozing on the couch, so gently I almost didn’t feel it. But when I opened my eyes, there he was, grinning at me.

“Do you need a Milkbone?” I asked.

He didn’t run to the kitchen. Instead, he burrowed his head under my hand and asked for a pet. That was a cool moment. I’m good at taming wild creatures.

Lately I’ve decided that more touch would be good for him, so in addition to his arthritis medicine and supplements, he’s now getting a good ten to twenty minutes or more a day of gentle massage (I’ve been doing this already with Tater, all his life). It’s heartbreaking to feel how atrophied some of his muscles have become, especially in his hips and thighs – on the right side, there’s basically nothing left but bone, skin and fur. And he’s very lumpy and asymetrical, as lots of elderly dogs are. But I have to say, it’s very gratifying to see him stretch out into position when I sit down on the floor next to him, and to hear his groans of pleasure when I smooth out an especially stiff spot.

The photo above is of the Jeeps standing on the bank of our flooded creek during the New Year's storm of 2006. I love the way the grass and sand are swirling around his feet. The piece of land he's standing on is about ten feet above the usual level of water in the creek.

Mr. Whiskers

Would you take a look at those white eyebrows? Those are new. People have been asking me all his life if he's old, because he's always had those silvery whiskers around his lips. Now he really is starting to get old – not OLD exactly, but you know, nine. He'll be nine years old on June first.

If he's like most dogs I know, someday his whole face will be white.

Again

My brother just emailed me to let me know that this guy, one of his best friends from high school and my friend too, died of a massive heart attack over the weekend while walking along a Manhattan street with his wife and two little kids (5 and 6). He was carrying his little boy on his shoulders, got dizzy and set the kid down, then just fell down and died. It happened across the street from a hospital, so response time wasn't really a factor – there just wasn't anything that could be done to save him. He was 40, the same age as my brother. A year younger than me.

My brother always had nice friends, but Tom was my favorite. I don't know if anyone ever knew that. He was one of the sweetest guys I remember from high school. Funny, smart, adorable, etc. etc. etc. I would've allowed myself a major crush on him if he hadn't been my brother's friend. I found this picture of him online. He was some kind of amazing analyst in the financial industry. Lots of quotes, forecasts and interviews when I googled him.

So, yeah. How many friends is this now who have died this spring? I hadn't seen him in almost 25 years, but my brother used to have dinner with him whenever he was in New York. I guess I always thought that out of all the people from high school that I never bothered to keep in touch with, he was one I might actually see again, and be glad to see again. It makes me realize there are still more people in the world that I would be sad to hear had died, and that I ought to track them down and say hello. At least one person comes to mind ... my friend Angie, who I still hear about via her mom's Christmas letter to my parents. She would probably love it if I emailed her out of the blue one day.

Sometimes I feel so exhausted by my relationships. Even the people I love the most, I don't keep in touch with very often. I still haven't told my father about this blog. Now I'm thinking maybe I will do that on this trip next week – the Mesa Verde trip. Still, opening parts of my life up to the world online is not the same as really being In Contact with people. To do that, I would have to live there. Wouldn't I? Or would I? How do people keep their relationships strong over distance and time? How did I develop this disconnected way of loving people?

I've written elsewhere about this feeling I have of having grown up in some kind of exile – my mom's longing to be in Utah, closer to family and the sense of support she thought she would feel there that she didn't feel (I guess) in Moscow. I always had the feeling that the life we had there wasn't our "real" life – it was just where we lived, because my dad's job was there, but it was never our real home, the place where we were meant to be. That sense of distance has been with me everywhere I've ever lived. For a long time I thought it was because there was something wrong with me, that it was somehow my own fault for not being a good enough person. These days I'm more inclined to think it's just a way people feel sometimes, part of the normal spectrum of human emotion – the feeling that something is missing. Lately it seems like it's been a major theme of this blog, too. Kind of a bummer to some people, I suppose, but something I'm interested in exploring.

The other part is interesting too though – the part where you feel real, whole, alive. I've spent so much of my life focusing on the stillness, trying to cultivate calmness, equanimity, a sense of inner peace. People actually say it to me now – "You're so grounded, so peaceful." Once every couple of weeks or so, probably, someone makes that comment to me. I always used to take it as a compliment (I think usually it's meant as one) but lately I'm starting to wonder. Are other people's lives or souls really all that much less peaceful than mine? Am I really peaceful, or am I just boring? I know that at least one person in my life (Mr. A) sometimes feels, when I fail to freak out over something he thinks is freak-worthy, that I'm either not understanding the situation or not taking it seriously enough, or that I don't care as much as I should (not true, but maybe others see me the same way?). And is that the best thing I can think of to want out of my life? Peace and quiet?

I think for several years my life was in such disarray, at least emotionally, that my answer would have been "yes." Not so much anymore, though. Stillness and quiet are still what I find myself naturally settling into when there's nobody around to influence me in another direction. That's why it was so stressful to have my friend's child around – she's all about noise, movement, chaos, exploration. But it's good to shake it up a little too, every once in awhile. On the other hand, enthusiasm and excitement about life are not the same as drama. Drama, I've had my fill of. Drama I can do without, mostly. (Re. my friend & kiddo: "a couple days" at chez moi turned into a week and a half, at which point they moved into a new place here, without the husband, who remains in Arizona. I don't know if he'll be back or not. Speaking of stress.)

I guess what I'm getting at here is this: I want to live while I'm alive. Right now it feels like I'm wanting a little more activity, vitality, connection, creation, color, flavor, fire. I need to stretch more, maybe even sweat a little. Doesn't it seem like I'm always saying this?

Anyway. Tonight I'm going to help a friend hive a swarm of wild bees that's hanging on a bush in his back yard. That oughtta be good for a little excitement.

P.S. Since I'm already writing about death (that sounds so harsh, even though it just is what it is. Should I say "end of life?"), I will report that the Jeeps is continuing to decline at an ever-increasing rate. The latest development is that he's starting to have real trouble standing, walking, or doing anything else that requires the use of his back legs. Last week I took him in for a cortisone shot and we've started him on Rimadyl twice a day, which seems to be helping somewhat, at least for now. He's still in good spirits though, enjoying (demanding) his dinner and attempting to leap and cavort in his usual fashion whenever Milkbones are in view. I've rarely met anyone with such joie de vivre. It's kind of an inspiration.

Bullseye (I felt my compassion returning)

Happy Easter weekend.

All week I've been wanting – desperately desiring – to document the actions of (and my reactions to) my three-year-old house guest. All week I've refrained, because ... well, for lots of reasons. Mainly, it's because I know she's only a little kid, and she's stressing out even more than I am right now. Also, that she lacks the emotional experience and skills to deal with her feelings in a constructive and positive way, and that I should therefore cut her some slack.

In addition, I don't like to reveal to my adoring public just how easy it is to get a rise out of me, sometimes. Equanimity? Bah! All it takes is a new purple stain on my best down pillow, or the entire new crop of tiny green Meyer lemons plucked from my precious baby trees, or a forbidden cup of carrot juice sneaked into my bed (where it spilled and dried, leaving an enormous orange stain), or a stolen packet of sticky red Emergen-C powder sprinkled liberally all over the damp and humid bathroom ...

Any one of these or a thousand other small disasters might have been enough to make my brain explode. Added together, and combined with near-constant whining and screaming (primarily at bedtime) ... ugh. I can't talk about it. Except to say that I think it really must be different when it's your own kid, or at least a kid you love (like my nieces and nephews and a few other friends' kids), and when you're in your own home with a stable routine and the ability to arrange your world (or at least your bedroom) in a way that allows and encourages safe exploration without sacrificing beauty, tranquillity or the ability to get a decent half night's sleep every couple of nights or so.

I'm really tired right now.

But I'm getting over being pissed off. The other night we were trying to watch a movie, with the kid stretched out next to us – supposedly "falling asleep" but in reality whining, talking, and kicking her feet against the arm of the couch. It had been a long day already and all I wanted was a half hour or so of peace before I went to bed ... but it wasn't gonna happen. I was finally just about at the point where I was ready to abandon the movie and go hide out in my room, when I heard her say, "I miss daddy."

Somehow when she said that, I suddenly started feeling a little more kindly toward her. I don't totally understand everything that's going on with her daddy, but I do know him well enough to know that she's very likely in for a lifetime of disappointments wherever he's concerned.

Anyway. Ever since I saw her from that perspective it's been easier to bring myself back to the way I want to be in this kind of situation: calm, kind, understanding, firm. She isn't trying to make my life difficult. She's just a very young human whose entire world has been thrown into disarray over the last few weeks, and she's expressing her upsetness. It isn't about me. What is about me is the anger I feel when she does something I don't like. So I'm trying to look at that, and figure out what it's really about.

I really am too tired to write about this right now, but I will come back to it. Also, I have a small but painful sore or zit or something right between my eyebrows – that's the bullseye mentioned in the title. It's making me feel like I can't concentrate on anything but that spot.

About the article – I was right, a hundred bucks is not enough. The interview did take about an hour but getting my notes transcribed and shaped up into something printable was more like two and a half hours. So if you count travel time, that's a total of about four hours' work, or $25 per hour. That might seem great to someone who still gets a thrill out of seeing their name in print, but I got over that part years ago (actually, I'm probably using a pseudonym for this one). Possibly in this case my standards for myself were too high; it's just an extended blurb, really, not Great Art. I still think I could get it down to between two and three hours, once I'm back in practice. If nothing else, it's still a hundred bucks I didn't have before, and a lot of the people they have lined up to talk to are actually kind of interesting. Plus, I'd enjoy shaking my work routine up a little right now.

And finally, I realized today that I still have time before Easter to make an embarrassing confession: I've totally abandoned my Lent/spring training thing and am back to my same old habit of sleeping and dreaming as much as I can. Well, not exactly – I'm still getting up a little earlier than I really have to, which I never used to do. In that sense, I guess I have made a change. But not a very big one.

I'm still going to call the experiment a success, though. I learned some things that I think are worth knowing. First, I confirmed my belief that I really do feel much better when I have enough quality sleep and dream time, so that's something I need to make more of a priority. In fact, I've decided to get a new bed now (the new stains on my current bed are also a bit of a factor here).

Also, I've realized that even though there's always the same amount of time in every day, getting up earlier really does make me feel like I have more time – a lot more time! How does that work? Something I will continue to investigate throughout this holiday weekend and beyond.