Category: Family

Was lost and now am found

~ Linda Wright ~ 1 Comment

A little while ago someone rang our doorbell. Most of the time that means when I open the door I will see a child trying to raise money for some thing, a Jehovah Witness, or someone wanting a signature on a petition.

This afternoon though, the woman standing at the door said “Are you the owner of Norman?” She said someone posted on the neighborhood association’s Facebook page that Norman the tortoise was missing. The woman at my door wanted to know if we had found Norman. She thought the Facebook page gave our address.

This strikes me as odd on so many levels. Why would this woman drive to someone’s house to see if they had found their missing tortoise? Was she coming to offer her sympathy or just curious? Am I mistaken or could a tortoise really move quick enough to make a break for freedom? And how could anything that big be lost? Does my neighborhood have an organization,and a Facebook page? If so shouldn’t someone have told me?

Of course the existential question is why would Norman leave home without even saying goodbye. After a little research on Facebook, I discovered that Norman’s family had taken him to a park. The park is in a nearby neighborhood — one that actually has a Facebook page. Norman’s family live somewhere not far from us but they did not give their address. Anyway, I hope the woman who rang our doorbell re-checked the Facebook page because Norman was found a little while ago. And now that I’ve seen a photo of him, I can see he does have an adventuring personality.

Where Did I Go Wrong?

Statue of person holding drooping head with one hand
~ Linda Wright

Tuesday morning I telephoned the doctor. I’d stayed awake most of the night wondering what I could have done that would cause my right shoulder to hurt. I certainly did not want to get an infusion of clotting factor, we had been enjoying a month at the beach and we had been there less than a week. I wasn’t actually sure I had a bleed in my shoulder joint. “It might just be arthritic pain from an old injury,” I said to the answering machine and asked the doctor to decide if I should get an infusion. The recorded message promised that a nurse would get back to me soon.

It had been years since pain in this shoulder had kept me awake. The first time I had an x-ray that showed previous injuries, joint damage, but not active bleeding. I went to a physical therapist and the pain eventually subsided although it came back whenever I didn’t keep the exercises up. I had no memory of a bleed in that shoulder, but the x-ray was proof.

The older I get the more previous injuries become painful. I feel ashamed that I can’t tell the difference each time a doctor says, “Why didn’t you call me sooner?” The implication is that I was in denial. That is probably at least partly true. However, I have also had false alarms and then the doctor’s scornful reproach implies hypochondria.

The next time I had pain in that shoulder was when we moved to Florida six years ago. That time I tried to return to the exercises but the pain got worse by the day. I had been packing and hefting books for our move to Florida. Motivated to meet the deadline for packing I suppressed my doubts until the pain became so intense I had no choice but to go to the Emergency Room and get infused. The doctor told me to rest the shoulder and wrote a prescription for a narcotic pain medication. Resting was not an option. The movers were coming in a day or two and we would be loading the car and driving south to Florida from Massachusetts whether my arm had healed or not.

We arrived in Tallahassee a few days before the moving van and settled the cat in our new house before the three of us checked into a motel. The next few days we spent shopping for essentials and delivering them to the house. We made frequent trips to the house to feed and reassure the cat. My arms loaded with supplies I missed a step and landed on the paved walkway to our new front door. Not only did I smash my glasses, bruising my face, I hit my right knee and landed on my shoulder, the same shoulder that had been injured packing books. That time it took several re-infusions of fibrinogen to subside and the doctor instructed me not to lift anything over five pounds.

So after calling the doctor’s office on Tuesday morning I waited, and waited, and waited. No return call as promised. Wednesday morning I called again and this time I was more sure of myself. The pain was worse. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” apologized the nurse. “I’ll schedule the infusion for this afternoon, can you get here by 2 pm?”

Sometimes I lie awake at night, and I ask, “Where have I gone wrong?” Then a voice says to me, “This is going to take more than one night.”

Cartoon boy extending both arms appears to be wailing

—Charles M. Schulz

Miner’s Canary

~ Linda Wright

I’m gasping for air, physically and emotionally. My eardrums haven’t vibrated sound for two weeks and I cough when I attempt to speak. None of the antibiotics or antihistamine’s I swallow help. When I get to a mirror I see my yellow face and blood-shot eyes staring back at me, looking frightened. I go back to bed and sleep another two hours.

The doctor said these new medications were safe, minor side effects, perhaps some rash or slight headache. I took a leap of faith and agreed to go down the mine.

People with bleeding disorders are like the canaries miners used. The canaries were crude measurement of the air quality. If toxic gasses leaked into the air in the mine, the canaries died, but the miners might still have time to get out of the mine alive.

People with bleeding disorders who regularly use blood products to survive are like those canaries. We were among the first to die of HIV in the 1980’s. We were also among the first to contract Hepatitis C. So when I learned that I had Hepatitis C, I was not surprised.

As I learned more about this slow-moving deadly virus, I decided to try the self-injected pegylated interferon and Ribavirin pills. The results were devastating and I came closer to dying than I had ever been before. That was twelve years ago.

Late in 2013 I learned there was a new drug available for Hepatitis C, a second had been approved by the FDA; it was due to be released in a few days, and yet another was in the final stages of testing and would most likely be available in about a year. I could use the two pills by themselves, without need of interferon or Ribavirin.

By mid March, I was taking the new pills, Sovaldi and Olysio. By the first week of April, I had experienced the known side effects. The doctor had advised large doses of antihistamines.

The next week, I began to cough. I slept for four days and four nights with brief awake time for pills and bathroom. “Sinus infection,” the doctor said, and I began a course of antibiotics. Two days later I couldn’t hear well out of either ear. “Ear infection,” said the doctor. “I’m going to switch the antibiotic and add in another antihistamine for you to take.”

A few days later I received a frantic call from the hematologist. “The lab results show your other clotting factors are abnormal and your bilirubin is elevated.” Since I was only half awake, I couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. I went back to sleep.

“Are you jaundiced?” the doctor asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

I managed to stay awake long enough to get a liver ultrasound and more lab tests drawn. So, now at the bottom of my birdcage, the doctor’s email message reads, “Stop taking the Sovaldi and Olysio.” Then he adds, “”This has never happened before…. I am so sorry… Another medication may get released by the FDA in October, we can try that one next.”

I’m not so sure I have the courage to go into the mine again. I’m using my time singing my song.

“A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.”
Maya Angelou

Trust the Dawning Future

~ Linda Wright
The sun appears to slide towards the sea like a seductress waving scarfs while backing away inch by inch. The water mirrors the colors of the sky, splashing yellow, pink, salmon, and violet. Just when I think it is over, sun out of view, the clouds pick up the theme and intensify the colors in a last attempt at enticement.  It is as if the sun is still fluttering her scarfs from behind the closed door of night. Follow me she tempts.
After the sunset has given it’s last burst, little star patterns emerge from the darkness. The constellation we call Orion begins to rise from the southeast. Welcome back old friend, I think. Glad to know you are still doing well, still up for the good fight.
By morning the tide will be at it’s lowest ebb. Rows of sea birds will be sitting on the sand bars and the sunrise will turn the sky to yellow gold just before it pops above the horizon lighting the stage. I muse about how each of these, sunset, star sparkles, and the golden dawn are like jewels in an infinity chain. The eternal return is indeed what seduces me. My mortality is so insignificant.
We’ve spent four weeks at the beach and I feel like I have been drinking in each sunset, gulping the gifts of sun, sea and, sandy ground. Tomorrow we will pack our belongings and head towards home. The sunsets there are small city slices between houses and tall trees. I lose touch with the circularity of life. I miss the subtle spectacular repetitions of our circular planet Earth and the wider view.

Fungus Among Us

~ Linda Wright ~ 1 Comment

Brilliant golden orange mushrooms are scattered across our wooded property. Their fluted edges look like petals and my imagination sees the random pattern as the work of a playful child scattering flowers in a summer dance.

We have had rain almost everyday for nearly six weeks. Sometimes it has been heavy enough to bring down branches and even large trees. Power lines have been ripped away making electricity and cable connections undependable. But each day has had some breaks in the rain when the gray clouds make way for clear blue sky. When it isn’t raining the air outside is moist. All in all, a perfect mushroom environment, damp, humid and surrounded by decaying tree roots.

I believe these mushrooms are Chanterelles and if so they are expensive little cups of gold at the farmer’s market. But, I don’t want to eat them. I’m not willing to trust my limited knowledge of mycology. I notice that no ravenous squirrel is willing to nibble them, neither is our dog, who doesn’t even give them an inquisitive sniff.

The inverted cups that beautify the mottled shade and pine needle clutter behind my home will disappear again, now that the rain seems to have subsided. They are true survivors and I appreciate the way they wait until the conditions are just right before springing into action. Something inside me wishes I could let go of my impatience and bide my time, like a mushroom.