It's all just BS...

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Post-stroke, Day 6. I fell over backward yesterday. I was just standing there. Did you know that your brain controls whether or not you can hold up your head? Sheesh. Who’d’a thunk.

So my totally Type A son, who should be taking his OWN blood pressure several times a day, did an awesome job of reminding me why I can’t sit around and cry like a little girl. He said:

The bad: 1. Goofy left hand. 2. Goofy left knee. 3. Months of dumb ol' physical therapy and a few more pills to pop. The good: 1. The universe used the only feasible tactic to force you into positive physical change (quitting smoking, reducing stress, lowering blood pressure, more exercise.) Though, I'm sure you would have gotten around to most of that on your own. 2. Lots of family and friends to help you through it, like it or not... I saw one man in the stroke unit who had nobody in his room the entire two days I was around. 3. You've maintained your wonderful ability to write, to inspire, to think, to speak and to sing. 4. Semester off... maybe time for another poetry book or perhaps a novel about a Chechen warlord who sneaks into America to start a new life as a children's birthday clown? 5. Opportunity to pull off a cool cane with a concealed sword inside. 6. New appreciation for things previously taken for granted, and all that baloney. 7. You have a beautiful country acreage on which to recuperate. 8. More time to read, watch movies and maybe invest in Rosetta Stone French. 9. You taught your like-minded type A son to take stock and make similar positive changes before we both end up making goofy slack-jawed shadow puppets together. 10. You reminded your kids how lucky we are to have such a fantastic mom. We love you.

I’m toying with the Chechen birthday clown novel idea, and believe me, I know how lucky I am to have such amazing kids. I should add that I’m also terribly grateful that Ray has the legs to pull off a nurse’s uniform. Oh yeah, and that my 77-year-old mommy is bringing me food, that my younger brother drove up from Kansas and bought me a bag of 100 therapy balls (stupid floppy arm keeps chucking them under the furniture), and that my daughter brought me homemade lentil dahl and cookies. Heck, if all the function came back this minute, I’m not sure I would tell…

I named my stroke BS; according to many old traditions (Vedic, Islamic, Judaic, etc.), naming something gives you power over it. You can probably imagine what the initials BS stand for, and even if you’re wrong, you won’t be too far off. And yes, it’s both cliché and true that we need to focus on what we have, not what we miss or don’t have. This morning, for example, I came downstairs and made my own tea. Take that, BS.

Stroke of [some sort of] Luck

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I had a stroke, I'm only 56 years old, and I’m gonna tell you about it.

It started last Sunday, October 21. I had graded and updated grade books for about 10 hours on Saturday, and I was feeling great to have gotten so much done. I was up in my greenhouse office, answering emails, when suddenly, I was dizzy, I had a headache, and I couldn’t make my hand work—it was “floppy” and unresponsive. I could feel it—it wasn’t paralyzed or numb—I just couldn’t make it do what I wanted it to. My overly analytical brain immediately said, “You could be having a stroke! Take an inventory!” So, I methodically went through the steps: Hold your arms over your head and leave them up for minute to see if one “drifts;” smile, to see if the two sides of your mouth go up the symmetrically; remember and repeat back several small sentences. By the time I got through the inventory, the dizziness had passed, and my hand was cooperating again.

I came downstairs and took my blood pressure. It was 188/127, which I immediately wrote off to old batteries in the apparatus, because I’m a total pro at rationalizing. I went in the bathroom, where I had another “spell” just like the first. When it passed—they lasted about a minute each--I sat down and had a little wine (as one does), then took my blood pressure again. It was 137/120 now, so I figured the freak show was over. I went to Susan Osborn’s “Singing and Silence” workshop (susanosborn.com), which was wonderful, and the rest of the day was normal.

On Monday morning, I called and made a doctor appointment to deal with the blood pressure. Then, when I walked into my 11:00 class, I had another “spell.” It passed and I got through class, so I headed to Mom’s to wait for the doc apt. I had another little “spell” at Mom’s. The doc did a once-over, a CT scan of my head (which looked normal), and put me on blood pressure medicine and a blood thinner, then scheduled more tests for Wednesday, when the MRI truck came to town. She wanted me to see a neurologist, too, and they would call me soon with an appointment time.

During the night, maybe 3 a.m., I woke up and thought my hand felt funny…heavy…slow. But I didn’t have a headache and I wasn’t dizzy, so of course, I went back to sleep. Then, when I got out of bed Tuesday morning, I had trouble getting down the stairs and making coffee. Since the neuro folks hadn’t called back yet, we opted for ER in Sioux Falls, which seems to be the ONLY way to get a neurologist to see you.

Soooo…an MRI, MRA, CT scan, echocardiogram & bubble test, carotid Doppler ultrasound and 3 days in the neuro/stroke ICU later, I know that what I had is a small ischemic stroke in the PONS structure of my brain (http://www.netdoctor.co.uk/ate/seniorshealth/205224.html). 

The stroke educator told me the little "spells" are called TIA's--"mini strokes" that can warn of a bigger one coming--but I didn't know that then. I also didn't know then that in spite of a relatively healthy body & lifestyle, I had the stroke precursor quadrifecta: high blood pressure, high cholesterol, smoking, and stress. Woops. She told me the pons is the “Manhattan” of the brain. I’ve also seen it described as the brain’s “junction box.” Either way, it’s a very busy place, and damage there can really muck up the whole system. So I got off relatively easy; I can’t use my left hand much, and walking is tricky, since my left knee doesn’t seem to know if it should lock or not, but my thinking, speech, vision, hearing (all things that can be affected by pons damage) are intact. 

I'm home, and for now, I can’t go for more than a few minutes at anything without resting, work is out for the remainder of this semester at least, and I look like a drunk zombie when I walk. I burst into tears occasionally (the brain stem also coordinates emotions), I have to wallow in self pity now & then, and I don’t want to see or talk to anyone who knew the “old me.”

Oh, and the neurologist finally called. They can squeeze me in December 4. Hehe. Ah, the efficient American health care system...

Ram Dass, a stroke survivor (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BBRB02LB-oo), says that you have think of yourself as having two lives: the you before the stroke, and the new post-stroke you. He says there’s real danger in comparing the two, because then you focus on what you CAN’T do anymore. For example, the old me liked to play guitar and dance and knit and cook. The new me likes to button my own shirt and wipe my own arse. See how that kind of comparing might not be productive? Anyway, the docs say I could get a lot of this function back. In the meantime, just know that the new me is here, brain sparking out new neural pathways, and who knows what I’ll be when all this is done?

Big Fat Bohunk Family Reunion 2012

The rest of the summer whizzed by as fast as the first half, and Semester is already stomping me with his steel-toed boots. I’m a pathological procrastinator and a badger-fierce protector of my “summer space,” so the cold sweats I’m having over next week’s start of the school year are my own dang fault. Come next Tuesday (it’s pathetic that I KNOW this and do it anyway), I’ll be ready to go, I’ll have a tingly sense of adventure & excitement about my fresh new students, and I’ll be totally mystified about why I put myself through the wringer like this. Every. Single. Time. So here I go procrastinating a little more, recapping one of late summer’s highlights…

It seems like our Big Fat Bohunk Family Reunion was decades ago, though it was at the end of July, in the Minnesota woods near Leech Lake. It hasn't even been a month ago, but I miss my Big Family more this year than I remember in the past. Maybe our friend’s and my uncle’s passing from our lives this summer leaves me contemplating priorities more than usual.

Anyhoo, you can see last year’s revelry at http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1561066374877481355#editor/target=post;postID=6223593135121397134. 

This year, there were 57 humans and 15 dogs, and our slightly irreverent theme (it’s 2012 after all) was, “If I’m not Mayan, I’m Dyin’” (complete with reunion theme t-shirts for all, thanks to my little bro). The festivities included the 2^nd annual Esther Williams Invitational Lake Swim with 17 participants, ranging in age from teens to sixty-somethings, and included folks with bad tickers & bum knees, and folks so out of shape that near-drowning seemed like it might be a mercy. To everyone’s surprise, the only Bohunk to make it across the lake and back was my little bro, who’d packed on a little pre-winter hibernation layer since his recent move to Ohio, so we all had to eat a little crow and crown him the Big Fish.

 

One cousin led us (and by us, I mean them, since I was typically still at the coffee shop in town) in early morning Beach Towel Yoga. I couldn’t talk her into evening yoga instead, but I’ll work on it for next year. Our Campfire Hootenanny this year included two generations of musicians and several great sing-along numbers. There were always a few folks gathered around the firepit chatting, knitting, and reminiscing, while others went off to water ski, tube, jet ski, or treat their third-degree sunburns. The 2^nd annual Go Whole Hog Pig Roast was exceptional, although there was, sadly, no hat for the pig this year. 

We even held the first annual Bohunk Bonanza auction, where everyone dug through their cars for stuff to auction off in support of the cabin taxes. Among the bargains were crushed straw hats, a piece of rock from Jerusalem, old plastic signs, a toy airplane made of pop cans, and felted baby hats. 

There were unlimited floaties, a canoe, a paddleboat, and always, shampoo & conditioner on the dock.

The tent city was already tightly packed when we arrived, so our Ecuador, Kansas and South Dakota clans stayed at the motel in town, a strip motel my grandson dubbed “The Number House.” He could bang on any numbered door (then barge right in Dragnet style) and find family. I’m pretty sure he’d like things permanently arranged this way, with Mom, Dad, Grandma, Great-grandma, aunts, uncles and cousins all handy. My dad didn’t make it this year, so Mom was the Grand Matriarch, a title she wears well, and we met our two newest baby-boy cousins. And other than the usual water-sport strains and sprains and the sound golf thrashing of the old by the young, there were no serious injuries.

 

I’m already looking forward to next year. My sunburn has peeled & healed, I have a delightful new layer of freckles, and I’m hard at work on waterproof glittery headbands for next summer’s auction…

Empty Nest. Literally.

Yes, Ray and I rigged up an emergency incubator using a styrofoam cooler, clamp light, 40-watt bulb and several dishtowels. Yes, we are incubating 5 peacock eggs. Yes, we will turn the eggs 3-5 times a day, keep the temp at 100-103 degrees, and provide at least 60% humidity. And no, we have no idea what what we’ll do if they hatch.

It isn’t really my fault. Due to a genetic anomaly (see http://uncanneryrow.blogspot.com/search?q=HHN), I cannot leave the wise & gracious Universe to her own devices. So after a particularly brutal season for our peafowl flock, my heart broken, I stepped in.

The brutality started in early spring, when we lost several peacocks to various predators—at least one to a raptor, a couple to what appeared to be mink or weasel, and several more to something much larger, large enough to rip apart an adult peahen, drag it around, and leave chunks of it lying about. I figured word had finally gotten out that the Row was a veritable peacock buffet.

But this past week, the brutality escalated beyond our comprehension when, in a single day, 8 adult peas (2 males and 6 hens) went MIA. We have walked the property, and there is nary a fluff of down, no sign of what happened or where they went. I have theories, some of which involve human predators, adding to my post-Aurora, CO stupification at the human capacity for cruelty.

(Weird side note: Got a text from my son the morning the peas went missing, before I knew they were gone, asking if the peas were okay. He said he’d dreamed the peas were hanging on a neighbor’s barn. He fought with the neighbor to get them back, somehow tore off the neighbor’s face, and discovered the neighbor had an iPhone brain. I texted back that he should avoid burritos at bedtime. Still, spooky prophetic, and I did cruise the neighborhood once I discovered the peas were AWOL.)

I called the Big City zoo to tell them to keep an eye out for folks wanting to sell peacocks. I left a message with the county game warden. I warned our neighbors to be on the lookout for hooligans with guns, and to gauge their reaction, like some crazy Criminal Minds investigator. I figured I’d done about everything I could do. And then, when I called yesterday to alert the only other folks in the region I know have peacocks, they told me they were about to throw out a clutch of eggs their hen had just laid – they don’t want any more peacocks – and did I want the eggs? Every fiber of my being pushed me, slapped me, jabbed me to say no thank you. So of course, I said, “Absolutely.”

Here’s the trick: Peafowl are not like chickens. Peachicks do not come out of the egg knowing how to eat & drink & roost. Peachicks must be taught. They spend the first 2-3 weeks of their lives sleeping 15 feet off the ground, tucked up under their mother’s wings. For a couple of months or more, they follow their mother everywhere, watching her peck at the ground and listening for her back-of-the-throat cluck that means, “This is okay to eat.” Those are some enormous 4-toed shoes to fill.

Yes, I should have said no. But my heart was broken. I’d been pretty stoic until Day 3, when it finally hit me that our peas weren’t coming back (one of our two white peahens, Ike, had been with us a long time and was named for my son’s friend who’d committed suicide—both white hens are gone). I was attached to those peabrains, dammit. 

So, thanks to my aching heart and my hereditary HHN-i, I said yes. And I am enormously grateful for Saint Ray, who knows, loves, and fears me enough not to get in the way of my Panic Mothering. If by some miracle these eggs hatch, I will figure this thing out. And I have at least 18 days to grow some feathers…

The Summer Blur

My granddaughter, the Butterfly Whisperer

Lately, I’ve been contemplating (while on the run) the human inability to remain still. My long summer to-do list, which includes writing, daily meditation, long stretches of contemplative silence, writing, Xtreme relaxation, self-reflection and re-centering, and writing, remains on my fridge with nary an item checked off. Instead, summer has been a blur of perpetual motion…

1. As soon as Semester uncurled its fist and let me loose, we headed to Milwaukee, where Ray and Little Henry played a wedding dance for the daughter of one of the geetar players. It was a beautiful, joyous occasion. And how cool is it for the bride to have her dad rock the house at her wedding, then for the bride and her sister to sit in with the band? Very cool.

Three Graces

2. Next stop, Madison, where we visited my two dear friends, Emma and Ruby, and their families. It was a 24-hour whirlwind of garden tours, knitting shop & food co-op runs, an incredible lasagna dinner, wine & philosophy, and smiling till my face hurt.

3. When we got back from WI, Mom and I headed to the Black Hills to hear my oldest son, Ryan Kickland (www.kickland.com) play a gig. The music was stellar, with special guests Jami Lynn and Josh Hilpert, and it was wonderful to see so many former Little Town friends show up to support Ryan.

Ryan and Jami Lynn

4. In early June, four of us took off for our WAC-y (Women’s Annual Campout) getaway. This year, we went to Kansas, west of Topeka, to my brother’s lake cabin. We spent several glorious days drinking coffee on the patio and wine on the dock, playing in the water, reading, overanalyzing our lives, learning to speak Great Blue Heron and, with 4 geetars along, serenading the neighbors.

5. On our last WAC-y evening, we got the news of our friend’s suicide back home. He was a local legend and a larger-than-life character—waist-length rattail he refused to cut, silver star embedded in a front tooth—who sometimes went about town in a tux & spats. He was a talented songwriter, musician and artist, and a person who rarely compromised. He was also gravely ill and facing a steady downward spiral. We went to his memorial, a sweet celebration of his life. And I know some people feel suicide is selfish, but I quickly realized my anger at his choice was really about my own pain in missing him—I was the selfish one. So now I’m simply wishing him freedom, peace, and great love in his next adventure.

WAC-y Women

5. Then the grandkids came to stay at the farm for a few days. This, too, was a whirlwind that included soccer games, a day at the beach, and a day in the Big City, shopping, visiting the Butterfly House, and hanging out at the skatepark.

6. In between trips, we’ve been scrambling to save our little peaflock. Between last summer and this one, we lost 18 peacocks to predation (and 1 to fast cars on I-29). Judging from the killer MO’s, we’re dealing with more than one kind of varmint – raptors, weasels/minks, coyotes, and possibly a badger. So for Father’s Day this year, the kids got Ray a rifle they dubbed “The Farm Protector.” I’m very conflicted, as we’ve never had guns on the premises, and I’m a devout peacenik, treehugging, varmint-sweater-knitting hyper-nurturer. But after discovering the most recent (possibly badger) kill site, which looked like a scene in a low-budget slasher flick, I might be mad enough to sit up in a lawn chair all night in my jammies and headlamp, rifle at the ready.

Howard Jones. So, so cool.

7. My next road trip was back down to KS to leave Mom at the cabin for some well-earned lake R & R. I stayed for a couple days, and we sunned, floated, toured local towns, and prissied up the cabin with solar lights and hanging petunias. Then back home, a 7-8-our drive.

8. Soon after getting home, Ray and I headed out again to Minneapolis, to visit the oldest Remund kid, hear Howard Jones at the Varsity Theatre, and catch a Twins/White Sox game. Howard was—and yes, I hate this word too—awesome! And driving around the Cities always reminds me: You can take the city out of the girl, but…you can’t put it back.

9. Next, we drove to Omaha to rendezvous with my brother and bring Mom home. Omaha is my hometown, but in spite of my thrill over shopping at the Asian Market and Whole Foods, I was glad to get back on the road the same day and head back to the farm.

Uncle Don at Linoma Beach

10. This past weekend we learned of my uncle’s death. He was my dad’s brother, making my dad the last of three siblings, and he’d been in a nursing home for a while. He was another larger-than-life character, a sometimes rude, crude, arse-pinching, cussing Bohunk. He was also an old-school family doctor who treated folks whether or not they could pay, and who doctored for free a passel of cousins, neighbors, friends, friends of friends, etc., often at his kitchen table. He pierced my ears, stitched me up after a car wreck, delivered my first baby, and set that baby’s broken arm four years later. So, we’re off to Omaha again this week to bid my uncle farewell.

At this point, I feel like I’ve spent the summer in the car, and we still have my Big Fat Bohunk Family Reunion coming up in late July, an 8+-hour road trip each way. All four of our kids are going for the first time ever, and our giant extended family (65-ish of us last year) will be honoring my dad’s 80^th birthday and taking into the Giant Family Fold the two babies born since last summer.

We humans come and go. Literally. Figuratively. So before I pack for the next trip, I’m going outside in the yard. I will hold aloft the peacock egg I found on the front steps. Ray will softly play his congas in the background. I will sing several choruses of “The Circle of Life.” Sure...you're scoffing now. But you’ll come around. Literally. Figuratively.

MOTHER by any other name...

My stepson was the first of our four offspring to call and wish me Happy Mother's Day today. That doesn't mean the other kids are naughty, only that the designation "stepson" is misleading - though I'm not his biological mother and neither of us pretend I am, I have worried about him, loved him, gotten in his face, had his back, teased him, and nagged him since he was nine years old, every bit as tenaciously (and as annoyingly) as I did with the other kids. In my book, "mother" is any person (male or female) who will do this stuff for you, whether related by blood, by marriage, or by sheer will. My mom taught me that. So here are a couple of poems for mothers, sons & daughters. Happy Mother's Day.

TRIPTYCH

v Mother/Body

This panel is the Madonna,

whose hands have pared and cut

bitter onion, turnip, carrot,

whatever meat could be found,

have sealed it with salt, water and fire,

have buried day-old kittens,

necks snapped by a restless tomcat,

have peeled back the burnt skin

on a child’s open palm,

handprints brittle and delicate

as silvery flakes of mica,

have scrubbed stains from

a girl’s rose-patterned bedsheets,

have traced invisible, holy signs

on the skin of a man’s back,

have followed the curve

of his muscled hip,

have folded around him in prayer

v Daughter/Mind

This panel is the Magdelene,

who once lifted her foot to step over

a fallen tree branch and stopped

mid-air, caught in a rippled vision

of a tree from which the branch

might have fallen, then the constant

inescapable drip drip dripping

cascade of incessant thought—

a scored, moss-covered trunk,

thick wandering branches,

spreading fan of twigs,

intricate lacework of new growth

suspended in air, tree and not tree,

or  what space there is between,

or the nature of Tree,

her Self at the root—

She, Tree, Air, God

and Water, always Water

v Fire/Spirit

rose petals, sorrow,

mhyrr gum, desire and water

burn clean and constant

ST. DOMINIC

           

patron of choir boys

My sons, three wild choirboys,

have visions too, have wandered

in the fog. They are brilliant,

these boys who catch and sing the sun,

griefless, hysterical, or strangely quiet.

Their high notes burst like sparks

against a dark South Dakota sky.

Their low notes disturb the river’s

calm surface. Teach them to settle

disputes as you did, with relics—

thumbs or long leg bones planted

in a tenuous line of truce, flagline

between their constant thieving

companions, Need and Want.

Bully them always toward

goodness & mercy,

knock them down in the

schoolyard if you have to.

Semester, you're not the boss of me.

Each year, when Semester finally uncurls his white-knuckled fist and lets me loose for the summer, the process of reclaiming and healing my Self begins. This year, the process began with a road trip to Wisconsin the day after I taught my last classes.

Ray and I loaded up the Bug and headed to Milwaukee, for the wedding & reception of the last unmarried daughter of one of Little Henry’s gee-tar players. Little Henry is a band Ray played in back in his 20’s, and they’ve reunited for occasional gigs over the past decade or so. The wedding was beautiful, with a gorgeous grinning bride, a handsome groom, and a sister trying to sing through her own happy weeping. The reception was a joyous celebration in a beautiful rustic lodge, with Little Henry dishing out tunes that kept the dance floor packed. And how many brides or grooms can say their dad’s band played for their wedding dance? The bride and one of her sisters even treated us to a couple of songs with the band. And I got to belt out a few tunes, too, soaking up the amazing healing vibrations of music.

Our next stop was Madison. We had an all-too-brief overnight visit with my two dear friends, Emma & Ruby. The three of us had been nearly inseparable back in the day when they lived in our Little Town, and even after they both moved to Madison, we continued our decades-long business, Sacred Body Jewelry, designing and selling sterling silver anatomical jewelry. We recently folded up the Sacred Body shop for good when we finally admitted that three hippie women combined do not one business mind make. So it was blissful, even for such a short time, to reunite and to remember that our friendship, not the business, is our real connection. It was a 24-hour whirlwind of garden tours, knitting shop & food co-op runs, an incredible lasagna dinner, philosophy and laughter over too many glasses of wine, getting acquainted with Ruby’s partner and re-acquainted with Emma’s partner & beautiful son, and slow morning coffee. And it all points out, again, that my life is infinitely richer, deeper, and more meaningful than simply what I do for a living.

We’re back home now, and I’m so grateful that the Universe, in her wisdom, occasionally kicks my arse and shows me how blessed I am. Yes, I have a huge pile of grading to wade through, panicky student emails to answer, and bureaucratic loose ends to tie up, but my mind (and heart) are slowly unclenching and turning toward the things that define who I really am: music, writing, gardening, reading for pleasure, peacock herding, unhurried gatherings of family & friends, and attention to health, wellness, and beauty. I have a new Shiraz/Zinfandel red wine to start fermenting, a batch of kombucha (fermented tea) to start, daisies to plant, and I’m mixing up patchouli-scented henna today. I’ve got my Birkies and a tie-dyed t-shirt on, and dangit, middle-age or no, I may even braid my hair.

 
You tried hard to squish me, Semester, to grind me into Bitter Schoolmarm Mash. But thanks to the Universe and her sweet reminders of what really matters, I’m still here, and summer is a wide-open door.