It’s been ten days since I wrote here. You’ve asked how I’m doing. Am I walking along the shore as I did here in November and February? Sadly no. Previously I was able to make it from my condo to the shore without oxygen by walking very slowly. Now I need 3-4 liters pulse flow whenever I’m walking, but I’m too weak to carry my oxygen tank very far without sitting down to rest and no place to sit from condo door to elevator and around the building until I reach the steps down to the ocean, so I hadn’t attempted to reach the beach on my own.
Last Thursday with Lisa carrying the tank and a folding chair for rest stops, we made it all the way. When Mother Ocean splashed up on my ankles, it felt like the kiss of the goddess. Tears of joy poured down my face. For 18 days from my balcony, I’d been admiring changing colors of sky and ocean surface, hearing the roar of surf, tasting and smelling the salty air, but hadn’t felt the touch of waves splashing up my legs or breezes whipping my face and arms. I had to try it on my own. Sunday evening and last night I did it alone.
Being so weak, exhausted, dizzy, drowsy has been discouraging. I emailed my Denver pulmonologist. Is it inflamed lungs, damaged heart? No, it’s the drugs they’re pumping in me. It’s chemical warfare and not failing organs. Cardiologist can’t decrease anything until I have blood tests next week, and he’s on vacation until July 18. I venture out with visitors. Otherwise, I stay in and breathe the ocean from my balcony.
Nurses get my applause this week. Thanks for valuable and compassionate feedback. I talked with Linda and Marcia at NJH about sorting out my meds, with Mary at pulmonary rehab in ABQ about setbacks and progress, and with Angela in cardiologist Kothari’s office about getting the doc to modify my meds so I can regain strength and mobility.
Lisa, Cheyenne, and her friend Grace came last Wednesday for kids’ night at Friendly’s when Alex the balloon man makes custom-order critters. He created his magnum opus “two monkeys climbing a palm tree” for Cheyenne and a flamingo for Grace. On Thursday we went to Publix for groceries. Lisa drops me with oxygen tank at the door, and Cheyenne finds a cart for me to drive. Cruising the aisles, I’m fine. I’d never imagined grocery shopping could become such a desirable (and necessary) adventure. Family left late Thursday afternoon.
On Saturday afternoon, Yvonne and Joan came from Winter Park. Talking about our lives and the world for hours brought the hermit out of her cave, but I do enjoy my hermit life. A sage said, “The gods punish us by answering our prayers.” I’ve yearned for this silence and solitude to write and read, but then I relish visitors.
In March 1985 Yvonne interviewed me for a feature story on Lesbian Nuns in the Orlando Sentinel, and we became close friends. When Lisa was giving birth to Cheyenne, Yvonne picked me up at the airport and raced through traffic to Florida Hospital where all doors opened for the mother of the mother.
Doris is driving back from Missouri today with a friend from college after a family celebration near St Louis. She’ll drive past Joplin in its current devastation. I hope she has fun playing tourist back in the land she loves but must leave because of me. How sad for her! Five years ago we were moving into our new home with hopes of settling in for decades. Doris was designing our interior space to display her collection of southwest art, while I was unpacking my library. We were making new friends, discovering favorite restaurants.
Maybe we never belonged there along with conquistadors and gringo interlopers. The land belongs to native people who love and care for Mother Earth and wolves, coyotes, jack rabbits, road runners, and rattlesnakes.
I just finished Leslie Marmon Silko’s memoir The Turquoise Ledge about living on the edge of the Sonoran Desert in Arizona where she befriends all desert creatures, especially rattlesnakes. She weaves her family history and legacy, growing up on the Laguna Pueblo in NM, with the star people she’s painting. She grieves the destruction of the landscape by careless greedy developers. In NM right now fires, barely contained, rage across mountains and pueblos, leaving charred ruins. How can we less well-adapted species survive?
I’ve been writing the Joplin years (1976-79) of my memoir. What’s my core quest? Why did I take on Lesbian Nuns in 1981 when I had no time? All my life I’ve been searching for sisters. I have no blood sisters; I invented an imaginary one when I was two—dancing elf on the other side of the mirror. Later I discovered Girl Scouts, Dominican sisters, women’s studies, feminist theater, and Lesbian Nuns. In Joplin I created my lesbian feminist self, discovered women’s culture , and forged my Amazon sword when the college where I had my first tenure-track job fired me for writing a lesbian story or for being an uppity woman. I have a draft ready to share with readers who’ll give me feedback. Email if you’d like to read this draft.
So glad for the update - I was anxious to hear how you're doing. I'm still working on the book, so all is on hold here. You will get through this.... I can imagine how it felt to be on the shore instead of on your balcony. Next visit - a dune buggy! Jan
ReplyDeleteThank you for these accounts of your adventures. Sending you love and strength along the web of creation. Phyllis Bixler
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