Promised Lands

Here's tomorrow's homily. I can't believe that I haven't preached since last May, and I'm very happy to be doing so again, but Matthew 5:21-37 is a bear. The other reading I talk about here is Deuteronomy 30:15-20, a much smaller bear.

*

A few weeks ago, my friend Shira asked her friends on Facebook if they’d help her teenaged daughter Valerie by buying containers of chili. Valerie is raising money to visit detainee camps on the Texas-Mexican border with a Methodist youth group. The group will meet with agencies to discuss how to help families released from the detention center. They’ll be bringing things like craft supplies and soccer balls to help them make friends with the children of these families.

This is a wonderful project, but I was a little confused. Shira and her family are Jewish. How had they gotten involved with the Methodist church? “Valerie's part of the group even though we're not members,” Shira told me. “She went with them to build in Appalachia. She went on a civil rights trip last spring break. She went to Washington to advocate for the SNAP program.” After noting that she doesn’t see any other faith organizations, Jewish or Christian, doing similar work in her area, Shira added, “It's maybe the only church I've been to where I actually feel welcome. Plus they say you can replace Jesus with love in prayers.”

This conversation reminded me of Kirk, last week, wondering what might happen if we replaced our crosses -- symbols of execution -- with glow sticks, symbols of God’s light. Would wearing glow sticks make people outside the church feel  more welcome?  

Welcome, something our own parish has been emphasizing for several years now, makes all the difference for people searching for a faith community. All of us want to find the place that welcomes us and feels like home. It’s worth noting, though, that welcome isn’t the same thing as comfort. Shira and Valerie feel welcome at the Methodist Church not because they’re being coddled or sheltered, but because they’re being challenged: to house the homeless, feed the hungry, and visit the imprisoned. Confronting and relieving suffering, our own or others’, is rarely comfortable. It involves sacrifices of time, money, and privilege. It involves looking at things we’d rather not see. In the short term, it may make us more unhappy, rather than less. That was certainly the experience of the Isrealites, whose flight from oppression involved forty years of hardship. No one reaches the promised land overnight.  

Promised lands take many forms: geographical, cultural, personal, political, vocational. Setting out for any promised land requires courage, planning, and the ability to persist without guarantees. Not all of the Isrealites crossed the Jordan. Moses himself didn’t, although his work made the journey possible for others. His exhortation in Deuteronomy -- “Choose life, that you and your descendants may live” -- reminds us that our actions affect future generations. Even when we won’t see the results ourselves, we work for a better world for those who will come after us.  

Choosing life is also, less obviously, at the heart of this morning’s Gospel, another in our continuing series from the Sermon on the Mount.  Among the “hard sayings” of Jesus, today’s are among the most difficult. I don’t know anyone who’s never been angry, but Jesus equates anger with murder.  I don’t know anyone who’s never been attracted, however briefly, to someone outside a primary relationship, but Jesus equates fantasy with literal cheating. I don’t know anyone who hasn’t sinned, but Jesus commands us to perform self-mutilation rather than continue to do wrong.  

Jesus is telling us to take God’s law to heart, to police ourselves rather than relying on other people to do it for us. He is telling us to address problems at their source. Everyone knows we aren’t supposed to murder, but Jesus’ followers also need to root out hatred and anger. Everyone knows that cheating is a terrible betrayal, but Jesus’ followers need to be as faithful in thoughts as in actions, because unchecked thoughts ultimately express themselves in action. We have to be willing to confront our darkest selves, the impulses that polite, respectable society would prefer to ignore.  

Fair enough. The problem, though, is that the lord of love and forgiveness seems neither loving nor forgiving here. I can’t imagine my friend Shira being comfortable hearing this passage in church. I’m not comfortable hearing this passage in church. There are no glow-sitcks anywhere in the vicinity. This is desert territory, hard and stony and parched. Jesus may be drawing us a map about how to reach the promised land, but getting there involves a lot of forced marching under a merciless sun.  

Next week, in the next section of the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus will command us to love our enemies. That’s hard, uncomfortable work too, but at least we’ll be back to talking about love.  Next week, Jesus will once again say things that sound at least somewhat comforting. But that’s not much help to us today.  This Sunday is a kind of mini-Lent, practice for the real thing coming up in three weeks. This Sunday, Jesus tells us in no uncertain terms to confront our sins -- our disconnections from God, from other people, and from ourselves -- and to do whatever we need to do, no matter how difficult, to make those relationships healthy again.  

Sometimes becoming healthy involves the agonizing process of cutting away diseased tissue. Sometimes it involves sacrificing things that mean a great deal to us, things that polite, respectable society tells us should make us happy. I suspect that everyone in this room has a story about doing that. Here’s mine. Please be assured that this story has a happy ending.

Almost exactly six years ago -- just before Valentine’s Day in 2011 -- I went through a very dark time. For fourteen years, I’d been an English professor at UNR.  I’d worked very hard to get the job, which paid nicely and gave me good benefits. I had tenure, which meant that at least in theory I had lifetime job security. I worked with lovely colleagues and taught excellent students, people I really cared about. By the standards of polite society, I should have been happy, and for ten years or so after starting the job, I had been.

But by 2011, I was miserable. I didn’t enjoy teaching anymore. I wasn’t doing the kind of service work my department wanted me to, which made me feel incredibly guilty, but thinking about doing that work made me feel like I was being crushed by boulders. My husband had given up his own lucrative job in New York to follow me to Reno, where he couldn’t do what he’d been doing before. I was supporting both of us. If I stopped doing that, we’d both be miserable, and I’d have broken my word. I felt trapped. I couldn’t see a way out.

For about five days that February, I seriously considered suicide. I had a plan, one that could have worked. That very week, the same plan did work for someone else. I saw the story in the newspaper and was instantly shaken, completely horrified. I felt sick for the person who’d died, sick for that person’s family and friends, sick that I’d been contemplating the same departure. My thoughts had almost led to a catastrophic action.

The good news is that they didn’t. Remembering that week, I’m still horrified at how close I came. But as scary as the episode was, it was also a major wake-up call: a summons not to death, but to new life. I obviously had to find another career, however difficult that seemed. After considering several other options, I hit on the idea of medical social work. For financial reasons, it’s taken me a while to translate that thought into action, but I’m now on my way. With my husband’s blessing, I’m in my last semester of teaching at UNR. I’m already taking classes in UNR’s Masters of Social Work program; this fall, I’ll enroll full time. I’m glad that getting here took only six years, not forty. And I’m grateful that my dark thoughts six years ago will help me understand clients who are struggling with their own. That terrifying time of darkness and disconnection will connect me to people who are suffering.

But while this absolutely feels like the right move, it also involves a lot of scary sacrifices. For at least the next two years, I’ll be cutting our family income by at least two-thirds. I’m trading job security and seniority to go back to square one in a poorly paid profession, in an era when healthcare and social services are on newly precarious ground. I’ll be giving up tenure, summer vacations, and quite a bit of social prestige. To a lot of people in polite, respectable society, this would look crazy.

I don’t think it’s crazy. I think I’ve chosen life. I can breathe again. So far, I feel very welcome in my new profession. I hope I reach my promised land, and I hope my journey allows me to help other people. But the process isn’t comfortable.

I’m being called to something new, and I’m on a long, uncertain road to get there. Maybe some of you are, too. In one way or another, all of us are. We can’t take comfort in any guarantee of earthly safety on these journeys, for there is none. Our comfort is in the one who walks beside us and ahead of us, showing the way:  the one who endured his own trials in the desert, and who reminds us that our true job is to find our own path to loving God, and others, and ourselves. Our comfort lies in knowing that even when our road takes us to the foot of the cross, there will still be life beyond it.

Amen.

Food for the Journey

Here's today's homily.   I went with the alternate reading of 1 Kings 19:4-8 because I didn't have the courage to tackle "Absalom, Absalom!"  The Gospel is John 6:35, 41-51.

*

Most of you know that I’m an English professor.  At least once a semester, usually around midterms or finals, a student comes to my office in panic and pours out a tale of woe.  Everything is due right now in every class, and the student also has a job and family crises and had the flu last week and just can’t keep juggling everything and doesn’t know what to do –

By now, the student’s usually sobbing on my tiny couch.  “I don’t know why I’m crying,” he or she will say, sniffling, as I hand over a box of tissues.  “I’m not usually such a mess.”

I give these students academic guidance, and I’ve been known to walk them over to UNR’s free Counseling Center.  But that’s not the first thing I do.  The first thing I do – something I’ve learned over many years of dealing with these situations – is to ask the student, “When’s the last time you ate something?”

And the student, who’s usually sitting on my tiny couch at about three or four in the afternoon, inevitably sniffles and says, “Yesterday, I think. Why?”

At that point, I reach into my desk and hand the student a power bar, a box of which I keep handy for just such occasions.  “You need to eat,” I say.  “You can’t think straight on an empty stomach.  This will all seem much more manageable when you have fuel in your system.”

As far as I know, none of my students have been prophets, and I’m certainly no angel.  Nonetheless, Elijah would recognize this scenario.  “Get up and eat, otherwise the journey will be too much for you.”   Elijah, fleeing Ahab and Jezebel’s death threats, was having an even worse day than my students usually are.   After hours of wandering in the wilderness, he was so exhausted and discouraged that he asked God to let him die.   Bone-tired, frightened and depleted, he couldn’t imagine how to continue.

Elijah’s despair certainly wasn’t caused by a lack of faith.  Two chapters before this reading, he called on God to restore a widow’s dead son, and lo, the child lived.  Note that in our lesson this morning, he again calls on God, shaping his desire to die as a prayer.  “O Lord, take away my life.”  The Lord doesn’t do that.  The Lord gives him bread and water instead.  This famous prophet has already seen and performed miracles, and will go on to see and perform many more.  He’s going to hear the still small voice of God a mere six verses from now, and he’ll conclude his career by ascending to heaven in a chariot of fire.  Right now, though, he has a serious case of low blood sugar.  He can’t think straight on an empty stomach.

Elijah reminds us that the physical and the spiritual can’t be separated.  Ours is an incarnational and sacramental faith: God has given us marvelous, intricate bodies, and has placed us in a marvelous, intricate creation that nurtures and sustains us.  If having a body is hard – we suffer from hunger and thirst, illness and injury – it is also a source of wonder.   Miracles needn’t take the form of angels or chariots of fire.  Miracles are within us and all around us: stars and stones, trees and grass, birds and beasts.  The seemingly ordinary is also always divine.  This is why Jesus came to us in a human body, and why the eucharistic feast is simple bread and wine.

In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus’ neighbors haven’t figured this out yet.  They don’t understand how this kid they watched grow up – the boy whose parents they know, whose games and pranks and skinned knees they witnessed throughout his childhood – can also be the bread of life that came down from heaven.   They labor under the misconception, still common in our own day, that holy things have to be rarified, otherworldly, set apart:  that miracles have to take the form of angels and chariots of fire, 3D special effects straight out of some CGI blockbuster.

And, in truth, Jesus does sound a little otherworldly in this passage from John.  “This is the bread that comes down from heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die.  I am the living bread that came down from heaven.  Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.”  That all sounds more than a bit mystical and off-putting, and I think the neighbors can be forgiven for being confused.

Jesus’ life on earth, though, very much depends on ordinary, prosaic bread.  Throughout the Gospels, he’s obsessed with food.  After he raises Jairus’ daughter from the dead, he commands her parents to give her something to eat.  He scandalizes the Pharisees by sharing meals with people who haven’t washed their hands.  One of his last acts on earth is to feed his disciples:  even Judas, the one he knows is about to betray him.   In one post-resurrection story, he asks what’s for breakfast; in another, he fries up some fish for the disciples on the beach.   He feeds us, now, whenever we take communion.  Jesus wants us to work to heal the world, but first, he wants us to have food for the journey.  He knows we can’t think straight on empty stomachs.

But he never force feeds us.  The feast depends on our consent and participation.  Elijah has to reach out to take the food the angel brings him, just as my weeping students need to agree to eat their power bars (and not all of them do).   The elements of the Eucharist represent not only God’s good creation, the grain and grapes that nourish us, but human stewardship in tending them and human skill in turning them into bread and wine.   God gives us what we need to live, but like any good parent, he knows that we must ultimately learn to feed both ourselves and others.  We have to learn to cook our own food, to share it, and to clean up the kitchen afterwards.

Even when we have done this, most of us will hit low points, moments when we feel too discouraged to continue.  Sometimes our despair literally takes the form of praying to die.  At such times, it’s crucial to remember that bread and water almost always help; low blood sugar and dehydration only make things worse.   But it’s also important to look elsewhere in the creation for sustenance, to remember that simple physical things can offer spiritual nourishment.

Years ago, during one of my volunteer-chaplain shifts in the ER, an ambulance brought in a suicidal patient.  He lay in a fetal position, unmoving and unspeaking, as the paramedics rolled him into a room.  Later I learned that he’d had no food or water for three days before, finally, summoning the strength and courage to call 911, to ask for help.

The ER staff started a saline drip to rehydrate him, and gave him a meal.  When I went in to talk to him, he was slowly munching a sandwich which, blessedly, had simply appeared without his having to prepare it.  In severe depression, even making a sandwich can seem overwhelmingly difficult, and a hospital food tray can be a miracle.

He poured out a long tale of woe: mental illness, job difficulties, abandonment by family and friends.  This had all been going on for many years.  “So what’s kept you going through all that?” I asked him.  “What makes you happy?”

“Nature,” he said.   He told me about camping at a lake in the mountains.  He told me about a waterbird he liked to watch there, about its antics and feeding patterns.  His descriptions were very precise, and as he told me about the bird, his face brightened.  He sat up on the edge of his bed, put down his sandwich, and whistled the bird’s courting call while he used his hands to imitate its mating dance.  And then the man who had wanted to die laughed for pure joy.

I know the saline drip and sandwich were food for his journey, but I believe his memory of the birds was, too.  I pray that after he left the hospital, he went back to the lake to see those birds again, and I pray that as he listened to their calls, he also heard the still small voice of God.

Amen.

WorldCon

This WorldCon has, at the very least, been wonderful for me. It may turn out to have been life-changing.

For one thing, I got to see all kinds of old friends, including my beloved former students Kurt Adams and Inez Schaechterle -- with whom I've hung out for much of the con -- and my editor/NYC buddies Ellen Datlow, David Hartwell and Patrick and Teresa Nielsen Hayden (most of whom have also edited me at one time or another).

I got very satisfying strokes for the panels I moderated, especially the one on "Faith and Science," which went very smoothly despite the potential for catastrophe. I went to excellent panels and presentations. I got a lot of knitting done.

But I also got a lot of very specific reinforcement about my own identity as a writer. For instance:

* At my first panel, someone showed up with, I swear, a copy of every book and story I've ever written, asked me to sign them, and then gave me a beautiful piece of fluorite to thank me.

* When I was wandering around the Dealers Room, someone told me that "Gestella" is "the best werewolf story ever written."

* Only ten people attended my reading, but one of them was Cory Doctorow, a Much Bigger Name than I am, who appeared to genuinely love the reading and told me it reminded him of some of Kelly Link's work. She's an Infinitely Bigger Name than I am.

* I didn't expect many people to come to my signing today. It was a group signing, and Carrie Vaughn was signing at the same time; I figured she'd have lines around the block and I'd be twiddling my thumbs, so I brought my knitting. Carrie -- sitting next to me, as it turned out -- indeed had long lines, but mine weren't bad. I signed solidly for the first half hour. After that, it got a bit spottier, but not enough for me to get any knitting done. There were a few people who had multiple copies of my books, and someone who had a copy of my very first story, published in 1985 in Asimov's, and someone who said that he's bought anthologies simply because they contained stories I'd written, and several people who heaped praise on "Gestella." And towards the end of the hour, Mega-Infinitely Bigger Name Than I Am Carrie Vaughn turned to me and said, "Susan, I just want you to know that 'Gestella' blew my mind, and as a writer of werewolf fiction I tell other people to read your story, because I think it's definitive."

Holy crap.

* I've always been deeply moved and honored that Jo Walton, whose work I admire tremendously (and who's also much better known than I am), has said glowing things about my work in print. I was very excited to learn that she'd be at Renovation. I looked forward to meeting her in person. I was flattered when she asked if we could have tea together and hang out for an hour between panels, and more than a little startled when she said that one of the reasons she came to the con was to meet me, "because you don't travel much, and I knew you lived here."

Jo proceeded to give me a bracing pep talk. She reads the blog (hi, Jo!), and, among other things, said briskly, "It's perfectly obvious from your blog that you spiral down into depression and then pull yourself back out, but you need to get to more cons. The external validation's really important." We talked about cons: WorldCon and World Fantasy are often impossible because they conflict with teaching. Lately, the only cons I've attended have been WisCon and Mythcon, and even that's been spotty. I'm going to Mythcon again next year; I've been waffling about WisCon. Jo recommended the Fourth Street Fantasy Convention, which I've heard about but have never gotten to. Inez and I are talking about sharing a room there next year.

After tea with Jo (coffee for me, actually, which may have been unwise that late in the afternoon), I went home to help Gary get ready for dinner, since we were having Inez and Kurt and Kurt's wife Shauna over. I babbled to Gary about all this. Before I'd even told him about Jo's depression comment, he said, "You need to get to more cons. This is doing you more good than all the meds you've ever taken. It's all about connection and community."

Yep.

I know this probably sounds like a lot of insufferable bragging, but I've effectively been in exile from my community for a long time. Part of that's geographical; a lot of it's been self-imposed; and it's been reinforced and deepened by my increasing marginalization within my department. Some people there admire the fact that I write, but as far as I can tell, none of my English Department colleagues read my fiction, or particularly like it if they do (other university friends, especially in the music department, have been loyal fans and a wonderful cheering section). Various of my colleagues clearly think I'm a little strange -- one person I like and admire once called me a "fanatic" to my face -- and between all that and the fact that the job's become more difficult and less rewarding for all of us, leading to a universal nosedive in morale, I haven't felt deeply affirmed at work. I know some of that's my fault, especially because I'm terrible at certain kinds of political games, but blaming myself only makes me feel worse.

Church has filled in a lot of the holes -- faith's really a huge antidepressant -- but it can't do everything.

The recent three-year grief-fest hasn't helped any of this, of course (and that's not my fault, and I think my reactions have been entirely human and understandable).

So I went to WorldCon figuring that I'd see some old friends and that nobody else would know who I was, and that would be okay, because it would be my fault, because I haven't been writing much.

What I discovered instead is that people in my field know my work and admire it. People I've never met know my work and admire it. People I admire, blazingly successful and famous and talented people, know my work and admire it. I've written things that matter to other human beings.

It is very difficult to communicate what this feels like. Like floating in airless space and then finding yourself standing on solid ground in a beautiful forest? Like being a ghost and then regaining a body? (Good heavens: am I empathizing with Sauron and Voldemort?) Those are cheesy metaphors, and unsatisfying besides. Let's just say that I've found my country again, or my planet, and learned that I was always welcome there.

So yes, I'll definitely try to get to more cons. I'm exhausted, and I'll be grateful to get back to a normal schedule when WorldCon's over, but I'm going to be very sad when everyone leaves.

In the meantime, I may buy myself a token of citizenship. Y'know how in some fantasy stories, people think their adventures Elsewhere were just a dream, until they discover that they still have a coin or a key or a crown they were given there? The fluorite rock would work, but I can't keep it with me all the time, so I may indulge my shopping obsession and buy a ring. Laurie Edison makes gorgeous jewelry and sells it at cons. It's pricy, so I've never bought any of it. But today I tried on a series of rings and both Laurie and I went, "Oh, wow," at one particular one with a shiny blue stone that looks like opal but I think is something else I can't remember at the moment.

If that's still available tomorrow, I may spring for it, as a sign of renewed commitment to my SF/F citizenship. If it isn't available, I'll cart the fluorite around, maybe, or get some smaller thing. Either way, I'll be registering for Fourth Street.

This is an exceedingly long post. Thank you for bearing with me!

Decadence

Because there's so much alcoholism in my family (and it's so genetic), I drink very, very little. For years, my only alcohol consumption was a sip of communion wine every Sunday. I never drink when we're out and about here in Reno, since Gary can't see quite well enough to get a driver's license, which means that I'm always the designated driver.

I like the taste of some drinks, especially cordials, but hate feeling drunk. Since I have absolutely no tolerance for alcohol -- a very good thing, if one has a genetic predisposition to alcoholism on top of a depression history -- my limit is something like two teaspoonfuls.

Over two hours.

On a full stomach.

On our Spring Break cruise, though, I didn't have to drive, so a couple of evenings I got an after-dinner drink while we listened to the string quartet. I had an Amaretto, which was yummy, and a few nights later I had a Kahlua, which was even yummier. Since they give you a bit more than two teaspoonfuls, I learned that I had to space these treats out over the entire evening, which was fine. I also learned, after a second Kahlua the evening after the first, that if I drank two nights in a row -- even slowly and on a full stomach -- my sleep would be disrupted. This is a well-known effect of alcohol, of course, but twice I awoke to hypnopompic hallucinations. In one case, I thought I saw Gary, lying face down, floating above me: I screamed, but when I turned I saw him sleeping soundly beside me in bed, and then the hallucination dissolved. The second time it happened, I saw a disembodied head floating above me.

Charming.

When I got home, I did enough research to learn that hallucinations upon falling asleep (hypnogogic) and waking up (hypnopompic) are fairly common and considered normal, although alcohol can exacerbate them. They often involve floating figures. I'll bet this is where stories about succubi come from; maybe vampires, too.

Anyway, these episodes were definitely enough to make me space out my after-dinner cordials! When we got home, I occasionally (as in once a week, max, but usually more like once every two weeks) had a tiny amount of a chocolate dessert wine a friend gave us for Christmas. No more creepy floating figures, so I must have gotten the interval right. I just finished the bottle last week, and Gary said, "You should get some Kahlua."

"Eh," I said, shrugging.

But today we were at the supermarket, and Gary got some wine for himself, and I went to browse the cordials section. "Are you going to get some Kahlua?" he asked.

"I think not," I said, goggling at the price.

"It's a premium liqueur," he said, picking up the smallest bottle, "and this will last you for a year."

The smallest bottle was under fifteen bucks, so I shrugged again, and we got it. I may even have a little tonight.

But if I start dancing on tabletops while wearing lampshades (a maneuver I'd consider highly dangerous even without distilled spirits, given how clumsy I am), anyone who cares about me is authorized to haul me into the Betty Ford Center.

Good Day

This morning I met with my rector; we had a very pleasant chat, and he invited me to preach on Maundy Thursday and on May 29 (Memorial Day Weekend). I'm really looking forward to writing homilies again, and I'm honored to be preaching during Holy Week.

I ate my brown-bag lunch at church, raced to the gym and swam for thirty minutes, and then drove to the family shelter to teach my poetry class. I absolutely loved it. You can read about it on the UNR Poetry Project blog. The eight weeks of classes will culminate with a gallery show, probably at the university, and one of today's students has already given permission for her poem to be displayed (which makes me very happy, because it's a gorgeous piece of work).

It was incredibly moving to hear people in such tough circumstances express so much love for their families. As a side note, I was also very impressed with the physical plant; I'd been to the medical clinic downstairs to donate my father's meds after he died, but I'd never been inside the family shelter. It's clean and spacious, and seems very comfortable. Each family has its own room, and I loved looking at the kids' artwork posted on the doors.

When I got home, Gary and I decided to dash out to a store in Sparks that sells sports optics; we were hoping to get prescription snorkel masks. The store sells them, but they cost about $200 each, which is way too much money for an activity we indulge in once a year if we're lucky. So we're going to look for less expensive options. The cruise line supplies equipment, but we don't know if they'll have optical masks.

The store was fairly close to the fancy mall with the big sports store where I bought my wetsuit, so while we were in the neighborhood, we decided to go look at ellipticals. And, mirabile dictu, we found one! We hope to very soon be the proud owners of a Horizon Ex-59, which -- at its sale price of $599 -- was the second-least-expensive machine in the store. It seems really solid and smooth, though, and the online reviews we've seen have been good. We could have ordered a slightly older model, the Ex-57, from Amazon: less money, no tax. But after reading about people spending two or three hours assembling their machines, and winding up covered in grease, we've decided to spring for the tax, since if we buy from the store we'll get free delivery and installation, and they'll handle any necessary repairs. Right now the store only has the floor model in stock, but the sales guy is going to call me tomorrow about when they expect more in.

Of course, this is an even larger investment than the masks (and yes, I was conscious of the irony of embarking on this project right after a visit with homeless families), but we'll use it a lot more often. I hope to use it for at least a little while most mornings; I'll be able to work out in my PJs, which means I can give myself a serotonin boost on those mornings when crawling into clothing to crawl into the car to crawl to the gym is just too much effort. Gary dislikes most gym equipment but was very impressed with this, and he can use it when weather keeps him from hiking. So, yeah: big outlay, but I think the price is reasonable for what we'll be getting, and I think it will help with my health goals. My ultimate goal is to work up to using the elliptical half an hour in the morning and then swimming half an hour in the afternoon. That way, I'll get both weight-bearing exercise and the swimming I love, and I'll be able to rest between them. This may be too ambitious, of course, but if I could manage that even a few times a week, I'd be happy.

It was dark when we left the mall. I don't know Sparks very well, and I got lost. We wound up on a long highway without traffic lights. I couldn't see familiar city lights. I couldn't even tell which way we were driving. Finally I pulled up to a supermarket and told a lady there that we were lost. She laughed -- she's gotten lost there too, it turns out -- and offered to lead us back to town.

Talk about angels in disguise. I never would have found my way on my own; we weren't even close to my best foggy guess of our location. Thank you, lady in the silver Cadillac!

After that adventure, we'd have gotten home later than Gary likes to start cooking, so we went out for pizza, to the place that has gluten-free crust and soy cheese. It was very yummy. I'm very grateful to be able to eat pizza again.

Bootstraps

So I've decided that the new funk probably is a resurgence of depression; the question is what to do about it. The immediate answer is to exercise more, since I'd gotten somewhat lax about that. Since Saturday, I've gone to the gym every day, and I'm indeed feeling a bit better.

One of my goals here is to stay off meds, at least until after my sabbatical. There are three reasons for this:

1) Meds suppress creativity, at least for me, and while the funk has too -- although, again since Saturday, I've been managing to write a bit every day -- I can't afford a solution I know will mess with my writing. I need to get a lot of writing done during sabbatical.

2) I suspect the mild chronic pain I've been in since October, from my back, is one factor in the funk (although the pain's slooooowly getting better with exercise and chiropractic treatment). I'm positive that the extra ten or twenty pounds I'm carrying around haven't been helping my back, and I gain weight on meds.

3) Meds are expensive, and will undoubtedly become more so when our medical benefits crash and burn on July 1, which is also when I'll be on reduced sabbatical salary.

(Note: In "meds" here, I'm including herbal treatments like St. John's Wort, which I've been told by clinicians are just naturally occuring, under-regulated versions of the same chemicals Big Pharma puts in antidepressants.)

One obvious and time-honored alternative would be therapy. However, I've done a lot of therapy in my life, and I know pretty much all the cognitive strategies out there, and I can talk circles around anybody or anything. My most recent therapist acknowledged this in our final session; both of us felt that the sessions had been more like very pleasant conversations than like therapy sessions, but he said that was basically because I already had all the insights other people come to therapy to get. (This isn't because I have any special qualities; it's because I've spent decades in therapists' offices.)

So today I began, yet again, a search for a therapist around here who does something other than cognitive talk-centered stuff. My sister helped out with a websearch and found a local Jungian whose name she sent me; I found another local Jungian who's particularly interested in spiritual issues; a psychologist friend suggested yet another local Jungian.

Not a one of them is on my insurance. Aaargh! Not that insurance will be a heckuva lot of help once the sabbatical starts, anyway (see point three above), especially since therapy is more expensive than meds, which is one reason why meds are so popular.

I'll keep doing research, and in the meantime, I'll do my best to stick to my exercise schedule. I'm even considering buying an elliptical for the house, so I can work out on days when I don't feel up to dragging myself to the gym. To my disappointment, the good machines are both very pricey and too large to fit easily in the house. Gary said we could clear out room in the garage, but exercising in a windowless space, among boxes and dust bunnies and spiders, just doesn't appeal to me. I'd want the thing near a window, to combine light therapy with the workout.

Picky, picky! Yes, I know. Aren't chronic invisible illnesses fun? But with a bit of luck, continued exercise will get me over this hump. I know it will help the back and the weight, and my gym membership's already built into our budget (that's one thing I'm definitely not giving up during my sabbatical). Keep your fingers crossed for me, please.

Foiled Again

So, for the first time since I got my winter tires, we're actually expecting snow, just in time to interfere with our travel plans this weekend.

Grumble.

Down here, the snow's supposed to start tonight and continue through tomorrow. In the mountains, snow's predicted to continue through Saturday. We're going to get up Thursday, check road conditions, and see if we want to risk the drive, but I'd say our chances of getting to San Francisco are very iffy. (And airfare's prohibitive: I checked.)

Grumble.

On the plus side, I didn't have to give my chiropractor any money today, because my insurance suddenly started paying fifty percent -- even though we all thought I had hundreds of dollars in deductible left -- which means that I now have a balance there. Hurrah for small blessings!

The money I've saved at the chiropractor's office will come in handy when we hire a contractor to fix the small cracks in our sidewalk and driveway, which our insurance company says we have to do before they'll approve our new (and less expensive than the old, thank goodness) homeowners' policy.

Grumble.

Is this the world's most boring post, or what? Sorry about that! I was in a major black hole on Saturday and Sunday -- that ER shift really did a job on me, and it took me a few days to work my way through to the other side -- and yesterday I was busy, so I haven't been posting, so I thought I should post, even though I clearly have nothing very interesting to report.

Grumble.

Oh! Yes I do! Next week, I'm meeting with my new rector to discuss if and when I'll be preaching there.

Yay!

Weepy

Today's good news is that my phone's working fine again, thank goodness. Going to the Verizon store to deal with BlackBerry issues is right up there with standing on line at the DMV.

On the less happy front, I've been incredibly and bizarrely weepy today: sobbing in the pool, breaking down during a meeting with a student (less embarrassing than it sounds, since this is a very kind person and someone I know well), and generally fighting tears while walking, driving, yada yada. I'm not sure what's going on; I mean, sure, I'm still grieving, but I wasn't thinking more than usual about my parents today. I've checked my records, and today doesn't seem to be the anniversary, or near the anniversary, of anything particularly painful. Since it felt a bit like low blood sugar -- although I've eaten my normal amount today -- I grabbed an extra power bar at work, and that seems to have helped a smidgen. I'm panicky about my continuing writer's block, but I'm always panicky about that.

I really, really hope this isn't depression. I don't want to go back on meds. I went off them six months ago (almost exactly) and have been doing fine, except that I can't seem to get my writing mojo back, which is one of the main reasons I went off. I'd expected it to happen by now, so maybe the panic kicked up a notch because it's been six months with so little movement?

Whatever it is, I hope it goes away. (Long-suffering Gary had to listen to me weep and whine when I got home, and that's no fun for him, either.) The very sympathetic custodian at work said maybe I'm getting sick. I hope not, but at least that would explain this.

Gah.

Hospital, Yay!

I just got back from a mini-shift at the hospital (two hours instead of four). As I suspected, it was just what I needed: the work grounds me, makes me feel connected to the divine and to other people, and, generally, reminds me what's important.

Several of you implored me to stay home this weekend because I wasn't feeling well. First of all, the back's improving, and the PT guy didn't put me on any restrictions. But secondly, and more important: at least for me, volunteering isn't a distraction from self-care, but a form of self-care. I don't volunteer because I'm a nice person. Sometimes I'm nice and sometimes I'm not -- people who deal with my daily in the flesh might say I'm more often not, especially when my back hurts! -- but that's not the point. I volunteer for entirely selfish reasons, because the work's good for me. The fact that it's at least sometimes good for other people too is a lovely bonus.

See Frederick Buechner: "The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet." See also research on service as treatment for depression.

I worked two hours instead of four today because I still have eleven hours of grading to do this weekend (this is after six hours yesterday), but I've vowed to myself that if I'm away from the hospital entirely, it will be because I'm ill or out of town, not because I have mounds of papers to grade.

Not surprisingly, though, two-hour shifts are less tiring than four-hour ones. If I get my sabbatical next year (crossing all toes and fingers here, which makes typing quite the challenge), I may very well break up my four hours per week -- which is what the hospital asks of volunteers, although they're very flexible about it -- into two two-hour shifts. That will also allow me to see more patients, since the ED population often doesn't change that much in four hours. During the academic year, though, I'm pretty much stuck with a four-hour shift on Saturdays: other days are too problematic because of teaching, committee meetings, prep, church, and fiddle lessons.

Speaking of which, yesterday I had my first fiddle lesson in two weeks. Because of the back crud, I'd only been able to practice three days since my last lesson, but Charlene was very kind about my progress (or lack thereof).

Right. On to the mounds of grading.

Life in the Old Girl Yet

My orthopedist, after a physical exam and x-rays (right in his office; how many doctors do that anymore?), reports that my knees are actually in fine shape. "They have at least 100,000 miles on them." I do, however, have misaligned knee caps, evidently common in women. This usually isn't a big problem, but something's irritated my right knee.

So he injected a needle of local-anesthetic-plus-steroid into the knee, and told me to be as active as possible (but to stop if the knee hurts again). I'm going back in two weeks. If the pain's improved or gone, he'll give me exercises to strengthen that knee. If the pain's the same or worse, he'll know that something else is going on and send me for an MRI to check for soft-tissue problems.

Meanwhile, steroids are my new best friends. (He assured me that these injections are very safe, as long as one doesn't have them too often.) The shot wasn't even bad, despite my apprehension: pressure, but no pain, and over very quickly. Immediately afterward, I could walk more easily. I went to work, strolled around campus, did stairs -- yay! -- and generally acted like my old walk-a-lot self. (I'd originally typed "pedestrian self," but realized that could be read the wrong way.) Then I went swimming. After half an hour, the knee started complaining, so I stopped. Oddly, the most painful part of swimming wasn't the knee twinges; the toes of both feet kept cramping terribly. But I wore new shoes today, and I also walked more -- and more normally -- than I have in a month, which means that my muscles were getting forgotten workouts. If the toe cramps continue, I'll call him, but right now, I'm not going to worry about them.

My knee is better again now, after a fairly long grocery shopping expedition, and I hope it will be better yet tomorrow.

What a relief to walk and take stairs without pain again! I so hope that this and the exercises work and that this problem will be fixed, at least for a while. I will say, though, that I'm a little apprehensive about the bill, even though this guy's on my insurance. Office visit, steroid injection and x-rays: what do you suppose all that will cost? Less than in an ER, obviously, but I'm still anticipating having to write a hefty check.

I also saw my therapist today. Despite, or maybe because of, the emotional upheavals of the past week, he's happy with how I'm doing off meds. He says I seem more alive. And we both agreed that if I've navigated the emotional upheavals off meds, I'll probably be able to stay off them.

Stay tuned!

Health Updates

For the past two days, I've been entirely off meds -- yay! -- and I'm already feeling a little more connected to the world. I hope it holds!

On the less positive side, my knee's been hurting like a sumbitch. Ice packs help, as does frequent movement (in a rocking chair, say), so the joint doesn't stiffen, and I've been swimming or using the elliptical -- recommended for folks with knee problems -- to buoy my mood and to keep working on my weight, which is definitely one of the contributing factors. But the problem's gotten to the point where stairs are a challenge; I have to do one step at a time, since bending the knee with any weight on it becomes very unpleasant very quickly.

Next week I'm in Berkeley; the following week, I'm going to see Katharine's orthopedist. My Berkeley visit will involve a second-story dorm room, in a building I suspect doesn't have elevators, and mandatory walks downtown for both exercise and food. I'll be slow and careful. Annoying, but not the end of the world.

That week, Gary and I are also both going to see a dermatologist. He has a mole on his face that's been worrying me for a while: our doc says it's probably nothing, but best to get it checked out. Best to get both of us checked out, since we live in the sunniest state in the country and I'm truly awful about using sunscreen. I have a black mark under one toenail that's probably a bruise, but I'll feel better when a doctor reassures me that it's not skin cancer.

Ah, middle age! I'm not sure I can count the number of specialists we've collected.

Too Many Goodbyes

Yesterday went very well: I got the info I needed for my Tolkien essay, scored bigtime at the dollar store -- where for $42 I got a lot of party decorations and place settings for Wednesday -- and then went to Ross, the discount place, where I got four new pillows for our guests, a new skirt, and a new pair of slacks. I also swam for forty-five minutes, until a charleyhorse in my calf stopped me.

Today, my good mood vanished. It's the three-month anniversary of Mom's death, and today at church we were also saying goodbye to Sherry Dunn, one of our priests, who's retiring and moving to Tucson with her husband at the end of the month. Sherry's the best pastoral caregiver I've ever met, and a wonderful preacher, and a lovely person. She preached the first Sunday I attended St. Stephen's, and she was big part of getting me hooked on the Episcopal Church. She's seen me through a lot of major changes, including the death of both of my parents.

Everyone was in tears this morning. We would have been in tears anyway, but the fact that the parish is closing hardly helps. A lot of us got up during the service and offered memories and small tributes, or simple thanks. Before the service, I'd given Sherry a pair of socks I'd made for her. Afterwards, I took this photograph to remember her by. It's a very characteristic expression.

When I got up during the service, I'd talked about how one of the things I appreciate about her is her honesty: she's isn't afraid to offer cricitism when necessary. Sitting in my pew after I'd spoken, though, I became obsessed with the memory of a moment when she told me sharply (more sharply than she's ever said anything else) that I cared more about being right than about being kind. I don't even remember now what sparked the comment, and she's certainly said many loving things since then, but I sat there and beat myself up about it and cried some more. I found myself praying, "God, help me be the person Sherry thinks I should be."

I just reduced my meds dosage again, so that little meltdown was probably the neurochemistry talking, along with the fact that I skipped my hospital shift yesterday. That was a wise move, since I got a lot done with the extra time, but being at the hospital gives me a solid, baseline sense of self-worth: that "even if you screw up everything else this week, you brought a cup of cold water to patient X" cushion. (And yeah, that's a selfish reason to volunteer, but hey: no such thing as pure human motivations.)

Tucson isn't far. I hope Sherry will stay in touch, and I may even get to see her again sometime. It's just that the confluence of events -- Mom, Sherry, the parish -- was a bit too much today.

On the bright side, some friends brought their therapy dog to church. Look at those eyes! Is that a soulful animal, or what? And she's about the best-behaved dog I've ever met, although she'd have to be, as a therapy dog. I didn't get as long a cuddle with her today as I have some other Sundays, but it was still nice to be able to pat her.

Next Sunday we're having a meeting after church to discuss the nitty-gritty of the parish closing. I'd like to be there, but my sister and nephew will be in town, and I think spending time with them is a better use of my time and energy right now. A friend told me I can call her to find out what happened. Church is just too sad in through here: I need a Sunday off!

After church I came home, ate lunch on the deck, took a short nap, and went to the gym. I need to lose at least ten pounds, and probably more like twenty. My doctor gave me a sensible talking to on Friday: "exercise regularly, vary your exercise, eat just a few hundred calories less per day." He also said, "It's hard."

Today at the gym, I worked out for fifty minutes, twenty on the elliptical and thirty on the treadmill. I wasn't a speed demon, but I definitely got my heart rate up (to a max of 126 or so) and broke a good sweat. I felt pretty good about it until I stopped to ask about target heart rates at the fitness desk, where a brusque twenty-something who's never had to lose weight in his life told me that my target heart rate should be 145 -- which sounds way too high to me, but he said the guidelines have changed -- and also said I'll have no luck losing weight until I work with weights. I'm really very faithful about cardio, but that's not enough.

I hate weights. If I have to work with weights, I won't go to the gym at all.

When I got home, I talked to Gary about this, and he basically said, "Do what feels right and ignore all the stupid numbers." I knew that, but needed to hear it from someone else!

In the meantime, my knee's more painful than it's been in ages, so I suspect I overdid today's cardio, although it felt good at the time. Sigh.

This is a very whiny post, isn't it? Fran arrives tomorrow, so I hope I'll be feeling better then.

Must go clean now. Thanks for listening!

Another Insight

The other day, thinking about how completely and utterly terrified I was as a kid -- constantly afraid that my parents would die; afraid that I'd get anything lower than an A, which would make me a failure; afraid of parties because I was so awkward socially; afraid to tell anyone I was afraid, because I had to keep my mother from worrying about me more than she already did and because my father needed me to be all right so he'd be all right -- I realize that I had a huge, honking case of Generalized Anxiety Disorder, with some Social Phobia and OCD (I went on a handwashing binge in grade school) and a large dollop of Separation Anxiety thrown in for good measure.

Is that sentence long enough?

Untreated anxiety commonly turns into depression; the two are close siblings anyway. For years now, various professionals of the shrink persuasion have been exhorting me to express my anger, which they've assumed to be at the base of the depression. A few times, I've said, "Y'know, I don't think it was ever anger. It was fear." Nobody picked up on that clue, not even me.

In one sense, this doesn't matter. Treatments for anxiety and depression are very similar, and when I was a kid, nothing much was available for either, anyway. But it blows my mind to realize that there was this huge thing happening that nobody recognized. The week before the funeral, my sister told me that when I was three or four, my mother was afraid I was psychotic because I had such lively conversations with my imaginary friends Stick, Bracelet, and Susie. She had me evaluated by a psychiatrist, who said I was fine and would come out of it. That person didn't even pick up on the fear, although a) he might not have been looking for it and b) I probably wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, even then.

But jeez. Poor little Susan, so scared all the time, and so stubbornly and nobly and ass-backwardsly keeping it a secret to try to protect everybody else! (My parents would certainly have done everything in their power to help me if they'd known.) I just want to go back, give her a hug, and tell her everything will really be all right, you know?

Unexpected Upswing

I've been feeling much better since Tuesday. At some point, I suddenly realized that although I was sad, I wasn't scared or anxious. I'd always thought that after both of my parents died, I'd feel horribly alone. I don't. Instead -- and please don't take this the wrong way, because I loved both Mom and Dad very dearly, and I know they loved me too -- I feel about sixty thousand tons lighter.

I sat down to figure this out. It didn't take long. As long as I can remember, I've dreaded my parents' deaths; furthermore, I was deeply afraid that both of them would have horrible deaths. Mom had cancer twice, remember; Dad's father committed suicide before I was born, and Dad went through his own suicidal stretches, although none recently. Mom was expected to die in 1964 and Dad in 1977. Both of them had plenty of scares after those long-ago dates. I can't remember how many times, during one or another medical crisis, I've geared myself up and thought, "Okay, this is it."

Instead, they both died in their mid-eighties, relatively peacefully, with their pain controlled by hospice and with at least one loved one nearby. I'm not saying that chronic heart failure and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease are fun ways to go, but they aren't the tragedies I'd always feared.

I don't have to dread their deaths anymore. I only realized what a deep, baseline condition this chronic terror was when it wasn't there anymore.

This change is huge. I'm now wondering how much of my previous depression was really anticipatory mourning for them (or possibly, as my therapist friend Wendy has suggested, complicated grief). I'm not saying I don't have my biochemical issues -- given my genes, it would be a miracle if I didn't -- but I now suspect that there was a lot more situational stuff affecting my moods than anyone ever realized.

And instead of dreading my own aging process, I'm now actively looking forward to it.

Gary and I have long needed new heating ducts in the house, and also a new deck (and then there are the floors and the need for interior paint, but those can wait a bit). We'd already decided to go ahead and have the ducts put in, since we won't have to help pay to have Mom in a nursing home. On Wednesday I decided that before the summer's over, I want us to get the new deck, too.

In September, I'll turn fifty. I want to throw myself a big birthday party out on the deck. I'll hire Charlene, my fiddle teacher, to play for a few hours, and I'll invite everybody I know.

I never do stuff like this. I think the last time I had an actual birthday party was when I was in my twenties, and that was organized by friends. I've never thrown myself one. But since my parents are no longer here to be happy I was born, well, other people can be happy instead.

Just looking forward to this makes me happy. I'm still sad, too, but I know both Mom and Dad would want me to be making plans and looking forward to things.

After a long conversation with Wendy, I've also decided to start getting off meds as soon as possible. I see my psychiatrist next on May 5. Meanwhile, I've made an appointment with a therapist for next week. I found this guy on the web, but his site appeals to me, and I talked to him on the phone for quite a while today. He's very sympathetic to the fact that medication can dampen creativity -- he says he's had a lot of clients with that issue -- and he has an arts background himself, as well as eleven years of counseling experience. He's a fellow progressive who does cool work I admire (therapy groups for women in jail, for instance), and he's also lost his second parent within the last year, so he knows that territory. He's not on my insurance, but nobody I'm interested in seeing is, so I'm just going to bite the bullet and pay full price. Because he's an LCSW rather than a PhD, he's more reasonable than some other folks. I love social workers. Social workers and librarians are the Secret Rulers of the Universe. And if it doesn't work out, well, I'll find somebody else.

So I've achieved movement on several fronts, although I'm still moving far too slowly on work matters. Wendy strongly urged me to get an extension on turning my grades in, but that would only prolong the agony.

Oh, and I went to an aquasize class today. I didn't even hit anyone on the head with my noodle this time, although I wasn't terribly graceful with it, either. At one point the instructor looked at me and said, laughing, "Well, that's not exactly what I was looking for, but you're doing something, so I'll take it."

That's kinda my approach to life right now. Any something is a good thing.

Chemistry Experiments

As of a week ago, I've gone off wheat to see if it will make me feel better (and make it easier for me to lose weight). So far, so good. I have noticeably less joint pain, which is a benefit two other friends have reported; one thought she'd have to have a hip replacement, but when she gave up wheat, the pain disappeared completely. I wouldn't call my improvement that dramatic, but I'll take what I can get!

So far, eating wheat-free has been less of a challenge than I'd have anticipated. We've located corn cereal and corn and rice pasta, and instead of eating my tuna salad on bread, I just eat it with a fork out of a tupperware container. We'll see how I fare in Honolulu -- we're leaving tomorrow! -- but since there's a lot of Asian cuisine there, I should be able to go the rice route without any trouble.

Meanwhile, last week I talked to my psychiatrist about the medication issue, which is, in a nutshell: On meds, I'm more socially comfortable and people seem more comfortable around me. But I don't write as much or as well. Off meds, I write much better, but my social relationships become more difficult. My shrink, who firmly believes I have to be on meds for the rest of my life -- even though I haven't been on them for most of my life -- said, "Okay, so this is what you have to figure out. Do you want to live in the safe box and have more friends, or do you want to be a passionate artist at the price of pushing some people away?"

Gary immediately said, "Passionate artist." Our friends Katharine and Jim immediately said, "Passionate artist." Actually, Jim didn't say that right away, but he asked me if I was on or off meds when I wrote The Necessary Beggar, and when I said I was off, he immediately said, "Then go off."

I made them all promise that they'll either put up with me when I'm difficult, or tell me if I've become too difficult to put up with, so I can go back on. I'm not doing this until after the end of the semester, though, and probably not until after our Alaska cruise.

I've been hearing a lot of "You shouldn't care what anyone else thinks of you," but frankly, I think that's hypocritical b.s. We're social animals: we're designed to care what others think of us, and none of us can function in jobs or families or congregations without paying at least nominal attention to the issue. There's been all kinds of research about how people fear rejection more than death, and about how rejection causes literal biological pain and takes a toll on health.

I vividly -- and painfully -- remember my old therapist in NYC, the one who was always pushing me to express my feelings, then turning around and telling me that I had to learn to be more contained. Hello! Can you say mixed messages?

In many ways, this has been the central conflict of my life. When I express authentic emotion, people tell me I'm inappropriate; when I express appropriate emotion, they tell me I'm inauthentic.

Sigh.

My current plan is to be very selective about whose opinions I buy into. Gary, Jim, Katharine, other close friends, and my sister will be my thermometers. As long as they aren't running screaming, I'll trust that I'm doing okay.

In other news:

We leave for Honolulu tomorrow! Yes, I already said that, but I like saying it.

The new bag arrived and I like it a lot, but the straps are a bit thin, so I've ordered some pads to make them more comfortable. With luck, those will arrive today, so I'll have them for the trip.

The new goggles came and are splendid.

I woke up this morning to find snow outside, although only a little.

Have I mentioned that we leave for Honolulu tomorrow?

In Which We Are In a Bad Mood

As previously advertised, today's the anniversary of Dad's last trip to the ER. On the evening of March 2 a year ago, I found him bashing his wheelchair into the walls of his room, trying to get to Congress to help them with the energy bill. From there, he wound up in ICU, and then in a nursing home, and then in hospice, and then in the small white cardboard box on my bookshelf.

The anniversary may be why I'm in a rotten mood, or maybe it's because the weather's gloomy again (as it was a year ago), or -- more likely -- it's because my evening antidepressant dosage stuck to the pill dispenser two nights ago, instead of making it into my hand and thence into my mouth along with my vitamins and arthritis meds. Very bad timing. I only discovered this yesterday afternoon; I made sure to get every pill last night, but I may still be operating on a neurotransmitter deficit.

Or maybe it's because I haven't had time to knit in three days.

Or maybe it's all of the above.

Okay, so I'd probably be twitchy anyway, but the outside world isn't helping much. On Saturday, coming home from a lovely wedding reception (congrats again, Amy and Danielle!), Gary and I stopped to get gas. Sunday I got a phone call from my bank: evidently I left my credit card at the gas station, although I still don't know how. My best guess is that when I was putting the card back into my wallet, as I always do, it fell out of the car instead. Luckily, a Good Samaritan found it and, instead of loading up on expensive electronics, called the bank to notify them and offered to destroy the card.

So that account's closed; the new card should arrive today, at which point I'll have to contact everyone with whom I have online accounts or automatic payments to give them the new card number. While this situation turned out much better than it could have -- thank you, Good Samaritan! -- it's still a pain.

Meanwhile, last Thursday I ordered yet another new bag, one that should be perfect for Hawai'i, from a travel company. It shipped on Friday, but according to FedEx, it hasn't been picked up yet. This morning I called FedEx, who told me to call the merchant. I called the merchant, who told me to call FedEx. I explained that I'd already done that, and the phone rep said she'd e-mail the warehouse to find out what's going on and get back to me. She was very nice, but the situation's still infuriating.

Then I called my eye doctor to find out what diopter to order on corrective swim goggles (also for Hawai'i, to see things underwater: I don't like swimming without goggles even when I'm not formally snorkeling, and if I can see, I can spot my towel more easily when I emerge from the water). My old corrective goggles have worn out, and my prescription's changed since I got them, but I assumed the doctor's office would just give me the diopter over the phone, the way they did last time.

But no. They're not allowed to give me my prescription over the phone. That's illegal. They have to mail it to me.

I'll get it tomorrow; no biggie, right? I can't order goggles without the new credit card, anyway. But -- what the hay? Is there a black market in lens prescriptions for really nearsighted, astigmatic people who need bifocals? Could anyone use this information to manufacture weapons or drugs, or to deepen the state deficit? Could someone with my glasses pretend to be me, committing identity theft? I mean, what's the logic here? What are they thinking?

Yes, I know: I'm being very petty, and all of this would roll off my back if I were basically cheerful right now. But it's March, the Month from Hell, and I'm jonesing for Hawai'i, my Escape from Hell (ten more days! ten more days!), and I'm remembering Dad, so I'm not basically cheerful.

Meanwhile, I'm behind on grading, as always, so I'd better get back to it. Thanks for listening to me vent.

Bad Day for Moms

It's one year today since Gary's dad died. I called his mother, who was a little shaky but said it really hasn't been any worse than any other day. She was fretting that she hadn't done anything to commemorate the day, so I suggested that she write. She said she might write in her journal.

Meanwhile, my sister tells me that this morning, our mother didn't remember what clam chowder is, even though she eats it every day during many months of the year. When my sister brought her some, she remembered, but it's still a scary slippage. Several hours later, I spoke to Mom on the phone and she sounded quite good; she's very much looking forward to seeing me on Wednesday, as I'm looking forward to seeing her. So far, she's shown no sign of not recognizing family, thank God.

Now I just have to hope that the weather cooperates with my travel plans!

My shift at the hospital this morning went well. First of all, I woke up on time, no mean feat these days! Patient volume was low today, which meant that the staff were all in a good mood, and I had a high percentage of good, substantive visits with the patients I did see.

This afternoon I was sad and lethargic, though, probably because of the season and the day. I've often been blue right before Christmas, even without painful family stuff. I'd been planning to get a few hours of work done on my year-end annual-evaluation materials (a massive project that always comes at the worst time of the year), but that didn't happen, so tomorrow through Tuesday, I'll really have to cram.

Oh, speaking of sleep: the bloodwork came back normal, which I guess is a good thing but is also annoying, because we're no closer to an explanation. (And while grief and depression would explain ordinary fatigue, they don't explain exercise intolerance: that suggests something physical.) I spoke to my psychiatrist, who said my recent higher meds dosage could theoretically be the problem. I'm going to try going back down to the old dose in January, but we agreed that doing it before my trip back East would be unwise. And on January 4, I have an appointment to talk to my primary-care doc. So I'm working on fixing this!

In an hour, we're going to a dinner party given by our friend Stephanie the violinist. As her Christmas present to me, she's giving me a half-hour violin lesson: very generous! (And, I hope, not too painful for her or for the other people in the building.) I'll post separately about her new album with our friend Jim.

Bad Morning, Good Afternoon

I woke up this morning at 9:15 -- with fifteen minutes to get to church -- and didn't even try to make it. I rolled back over and closed my eyes. At 11:30, Gary wandered into the bedroom and said, "It looks like one of us is still in bed?"

At that point, I dragged myself upright (after he'd kindly brought me coffee!), although I felt like every limb was fifty pounds heavier. I wasn't sick; it was either depression or a grief reaction or, most likely, some combination of the two.

In any event, things quickly improved. I ate breakfast and felt a little more human, and then discovered that some folks on Ravelry had very kindly left comments telling me how to solve the double-knitting problem that's been plaguing me. Finally figuring out a new technique, and getting it to work when I picked up my project, made me feel much better.

It was now about 1:15, and Gary had left for a hike. I showered, dressed, packed up my lunch and some ice water, and got into the car to drive to Pyramid Lake, a place Dad loved and never got to see again during the five months he actually lived here. I'd written on my calendar months ago that I'd drive out there today in his memory, so I decided keep that promise to him and to myself.

The drive was very pleasant. I listened to fiddle tunes, ate my lunch, and admired the landscape. As you can see from the above photo, we had cloudy weather today, which meant that the water was steel-gray, rather than the striking turquoise it displays on sunny days. This picture can't do justice to the lake, but hardly any photo can. It's a place people have to see for themselves, and they generally either respond in terror because it's so stark and dramatic, or love it because, well, it's so stark and dramatic. Dad loved it; so does my mother, and so do I.

I didn't stay there long, but I stopped into a store that sells Piaute crafts (Pyramid Lake's on a rez). I found birthday gifts for my sister and a friend and a Christmas gift for Gary. My father would have especially liked the gift I found for Liz, so that made me happy.

When I got home, I practiced the fiddle. I'm happy to report that Felicity's been just fine (fit as a fiddle!) since I got her fixed again on Friday. Yesterday I even managed to straighten the listing bridge without breaking anything. What a relief! I can't say that I've been sounding much better this week, but I don't think I'm sounding worse, either.

So that was my day. On the way to the lake, I thought about writing a poem when I got there, but I was feeling singularly uninspired. At least the drive got me out of the house, though, which was exactly what I needed today.

Next weekend I'll be up at Lake Tahoe for our annual diocesan convention, where I'll get more than enough church to make up for having missed it today.

Mood Update

I've been a gloomy camper this weekend, thanks largely to the fact that I haven't exercised. This afternoon I swam for an hour and I'm already feeling better, so I hope the upward trend continues!

Tomorrow's the six-month anniversary of Dad's death, and I'm sure that's a factor. My sister was having a hard time earlier this weekend, but she's doing better now. I can't believe that a year ago, Dad wasn't even here yet, and I was running around feverishly preparing for his arrival.

The weather was gorgeous today -- it's finally starting to feel like maybe fall's actually coming -- and Dad would have loved it. He never got to enjoy weather like this here. It makes me sad.

Taking a Break

So I saw my psychiatrist today, as advertised. She's upping my meds dosage, unless a) my insurance won't pay for it (the pharmacy's checking on that) or b) I have side effects, in which case she'll bump the current med back down and augment it with something else.

In the meantime, I'm taking another sabbatical from the hospital. She advised me to take a month to regain my energy, but I'm extending that to Halloween, since I have a lot going on in October.

To tell you the truth, I'm a little relieved (although I also feel like a wimp). I love volunteering at the hospital, but it's also exhausting -- especially on Saturday mornings, when I'd rather be sleeping in -- and I'm sufficently drained at the moment that I don't feel very useful anyway. Time to recharge the batteries.

I showed the good doc my to-do list; she shook her head and said, "I'm tired just looking at that."

Indeed.