The Story Cabin - Fever

Rocking back and forth, simply a reflex, while viewing the babies in the hospital nursery.  Standing here, she finds peace.  Bliss is watching the newborns as they struggle to hold onto life those first few days.  They reach and grasp at it, while it tries to slip away.  Fighting, they solidify their “here and now”. 

Fever

Turning to walk back to her own room, she runs into Jack.  He knows where to find her.  It took a while, but with enough visits to the hospital, he knows where to find her. 

She has a bandage on her head this time. The fever makes her black out.  Fainting in the wrong place can get dangerous.  Luckily she was at home, she had tried to make it to the bedroom. She pushes her IV tree as she shuffles along the corridor.  Back to her own wing.

“Does the nurse know you are out here? ”,  Jack questions her. 

“No, but I doubt he has noticed I left.  It’s been a busy day today.”  Autumn sighs and shuffles to the elevator.  She is going up to the tenth floor. 

The TENTH floor.  The floor they put you on when they haven’t a clue what in the world is wrong.  The floor for those that might be a little crazy, but it doesn’t really show outward until you get close.  The floor for the weird.  She can’t leave until Jack signs for her. 

Autumn has visions.  That’s all.  Just visions.  She has told Jack over and over, it’s not anything she should be going to the hospital for.  He still calls the ambulance.  When he first began to make the calls, he was asked all of the normal questions, now, they notate who is calling and dispatch the driver.  The EMTs know to pack her with ice to reduce the fever or to use the warming blankets if she has the chills.   They have seen her at both extremes. 

Autumn speaks to the EMT workers as they load her into the ambulance.  Mostly, they think she is crazy and simply ranting.  Often, she speaks in tongues or with a much different voice.  It frightens them.  At least she is becoming routine for them, the urge to strap her down isn’t quite as strong.

Sedation and hydration, that’s all the hospital doctors will allow them to do for or to her.  For that, Jack pays the ER doctors and the EMT’s a lot extra.  No experimenting on his Autumn.  For this Autumn is grateful.  For this, she keeps her visions to herself as much as possible.

Fe

This has been a difficult gift.  The ability to look at someone and see everything about them.  Their innermost secrets.  Autumn knows she will write down everything she saw while blacked out.  She keeps a diary of her “time out”.  Jack knows of the diary but is too fearful to read it.  Someday.  Someday, but not today.  

Fever - The Story Cabin

Fever - The Story Cabin

Face flushed, hands gripping the edge of the counter, shoulders tensed, the fever of the hot flash washes over me.  My eyes sink inward.  My brains feels as though someone has wrung it like an old dish rag.  I want to cry.  I can’t remember why I feel like crying, just the sensation that carries me.  It’s difficult to think and focus my eyes.  My eyes hurt.

Fifty cent folding fan, cooling down.  Hair is wet.  Eyes still hurt a little.  I read on in the latest menopause booklet.  With hormone replacement therapy, the hot flashes and night sweats typically last longer, but aren’t as fierce. I think to myself, I take a pill every morning to help me remember my damn name and one every night to allow me to sleep longer than four hours at a time.  They want me to go WITHOUT.  Isn’t it about quality of life, not so much quantity?  Yeah, I know, it’s easy to say that now.  But, when it’s check out time I’ll be singing a different song. 

The book says “the healthier the woman, the more fierce the hot flash”.  Holy Balls!  I am must be as healthy as an ox!  Raspberry tea is supposed to help.  I prefer it with sugar.  It’s probably the only tea I really want sugar in.  Sugar is a hot flash trigger.  Go figure.  They negate one another, for me.  After drinking gallons of sweat tea and gaining fifteen pounds, I learn that ice water works just as well.

The heartburn is unbearable.  I eat pickles.  I drink pickle juice and vinegar.  I take vinegar pills.  The heartburn hurts all the time.  Husband doesn’t particularly like reaching for a pickle only to find them dried out because I had drunk all the juice!  Makes me giggle. 

Night sleep.  Oh how I miss you.  I cannot even take a “good” nap.  Only power naps.  Five minute naps make me feel rested for about two hours.  A twenty minute nap and I am good for the rest of the day. I haven’t seen a twenty minute nap in a very long time.

Dry nightgowns and being able to stay in bed all night.  I usually awaken after a few hours, get up, fall back to sleep an hour or three later while watching television.  I cannot imagine how gruesome insomnia was without television!

The average duration of the hot flash/night sweat portion of menopause? Two years.  This is my second summer.  My symptoms do seem to be lessening.  Perhaps I am drawing to an end or have I simply learned to deal with it better?  Either way, I am beginning to be able to think more clearly again.  I was fearful of Alzheimer’s.  I thought surely there would be more chatter about menopause if “this” was it.  This has been hell. 

I have been blessed with unemployment during most of the most difficult times.  I cannot imagine holding any of the jobs I have had while enduring these minds twisting, blood boiling, ear popping, mood swings.  Sex is out in the open, looked at, talked about, and dissected.  Why not what mean-o-pause does?  The fever of the hot flash leaves my hair soaking wet from the roots outward.  A change of clothes, time of day?  Yes, yes, it’s 9:30 am – the next real bad one will be about 7:0 pm, with variables all day long.  Whew, being a grown up is much harder than I ever expected. 

Milestones - BFF 200

BFF 200:  Milestones

We three staggered along, ever forward.  Ragged and tattered we trudged homeward.  Keeping to the less traveled paths.  Staying out of the ever watchful eye of the marauders.

Only the tallest of us, Kevin, actually appeared who we truly are, the last of our brigade.  We had not been able to find him suitable alternate clothing when we determined go home. We are the only survivors.  We were at the head of the onslaught, first in and then first out through the opposite site of the city. 

The carnage of this latest campaign has turned me against the very thought of another raid or war.  I long for the soft comfort of my own home.  The attentions of my sweet buxom wife, Meg.  I pine for the high pitch wail of the little ones demanding attention or food.  I loathe being caught up again by the “enlistment” officers. I do not want to travel by ship.  I do not want to leave these green hills to flounder through ankle deep, hot, blowing sands. 

For the last campaign, we had been rounded while out working the fields in spring.  That was two years ago.  Every able man in the city was taken.  We were shackled and made to march to the military encampment.

We, the “enlisted”, were not given tent to sleep in.  We created a woven tarp to hoist into the trees to keep the weather off our faces.  As we left the forested areas we dragged the tarps with us as long as they held together.  All too quickly, we were subject to the blowing sands of the desert.  All too quickly, we learned to watch the sky and bury ourselves as shield from the very grounds we were at war over.

Douglas has a bad foot.  I don’t know if he was bitten or stepped on something which made the appendage swell like a bloated toad.  It weeps and he sometimes whimpers as we walk.  Kevin applies a new poultice each time we stop, which is often, to try to alleviate some of the pain and infection. We three look like vagabonds.  More beggars to join the city.

The baby would have been born, named and begun to walk.  If Meg was able to finish planting and work through the harvest, we would have been owners of our parcel.  This would have marked our tenth year of tenancy.  Our papers would have been handed over this season.  My own Meg. How I miss her.

Meg’s red hair and freckled nose is the first thing you notice about her face. Once you get past her small waist and ample breast.  Poorly shaped teeth are what kept her from being picked as a lady in waiting for the Lady Jessica.  All the better for me.  I have Meg’s attention for more than just a few months per year.  I yearn to see that crooked smile.  I long to hear that stern voice with a hint of humor, chastising me for staying too long at the pub and spending too much on the cups.

Rounding a bend in the road, we spot it.  Hurray!  Our first milestone!  The first of the mile stones marks five miles to the great city.  Five miles from my home and family.  Five miles.  I will be home by sunset. 

The stones are set up to let travelers know they are now within the patrol of the city officers.  They let marauders know, too, they are now within the patrol of the city officers.  The first is merely an upright slab with the number  V engraved on it, surrounded by boulders to ensure no one gets the idea to move the slab thereby deceiving weary travelers.  The mile stones become more ornate the closer to the city.  More patrolling officers, less vandalism.  I am both relieved and wary. For we three know what treasures we carry.

First into the raided city.  I don’t even recall the name of the city.  It was merely the King's Folly , as we we “enlisted” men called it.  First into the city.  Holding our torches in one hand and our swords in the other, we lit fires everywhere we went.  We three created a triangle of fury, no one could fell us. First to raid the city.  First to see any valuables. First to take what we would come to call “our pay”. 

Now with swords hidden in our bunk rolls we travel together to our own great city.  Slowly we stagger in our tattered clothing.  Little do the onlookers know, rather than beggars….we come laden with treasures. 

BFF 204: I Blog Because

Gramma's Version of the Truth

BFF 204 : I Blog Because

Fly swatters in hand, we marshalled the back yard for ants and any other bug we deemed the need to be swatted.  It was a glorious hunt filled with dare-devil deeds like;  hanging on the rail fence around the garden, or plowing into the garden in search of the ever elusive ruby red strawberry, or running mad-cap through the backyard while some imaginary monster was going to “get us”. 

Braelynn turned those massive hazel eyes at me, blinked twice (her grampa does that when he is thinking too) and asked, “Gramma, why is the grass green?”  I pause in my ant quest,  contemplating what my answer should be. 

“Well, Ms. Braelynn, the grass is green because the world is just a speck of paint on a large mural and the picture needs our grass to be green”.  That seems to mollify her, temporarily.

“Gramma, why is Grampa’s hair white?”.  Ho boy, this is gonna be a good day….I’m feelin’ it in my bones!

Braelynn and I gather up our cup of freshly picked strawberries (some not so ripe, depending on the picker) Ushering my granddaughter to the faucet to rinse the berries off, I’m using this time to come up with another zinger for an answer.  I like to send Braelynn home with “food for thought”.  She typically shares her pearls of wisdom with her mother.  The feedback is hilarious.

“Grampa has white hair because he is part of a Q-tip in the picture we live in. You know , like those white Q-tips your mother uses to clean your ears.”  Braelynn squints her eyes and cocks her head.  She is categorizing the information I have just given her.  I can almost see the mural she has painted in her minds eye. 

“Are you sure?”   She is getting to the age she doesn’t always BELIEVE me.  I cannot imagine why. 

“Why is your hair yellow?”  I correct her, telling her there is a difference between yellow and blond.  Although, I must admit, a scarce one.  I show her the different shades of blue in her crayon box.  We investigate the varying pinks in my garden.  Walking to the neighbor’s garden we take in purple from violet to deep grape and many in between.  All the while discussing which shade is darker or lighter than the next. 

“Gramma, why is the sky blue?”

“Because, the picture we live in is seen through the mind’s eye of a blue-eyed giant.”

“Gramma, why  do you know all the answers? But Grampa doesn’t.” 

“I read books and stories and I like to write stories for my blog.”

“Gramma, what’s a blog.”

“One of the places where I get all my answers.”

Two Days Ago

GBE 2: Blog On  #57

Two Days Ago

Have I ever told you just how smart my cats are?  They are very smart.  Anyone who tells you animals are thoughtless inanimate beings just hasn’t paid attention. 

I am allowed to live with two cats.  The dark skinny one, Simba, is twenty years old.  The fat orange one, Buddy, is nineteen years old.  Who knew they would live to be so old!  I have lived with several cats previously, they all seemed to have run under moving cars within a month after my spending the money to have them spayed. These two are exceptional.

My two cats actually reason, they figure things out.  I can see it in their expressions and witness the results.  Doors shut?  No problem, Simba stands on his hind legs and jiggles the handle while Buddy leans his shoulder into the door to swing it open.  Have to lock the bathroom door, otherwise they think they need to supervise! They are a management team!

When let outside, they both know they need to come home when I whistle for them.  If they aren’t right there in our back yard, they will call back to me so I know to wait for them.  Simba is a bit of a priss.  He won’t “go” outside.  If he is outside  and need to go; he will demand to be let back in, use the litter box, and then demand to be let outside again.  Buddy isn’t quite as fussy.

As a kid watching “ Lassie” I always thought it funny when someone would ask the dog, “What is it girl, did Timmy fall down the well?”.   These two cats will actually come and get me to do something for them; let them outside (they don’t typically go any further than the neighbor’s yard), refill their water or food dishes (Buddy might starve overnight ya know – it could happen), clean up the liter box (fussy cats), kill a spider (they don’t like ‘em either!) or remake their beds (yes, they each have their own blanket they sleep with and they like them to be tidy)

A few years ago, the discharge pipe for our furnace humidifier got jostled loose.  Those two cats sat and stared at the dripping water until we figured it out.  Thankfully, we noticed before there was too much damage.

Simba is becoming deaf.  And like most older people who are hard of hearing, he talks loud.  Loud cats aren’t amusing.  They are the subject of cartoons and the recipients of miscellaneous items being thrown at them. (who me?!)

Our immediate neighbor has a cocker spaniel.  Esther.  Chubby little black thing that barks at us if she can hear us in our own home.  She barks and snips and growls and carries on.  Obnoxious little thing.  It’s owners finally bought a bark collar.  Early in the morning, Esther is allowed outside without it.  Depending on how many of the other neighbors are up and about for her to bark at.  Early morning is usually a short backyard bark session.  During the day, Esther is allowed outside with her bark collar on.  She seemed to be fairly quiet during the day, most days.

Since I am home during the day, right now, I have noticed the boys wanting to go outside in the early afternoon.  Bud wanted out, even on hot days.  That’s unusual for the big fella wearing a fur coat!

Two days ago I let them outside with me and I sat down on the upper deck with a cool iced tea. (typically Esther leaves me alone if I am quiet up there) Buddy, who I now realize is an instigator, made sure he walked along our fence line.  Esther, with her bark collar on, ran along on the other side of the fence.  Her small plaintive yips were sorta music to my ears! Buddy walked for about ten feet, then did the ultimate slap in a dogs face, he laid down!  Simba, then decided to walk over to Bud. Esther dodged back and forth and back and forth, wanting desperately to bark and snarl.  Then as she decided it was futile, she began to walk away, Buddy got up and walked a little more along the fence line.  Simba joined me up on the deck. Esther’s yips and yaps became apparent that she was beginning to be in pain, her people came out to investigate (finally).   I waved, smiling, and said "Hello". 

I get to live with smart cats.

“Sandra’s Writers Workshop Hop” #2 Formal First Person

Sandra's Writers Workshop Hop

The “Formal” First Person Perspective

Walking around the neighborhood, as I do every morning, I drink in the meticulously tended gardens.  The purple and pink petunias are especially fragrant this year.  The day and tiger lilies are in full bloom.  I especially keep an eye on a neighbors hydrangea.  Her hydrangea produces prolific blue flowers.  I have two bushes and have yet to get a blossom much less flowers to cut.  I muse over what might be her secret.  I hypothecate that the secret is the plants location and amount of sunlight it receives. 

  Trudging along I drink in the aroma of the beech nut blossoms.  The street is lined with these wonderfully smelling trees.  Tapping my pocket, I am relieved.  The great gasping for air, yanking of the handkerchief, I begin the sneezing bout allergies demand.  

Blog Hop #52 Journey - 250 Words

Journey – Blog Hop #52

The covered wagon had nearly everything packed.  Somberly, Pa moved the oxen to the front of the wagon.  We are in the first wave of settlers after the Sooners.  We will prevail.

I refused to be a moonshiner.  Those dirty sneaky people, living in caves.  They jump the good honest people, stealing prime land they aren’t entitled to.

I worried about having enough water to get us there.  It’s only a five day journey from Michigan to Oklahoma.  My real concern was the availability of water once we find our new home site. 

I had heard the Indians are as cordial to you as you are to them.  I’m not frightened. I speak enough Potawatomi and Kickapoo to get by, hopefully.   I have trinkets and lace to barter with. 

John Palmer, my husband, and I mapped out the track of land we intended to stake.  The few head of cattle we own had been tied to the rear of our wagon.  We will prevail.

Saying our goodbyes took nearly three days.  Well wishers are plentiful in the small community we’ve grown up in.  Jars of jellies, dried meats, dried fruits and vegetables, bolts of cloth; well wishers have ensured our success.

With tender parts newly found on our bodies. The bumps and ruts of the route behind us. Our bruises are aligned with the official starting line of the land run.  Jockeying for position, John Palmer is in the second tier of wagons.  We will prevail.