Fatal Attraction

My parents conspired to exasperate me when they were alive and dead.  I have written about their brief marriage before.  This story is about their last romance and my first contact with my Dad in adulthood.

To briefly preface – my parents met in San Francisco in 1959 and swiftly married.  They were infatuated with each other.  My Dad was a handsome Mexican American, a pilot and accomplished artist.  He was the direct descendent of ‘Californian Royalty’, Captain Jose Francisco Ortega who, on a scouting mission for the Spanish, discovered the bay of San Francisco in 1769.  He has his own Wikipedia page; Jose Francisco Ortega  My Dad was a charismatic black sheep of his family but my mum was smitten.  Equally, he was entranced by the Irish beauty who was as sharp as a whip and very funny.  She worked as a model in a department store in San Francisco but her regular job was with Bank of America in the Foreign Exchange.

After he abandoned us, my mum was careful to extol his virtues to me although I was aware that the rest of her family did not share that opinion.  As I got older, little bits of information were let slip.  He had been in San Quentin prison on forgery charges.  As my mum disappeared into mental illness and alcoholism, she shared more about his real personality.  He was emotionally cruel and seemed incapable of holding down a decent job.  Eventually my mum divorced him in 1976.

Life moved on and I came to an incomplete conclusion about my father.  In my late twenties, I had an overwhelming desire to know more about him and asked my mum if she would mind if I tried to contact him.  She was very open to that and I contacted a mutual friend of my parents who likely knew his location.  Shortly after, I received a long letter from my elusive father.  He seemed happy to resume contact with his only child.  His first letter was very welcome and I pored over his handwriting trying to connect with him through the paper.

A few letters passed and I felt comfortable enough to give him my house telephone number.  My mum also gave him her own telephone number.  When he called drunk in the middle of the night, I started to have reservations about contacting him.  He had not expressed his remorse for abandoning his family or even given a good excuse for his behavior.  I am slow to temper but if you wind me up enough, I will implode with cold fury.  By this stage, I had stopped answering the phone.  Poor Teddy had to deal with a maudlin, unstable father-in-law.  Finally, I wrote a cold letter to my dad telling him how disappointed I was in his lack of remorse and apology.  Further, I was ceasing communication forthwith.

The response to my letter was a deafening silence.  To be honest, I thought he might attempt to reconcile and I was disappointed.  My mum always said I was cruel with words – just like my father.  Then I attempted to just move on in life and pretend he hadn’t existed.  I deeply regretted my foolish need to know my father and thought my mum’s relatives were entirely right in their opinion of him.

Months passed.  My mum shared that my dad had continued to phone her but it was not a problem.  I was blissfully unaware that a spark had ignited between them.  Part of it was my age and theirs.  At age 30, I thought they were far too old to be attracted to each other.  Now that I am in my 60s that seems ludicrous.  They were each other’s great passion and I had enabled their affair to continue.  Then, my mum tentatively said that Dad was coming across to Scotland for a short vacation. “WHAT!”, I exclaimed, outraged and angry.  She said that he really wanted to meet me but I was utterly stubborn.  I had made my decision and that was final. 

What I didn’t know was that those two old loves had planned to live happily ever after.  My  mum was a very good-looking 55, slim and fit.  My Dad had put on weight from recent photos and was about 58 years old.   My father was almost destitute (unknown to either of us) and had embraced the idea of retiring in my mum’s council house with his pension.  My mum managed, barely, on Disability benefit. I was incensed by him coming to Scotland and told my mum that I wouldn’t call her until after he had gone back to the States.

My decision drove my mum to the height of anxiety because in her fairytale he was living with her forever… On the day that he arrived in Scotland, my mum went across to her friend’s house with terrible nausea.  It was a major heart attack and she ended up in Intensive Care.  That evening, I got a call from the ward my mum was in.  She spoke to me and told me that she had had a heart attack.  Although my mum smoked and drank, I was totally stunned by this news.  We arranged to drive down the next day and I had completely forgotten about my dad’s arrival.

When I walked into the ward, I was relieved that my mum looked well.  It was just the start of her heart problems and would later almost die after a triple bypass.  Then she told me that dad was truly worried by her not coming to meet him, that he had phoned all the hospitals in our area and turned up at the ward.  He was very drunk and upset, so much so that the hospital staff banned him from visiting.  I asked my mum if she wanted to see him but I think the reality had awoken her from the fairytale.  He was an old troubled alcoholic and frankly out of her league.  She told me that he was staying in a local hotel.

My mum recovered very quickly and came home where I looked after her for a little while.  Dad did not attempt to communicate with either of us and in the chaos of the situation, I just forgot about him.  After a couple of weeks, I assumed that he was safely back in the USA.  ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish’, thought I.  Some weeks after that, my mum received a call from the local police to say that my dad’s body had been discovered in a Glasgow apartment that he had been renting.  He had slipped into a diabetic coma and died.  A neighbor could see his dead body through the window.

Inevitably, my mum was overwhelmed by this sad news but I suspect a little relieved.  I was horrified.  This was the last thing I wanted even if I was so angry with him.  I phoned the police and explained our estranged situation.  They put me in touch with the American Consul in Scotland who were incredibly helpful and solicitous.  When I explained that this man was a stranger to me (despite the communication I had yet to meet him), they suggested that the Consul contact his ex-wife and see if she wanted the body repatriated.  What ex-wife???  It was just one lovely surprise after another.  This still unknown ex-wife did want his body so I asked the Consul to give her his remaining effects which amounted to $300.

Should I laugh or cry?  If I hadn’t already had been diagnosed with a mental illness, this situation might have triggered it.  This was something that I would have liked to have kept private but I had to tell my mum’s extended family.  One uncle, who particularly disliked my dad, felt that I should have paid for the funeral.  His response shocked me as I owed my father nothing.  He had paid not one cent of the alimony ordered at the divorce.

Now I only laugh when I think about this ludicrous situation.  Could parents be any more annoying?  I feel like Saffron in the British comedy, Absolutely Fabulous.  The sensible daughter always sighing about her parent’s behavior. After I moved to the USA, I found out much more about my paternal family and I have more sympathy for my father.  There is a history of mental illness and alcoholism in our family.  His father, my grandfather, was married four times, I believe, and ended up a pitiful old man.  With the wisdom of age and experience, I now hope that my parents are happily connected in the hereafter.  I will give them a hell of a row when I join them…

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Resignation

Dictionary.com describes the noun resignation as –

• the act of resigning.
• a formal statement, document, etc., stating that one gives up an office, position, etc.
• an accepting, unresisting attitude, state, etc.; submission; acquiescence: to meet one’s fate with resignation.

Last week, after 7 years of working for Destination Management Companies, I resigned from the two companies that employed me most frequently.  There was almost no work during the Pandemic and I enjoyed not working.  It was well paid work that was mostly simple but on occasion stressful.  The expression ‘herding cats’ comes to mind.  Most of my colleagues thoroughly enjoy the work but my brain filled the quiet periods (waiting for clients) with anxiety about every possible scenario that could go wrong.  My favorite role was facilitating in conferences but that rarely happened.  Facilitation was part of my original skill set that I brought from Scotland.

I have an undiagnosed neuropathic condition for which I have been seeking treatment for years.  Finally, a very good neurologist, who was a Professor at Baylor University, sat me down and said honestly, “I think it is a combination of an existing cervical problem and anxiety.”  On the last day of working, my fingers were involuntarily moving as though they had been electrically shocked, I couldn’t feel the bottom of my feet and my neck was spasming.  As if that wasn’t bad enough, I got the tummy bug that is going around the USA.  Thank goodness it was an immaculately clean hotel bathroom that I was unwell in.  My OCD was lighting up like a Neon Sign. My head was screaming ‘GERMS, GERMS, GERMS’ but they were all mine!!  I did make sure I left the bathroom clean.

There is a sense of relief but also guilt and failure.  I have left many jobs over the years and almost always because my anxiety was overwhelming.  Despite my age and wisdom, I just can’t seem to accept that I am not a useful part of society, in a conventional sense.  Then I get irritated at myself because I know I am unwell with a debilitating but invisible illness.  Medication only works so far, in my case.  I feel guilt because I can no longer contribute to the household monetarily and also because I didn’t fully explain my resignation to my bosses.  I can sense that one feels disappointment and the other could care less.  In my leaving letter, I used the phrase, “we are embracing retirement”.  Not true.

This is probably my final failure, in the work world, and now I have to adapt to retirement.  I will receive my UK pension in 5 years.  That will be a good moment, to be rewarded for all those painful years of work.  I often wonder how I would have managed in the world if not for the support of my husband.  One of my cousins in the US, who had a lifelong mental illness, told me how lucky I was to have such an understanding partner.  That’s a familiar refrain from family and friends – it makes me feel more guilty not lucky.  Teddy insists that I have been his backbone and support for the whole of his career.  We are a bonded pair and I am grateful for that.

In time, I will adapt and perhaps acquiesce. To the outside world, I may live a pampered life but I would like them to spend one day in my head and one night in my disturbing dreams.  At the moment, I am in limbo.  Relieved not to be anxious at work but trepidatious about the future.  I have some vague goals about writing and increasing my stamina.  Eventually I will find a new rhythm and may even feel grateful for all that I have.  One bright morning, I took great pleasure in removing my work clothes from my closet to donate to charity.  Then I color coordinated the closets and hangers – a pleasant OCD task that felt wrapping myself in a fluffy blanket.  I have put myself out to pasture but might enjoy the frolic, sniffing the flowers and watching the sunset. 

Christmas Memories

Every Christmas, I create a little pink shrine in memory of my mum.  In another life she could have been an interior designer with a great eye for style.  Years ago we could only afford an artificial silver tree and simple baubles from Woolworths.  Somehow Kathleen, my mum, managed  to turn the tree into a work of art with a magical ‘snow’ village at the base.  I think she brought some unique ideas from her years living in the USA.  Over the years the tree became barer but she cleverly disguised this with silver tinsel.

After I was married, she gifted me all the original decorations except the pink and silver baubles.  My aunt in San Francisco had died and left her siblings a small legacy.  It was enough for my mum to buy new sofas, curtains and carpet for the living room.  It was a tasteful mix of pink and white – so the Christmas tree had to match.  My mum barely survived on a disability pension for her chronic mental illness.  Although I said nothing, I was irritated that she had spent all the legacy on luxury and didn’t save any of it.  It took me back to my teenage years when I used my scholarship money to buy the extended family gifts just to ‘save face’.  I felt that she should have at least offered me a part of the legacy (which I would have refused) to make up for the worst years of neglect.

I inherited the pink and white baubles after she died in 2002.  They included a hilarious yet sad collection of cigarette packets which she had covered in luminous white craft paper and wrapped in pink ribbon (to resemble tiny wrapped gifts).  At least there were no little miniature whisky bottles.  I am quite sentimental and our little tree is decorated with the old family decorations and others that we have collected on our travels.  There are red Peruvian engraved seed balls and little camels from Abu Dhabi.

I have some wonderful memories of Christmas, before and after my mum’s mental breakdown.  We lived with her mother, Nana, and she stabilized life.  Our whole extended family would gather on Christmas Day and it was really enjoyable, although there may have been the regular undercurrents at family reunions.  It couldn’t have been easy for a defeated married woman to live under her mother’s house again but they got on quite well given the circumstances.

One Christmas I caught them both laughingly knitting tiny clothes together.  I was chased up to bed but on the 25^th, I unwrapped a beautiful French baby doll with an adorable knitted layette.  The gift was ostensibly from Santa Claus but I had spotted the busy elves who made her clothes.  I wonder how many hours they spent knitting the layette with love and affection.

Another year, my mum, Nana and uncle (who still lived at home) collaborated on decorating a dolls house.  My mum flirted with carpet salesman to get sample books for tiny rooms.  My uncle put in electricity, then they fully decorated it with furniture and wallpaper.  It was occasionally a little fraught in our house with two adult siblings living together with their mother and ‘the child’, but they shared a delight in giving me the best Christmas they could.  Sometimes they could have been a bit more practical as I often had holes in the soles of my shoes, filled with cardboard.  In retrospect, my inner child would always have preferred the magical Christmas gifts.  My uncle was very good at paying for my expensive ‘special’ shoes since I was born with a club foot.

Then there were the bad years.  Nana had died and it was just me and Mum who was considerably more unwell.  Too much of our household income went on cigarettes and booze.  I was ashamed of our deteriorating situation and went to great lengths to save money for Christmas.  The gifts I received then were essentials – night wear, bath products, gloves and hats.  I have no memory of the gifts my mum and I exchanged at that time.  Eventually she stopped drinking but kept smoking and got her finances in order.  I was proud of her for achieving that but still resentful of the unhappy times.

I left home as soon as I could; met and married Teddy in under a year.  Miraculously, Christmas became delightful again.  Teddy and I are both only children, so we decided that we would always celebrate Christmas together – his mum and dad, my mum and us.  His parents were aware of the previous circumstances and were so generous.  For years there was a mountain of presents under the tree, many for my mum.  We reciprocated as best we could.  After a few years, I took over hosting Christmas and everyone traveled to our house.  My mum had started getting obsessive about having a perfect Christmas; it had to be the perfect Xmas pudding or side dish.  She relaxed when she was in my house and the vibe was calmer.  Then Teddy’s mum started behaving strangely with paranoia and obsessiveness.  It was the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease.  Around this time, I finally was diagnosed with a mental illness – a mixture of OCD, anxiety and depression.  Talk about a dysfunctional family!

I managed to keep up the tradition of family Christmas for about 20 years until my mum suddenly died.  To this day, I still feel relief that I don’t have to stress about Christmas.  All the planning would take a toll of my health.  Even arranging our simple Christmas decorations can wipe me out.  I do miss my mum but not at Christmas.  It is a struggle not to become morose, dwelling on some deeply unhappy occasions with too much liquor and harsh words.  Before she died, we spoke to each other every day.  I miss talking about simple stuff; shopping plans, what color suits me best, sharing gossip and her excellent advice (that she rarely followed).

I create the little pink shrine to honor her love for me and mine in return.  Both wavered at times but that’s life.  There is no need for forgiveness but sometimes I wish I could forget more.  Teddy and I still laugh at my mum’s craziness at Christmas time – we named her the Christmas Nazi.  To be honest, I have inherited her irritating ‘everything has to be perfect’ traits.  Learned or inherited; who knows?

If you take anything from this post, please to be kind to yourself.  No great expectations, lots of laughter to distract from uncomfortable family conversations and most of all LOVE.  It doesn’t matter if you are on your own, volunteering , going out to a swanky restaurant or surrounded by a gaggle of relatives.  Teddy will be volunteering with wolves on the 25^th and I will stay in my dressing gown all day.  We will watch a movie or two and eat too much sugar.

Rest in peace, my dear complicated and special mum.  May you be surrounded by beautiful pink baubles in the hereafter.

Mum on the right with her sister Gretta in Miami

The Seventh Decade

Kerry in her first decade

If you are 29, reading this and worried about your thirties, fear not – it gets much, much worse!  I suppose I should feel grateful that I have reached the 7^th decade (60-69 years old).  Did you know that Greenland sharks may live for up to 500 years – isn’t that amazing?  I am not envious of them, however, as they spend most of their time at the bottom of a frozen sea with long periods of hibernation (similar to living in Scotland).  These last two years have allowed all of us to indulge in pointless navel gazing.  I have peered into my indifferent mirror that doesn’t even bother to tell me that “I am not the Fairest in the Land”.

Kerry in her second decade

As I pondered this subject, I thought about which decade I liked the most.  I loved being a teenager, blossoming at high school and then college.  The puppy fat disappeared and a pretty girl appeared.  One boyfriend commented that I looked much better without clothes on – not sure if that was a reference to my lack of style or a back handed compliment.  My body still looks pretty good if you are a myopic, older man in a room with dim candles.  He should also be a tad inebriated…  It’s funny and yet it’s not. 

Some of my older friends used to tell me to enjoy my 50s because it all changes after 60.  Shorts are not my friends anymore.  More exercise would help but that triggers my osteoarthritis.  I run to hug Teddy, all joints creaking, and then pull something because I moved too fast.  He creaks even more than me – it’s as though we have turned into Sequoias.  My skin tone has changed the most.  Why are my pores so large – aren’t deep wrinkles bad enough?  I was helped by a charming young man at Sephora as I was browsing skin care.  He said I really needed retinol…  At least the Israeli guys who try to sell you Dead Sea stuff at the mall, pretend you are gorgeous. 

Kerry in her third decade

Why am I so vain about ageing?  I come from a long line of relatives who look after themselves at all ages.  My aunt made sure she put on self-tanning lotion before her operation for breast cancer in her late 70s.  Recently, I had a revelatory moment about my age.  For almost 20 years I have had a reciprocal fondness for our gardener.  He always undercharges me and then I pay him more.  We have a small yard but we needed our oak trees trimmed.  If you employ an arborist to trim trees, it costs thousands of dollars.  He went up a ladder with a chain saw – good enough for me.

When he arrived, he caught me off-guard and I answered the door in my ratty old dressing gown, hair tousled unattractively with my glasses on. Even he looked embarrassed, so I ran and put some clothes on.  The job should have cost a few hundred dollars but he asked for $40.  It was a pity invoice.  I could almost hear him say “she used to be so attractive”.  Laughingly, I told one of my friends but inside I felt crushed.  Since then, I have dyed my hair blonde again, had it cut in a cute style and started wearing CLOTHES (sometimes they aren’t leggings). 

Kerry in her fourth decade

My twenties were a mixed bag – marriage to Teddy and moving house 6 times in 8 years.  Exciting and stressful.  My thirties were strange because although I finally achieved some professional plaudits for grant writing and project work, I was palpably anxious.  My forties were adventurous – we moved to two different continents in 2 years and landed in Texas.  By then I finally had my weight under control and had decent medication for my mental health.

Kerry in her fifth decade

My fifties were fantastic!!  I looked the best I had in decades, felt healthy, travelled solo to exotic locations and started a completely new career.  Had the pandemic not happened, I might have slipped into my 60s with little or no impact.  Work came to a standstill, as did the airport so I had no raison d’etre.  My husband was deeply unhappy at work and wanted to retire early which he did.  I thought we would hate each other with enforced cohabitation but we settled into a new rhythm with plenty of humor and silliness.

Kerry in her sixth decade

I should be #grateful or #blessed but I just feel annoyed.  I want to be 51 again but that’s not possible.  There are a couple of nice things about ageing.  Most people are very polite to me and younger ladies ask me for Mommy advice.  I no longer have to worry about sexy lingerie but Teddy will testify that I never did!  My one push up bra will last me forever and I need never buy Spanx or Skims.  I would pull a muscle if I tried to put them on – even Lycra stockings are the work of the devil.

The timbre of this post was intended to be humorous yet poignant.  Many of us feel a bit hopeless in the wake of war and pestilence.  I am certain that we all aged mentally and physically through the pandemic no matter our biological age or infectious status.  As someone who struggles with mental illness, I know that it really is possible to take one day at a time and move forward.  I don’t have as many happy days as I used to but that is improving with increased interaction without masks.  Long may it last.

Kerry in her seventh decade

Evolving

No filter, no makeup, just Kerry

Until I moved to the USA, I had no idea that some people did not believe in the concept of evolution.  Charles Darwin and some brave predecessors deciphered the basic tenets of evolution despite wide dissent.  His book ‘On the Origin of Species’ was a masterpiece although undoubtedly flawed.  As more fossils of every species are uncovered our knowledge changes and develops. The virus Covid-19 is a master of change, evolution and mutation.  The sadness of a pandemic is that we are all affected – two members of my family have died from Covid-19.  One was 22 years old.

With intolerable mass shootings in the States and rising violence throughout the world, one can see that the effects of the Pandemic ripple out.  A tsunami is barely noticeable at sea until it hits the shore with devastating results.  Not everything about ‘now’ is negative.  Most of us have stopped and smelled the flowers.  Our gardens or plant pots are better cared for than they ever were.  Our pets and garden animals are subject to our endless gazes or affection.

Quarantine started at a pivotal time in my life.  Last year I turned 60 years old; officially becoming a senior. My husband is retiring this month and our lives will turn a new corner.  I doubt I would have paid much attention to sexagenarian status without the Pandemic.  In my denial, there would have been endless fashion posts, new makeup and exciting hair colors.  Instead, we all slumped into loungewear and natural skin.  At first that felt great but now it is boring yet comfortable.

I have a mild form of body dysmorphia and rarely see the truth in the mirror.  Curiously, when I was obese, I thought I looked fine and now I always want to be slimmer/younger/prettier.  I am not alone, supermodel Pauline Porizkova recently stated that she was somewhere between Jennifer Lopez and Betty White; referencing the invisibility that older women feel.  What is wrong with ageing?  It should be something we aspire to but modern society is consumed by the idea of eternal youth.

It doesn’t help that this last year has made most of us look a little older; the stress shows in our furrowed brows.  A smile would change our visage but it is masked.  Now we look out for crinkling around the eyes to see that someone is smiling at us.  In this new thoughtful phase of my personal evolution, I am beginning to accept that I am an attractive older woman.  Young men won’t whistle anymore but I get appreciative glances from older men who also feel sad about ageing.  My mother was a beautiful woman who aged gracefully.  A neighbor once made the cruelest comment to me referencing my mother, “Isn’t it sad when beautiful women age?”

My personal evolution is deeper than that.  I mentioned in the previous post, Change is Inevitable, that I didn’t like what I saw behind my eyes.  If you asked a friend to describe me, the words kind and funny might be said.  During self reflection during sequestration the following words seemed more apt.  Impatient, testy, judgmental, insular, anti-social, fussy, undeviating and unkind.  Was I a good manager or am I inflexible?  Am I a good friend or wife?  Not always.  I could blame my mental illness for some negative elements of my personality but that is disingenuous.  In my life, I have met so many mentally ill people who were adorable, the opposite or somewhere betwixt.

Prior to the pandemic, I worked, volunteered and was social.  When we first moved overseas, I made a huge effort to be social and get involved with my community.  This continued with the move to Texas but it is not my natural self.  I struggle with small talk, coffee mornings or girl’s nights out.  WordPress has been a source of comfort for me to meet like-minded people.  Quarantine gave me the perfect excuse to retreat to my nest with my bonded mate and I know how lucky we are.  So, what is the outcome of this reflection?  I am going to try to be a better person to everyone I know.  My base personality will remain the same but I can be thoughtful, gentler, compassionate and sweeter.  My evolution has not finished and wouldn’t life be dull if it did?

This is a Pizzly Bear (courtesy of BBC)

Climate change is affecting all species, in particular the Polar Bear. As the world warms, Grizzly Bears are moving further north and interacting with Polar Bears. In a wonderful turn of events, they are interbreeding and their hybrid cubs are fertile. They are the same species but one is brown and the other white. All of homo sapiens were brown before the diaspora from Africa. Those who went furthest north developed fair skin, over generations, to allow their skin to access essential Vitamin D from the weaker sun’s rays. You could describe this as a mutation or evolution. I identify with the Pizzly Bear, we are both of mixed race, have wrinkles and we are BEAUTIFUL!

Change is inevitable

Change is inevitable… but it can fill us with trepidation. When I researched this post, I was astonished at how many ‘change is inevitable’ quotations there are from Benjamin Disraeli’s ‘Change is inevitable. Change is constant.’ to more prosaic.  Sometimes people long for change, as we did before we moved to Egypt. That move was less fearful, although more challenging, than the next to Texas. We could not have predicted that the second Gulf war would have started 4 months after our arrival in Cairo nor could we have anticipated so many extreme weather events in Texas. The recent deep freeze was just the ‘icing’ on the cake. Do you see what I did there? Teddy is tired of my silly, pun filled humor after a year sequestered together…

I am leading up to the elephant in the room – the biggest change in modern history and most of us didn’t see it coming. Dare I even mention the pandemic or are we all sick of it? Not only have we dealt with unexpected change personally but also in society. Some cultures and nations have dealt with it more graciously and effectively than others. I am not a fan of Sweden’s current laissez faire approach to Covid-19 but perhaps not unexpected given their history of forced sterilization of mentally disabled/unwell, Roma (and other people deemed anti-social) from 1906 to 1975. Something similar happened in Canada to the indigenous. We all know how despicable the USA can be – need I list our many egregious acts? I dare not cast any stones. None of us truly know what was or is the best course of action for this pandemic, nor will we for years. Life will not go back to what it was but will evolve into something different, perhaps better or worse. This year has given us plenty of time to think and reflect – a scary prospect for many of us. I rarely look in a mirror for long because I don’t like what I see both superficially and behind my eyes.

Since my second vaccination there has been a calming within me. I am fully aware that there could be a Covid mutation lurking but I am less panicked about getting seriously ill. The truth is that I am always unwell and that’s why I take daily medication. I have looked at my behavior and actions this year – my mental illness is real, quantifiable and more debilitating than I thought. Strangely, it is a relief to finally accept the truth. No magic pill or treatment awaits me. It is not normal to go to bed at 6 pm, fall asleep about 9.30 pm and then not rise until 11 am. I am not always fully asleep but I am hiding under the covers or reading. Yesterday I did something I had been putting off for weeks. We called an air conditioning firm, got quotations and we are having a completely new HVAC system installed.

I wanted it done quickly but was totally overwhelmed by the speed and cost although I had thoroughly researched it (for years). I went to bed even earlier, chewed my mouth until it hurt and didn’t get up until midday. After they finish the installation, I will be even more anxious, in physical pain from tensing my body and will probably drink some unnecessary wine. I still haven’t learned to pace myself either because as soon as the charming chatty estimator left, I went to two garden centers to replace the dead plants in our yard. In the last year there has been significant building on the farmland and forest around our township.  Roads that were once quiet are frenetic.  You are either stuck behind a very sporty Audi driven by some old dude at 30 mph or some eejit in a truck who is weaving at high speed. The tension was rising in my addled brain and when I could barely find a parking space at either garden center, I just retreated to the safety of our home. That wiped me out.

I felt so frustrated – where is the person who trekked across Belize, Mexico and Malaysia solo? Perhaps this is how a caged animal feels when you open the door?  Objectively, I know that time is a great healer and practice will make driving feel less frightening.  Much of my working life was spent soothing clients in distress, from mentally ill people and passengers at the airport.  Sometimes they were both!  The inability to interact with people in a meaningful way inevitably leads to self-absorbed thinking.  We are unable to use perspective without seeing normal societal encounters as a gauge.  Therapy is an ideal option for some but not for me.  I hope this is not seen as a negative post as I would prefer it to be revelatory.  Positivity is a wonderful trait if it is genuine but you can’t force it.  Over the last year I have felt ridiculously happy at times, sometimes anguished and now thoughtful.  Then there is all the guilt about the people who are struggling much more but that’s another post.

This is part one of an essay about Change and Evolution.

Necropolis

It looks like such a peaceful scene, doesn’t it? Teddy and I have used our deck more often, since the pandemic, than we have in 16 years.  The trees in the reserve have grown so much that we get nice shade cover in the afternoon.  A couple of weeks ago, I noticed a ‘farmyard’ smell but we live many miles from farms in our forested idyll.  At first I wondered if someone had put down some stinky mulch or fertilizer but it is entirely the wrong time of year and it has been 100 degrees out there.

We had a few breezy days and Teddy agreed with me that he could smell a faint odor on the air but perhaps it was the communal garbage bins at the apartments beyond the reserve?  After another couple of days, I asked him if I should do a ‘Karen’ and complain to the apartment manager.  Teddy, very wisely, suggested that we just leave it since it was almost 100 degrees and maybe the bins needed emptied.  (We have never smelled their garbage bins in the last 16 years).

The next day, I started looking under the deck but could see nothing but dead leaves but there was still this strange odor that now Teddy (probably post Covid-19) could not smell at all.  Then he started saying things like, “You know what you are like when you get obsessed about stuff…”  To be fair, I agreed with him but we had paid hundreds of dollars two years ago to remove a huge dead skunk which had been ripped to pieces by another predator from under the same bloody deck.  This new odor was delicate by comparison.

One evening we put out the night camera to see if there was an obvious culprit with a smelly nest?  They were just the usual subjects – squirrels, possums, wood rats and two gorgeously marked little skunks (alive and well).  On a forensic note, we had spotted some very pretty little iridescent flies around the deck, glowing purple and green.  We never have flies in our yard…only endless mosquitoes that have tested positive for West Nile Disease in our forest this year.  At this stage, I should note that I am an aficionado of every Forensic program, real and fiction.  Decomp and adipose are terms that I am very familiar with.

With that thought in my head, I finally snapped and said to Teddy, “We need to call pest control out”.  He looked at me as though I hadn’t been taking my medication.  We compromised on him unscrewing some of the deck planks so that I could root around like Bones.  The drill had no battery power as it hadn’t been used for a while.  In desperation, I put a blanket on the ground and got my rake under the deck and started pulling stuff out.  When a cloud of these pretty iridescent flies flew out at me, I knew I had found the evidence.  Finally I brought out a little gray furry thing and even more of the dratted flies.  I stood up and ran off squealing but then put my big girl pants on and returned with gloves, bags and disinfectant.

It was a poor little squirrel, who had left this mortal coil and decided our deck would be a lovely resting place.  I shouted to Teddy that I had found the victim but he chose to carry on working since he didn’t want to confront his wife who said, “SEE, SEE, I told you it was a critter!”  The decomposition flies were now yukky, not pretty, and I had to shake the corpse to get the damned things off.  Another friend had just told me this lovely story of rescuing a dying baby bird from their pool, putting it in a leaf lined box and then burying it in their garden with a cairn for remembrance.  Our squirrel went in the wheelie bin.

After all that, in almost 100 degree weather, I went all OCD (that’s a clinical term).  Hose, disinfectant, bleach and then I did the same for me.  All my clothes went in the washer immediately.  It struck me as ironic that there is a virus out there that is so much more dangerous than any dead squirrel.  The garden is serene again, smelling verdant and I am so glad I didn’t speak to the apartment manager…

Modern Love on Prime Streaming – a review

Anne Hathaway
courtesy of Wikipedia

 

This is my first review of anything on TV but one particular episode on this new Prime series, Modern Love, resonated so deeply with me that I had to share it.  The particular episode # 3, ‘Take me as I am, whoever I am’ stars Anne Hathaway  as a young woman negotiating dating and life with a diagnosis of bipolar illness.  Mental illnesses straddle a spectrum and we may share many of the same symptoms if not diagnoses.

The premise of the series is this – individual short stories about love inspired by personal essays in the New York Times column, Modern Love.  This episode followed Hathaway through a funny/sad shift in moods while trying to connect with a new boyfriend.  He couldn’t understand why she was acting so differently because, quite naturally, she didn’t want to reveal something deeply private.  She finally realized that she couldn’t keep hopping from job to job and leaving friends mystified, so started to share her secret diagnosis.  In this story, it seemed to be a rewarding experience.

What impressed me most was Hathaway’s brilliant acting although it might seem contrived to someone who had not experienced bipolar symptoms.  There is a hilarious scene in a supermarket, when she is on an obvious high, and in her head she is in a stage show.  This isn’t exactly how I feel but it is pretty close.  When I am feeling good, the world is vibrant, friendly and buzzing.  Tunes and thoughts are happily dancing in my head.  Everyone is my friend and I talk the pants off every stranger I meet.  I can even tell that I make people happy.

Then there is the abrupt change – going to bed for days on end unable to even look at my blog or emails.  It is physically painful to move my joints or answer the phone.  Most of the time my cell phone is on mute, unless I am working.  What Hathaway emoted, so successfully, was her inability to control this or explain how she was feeling.  My years of dealing with my family and personal mental illness, along with working in the field have given me some terrific masking skills but I can only keep it up for so long.

Thank goodness I met Teddy, who is naturally empathetic and nonjudgmental.  I can only imagine what it is like coming home to ‘who will she be today?’  Sometimes I am curled up on the sofa with dark circles under my eyes and a haunted look.  Nightmares plague me for weeks on end.  Of late, happy Bunny has arrived and Teddy is relieved to return to a funny expression from his beloved or even jumping out from behind the door.

It was such a joy to watch an uplifting short program about mental illness that wasn’t patronizing or dramatic.  I don’t know if Hathaway has a personal experience or the writer had but it was spot on.  She wasn’t homeless or self-medicating and eventually used her common sense to relieve the worst of the symptoms.  Even better, she was educated and attractive – many of us are just that.

An old boyfriend once said, with passion in his eyes, that he didn’t know which version of Kerry he was dating.  I am a chameleon with my style, personality and moods.  My varied career gives the wrong impression of my intellect. In Scotland I worked with my friend’s husband on a project.  He had shared with her that he didn’t realize how brilliant I was in certain work situations, especially facilitation or brain storming.  Clearly my friend didn’t know that either and was surprised.  This isn’t bragging but just an observation that I wonder what I might have achieved without this illness.  Hathaway demonstrated this in the episode by sadly expecting to leave any job quite quickly.  Not many employers are willing to give some leeway although in recent times my bosses have understood my inability to fully function at times.

If you get the opportunity to watch it, please do.  Hathaway’s acting says so much more than mere words can.  Prime/Amazon are not paying me for this review – or anyone else!

Parasthesia, Prozac and other Poppycock

Parasthesia, Prozac and other Poppycock

This is my third attempt at writing this post; maybe it is the charm this time?  How do I make a post about illness funny or readable?  I thought I would try alliteration and show you the real sign at my front door.  It certainly breaks the ice with new neighbors and solicitors (not lawyers…)   I bought it in Colorado and knew that it was perfect for me.  Life is funny.   As most of you know, I have a mental illness  – variously diagnosed over the years.  It was managed for many years with gritted teeth, therapy and alcohol.  Then we moved to Egypt and I have been on Prozac or something similar since 2003.

For the most part it has been a lifesaver although a much maligned drug.  If it is properly prescribed, it is a fantastic modern medication that my sad mother would have benefited from.  There are side effects, for sure.  The best was stopping my compulsive eating/habits; the worst was ghastly nightmares every night.  Flash forward to late 2018 – I had been having sensations of tingling and numbness in my hands and feet for about 3 years.  I went from pillar to post ending up with an eminent neurologist at a university teaching campus.  Even he could not come up with a diagnosis after three hours of painful nerve tests.

Here is what I do have –

• An abnormal gait likely caused by an untreated club foot at birth
• Weakness in my hands and feet
• Hammer toes
• Pes Cavus – abnormally shaped feet
• Tingling and numbness in my extremities – hands and feet
• A weird mental illness (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Depression, Anxiety)

Here is what I don’t have –

• Nerve damage in my hands or feet
• Marie Tooth Charcot
• Any other obvious neurological condition
• Any vitamin deficiency

I left his office having been examined by some initially excited medical students who finally looked as perplexed as the Professor.  Did they think it was all in my head?  The irony is that Parasthesia , a sensation of tingling or numbness can be caused by anxiety.  After Googling until my hands went numb (some Parasthesia humor there…) I discovered that it can be a side effect of PROZAC!  Onto my next psychiatry appointment where we decided I would taper off and then quit Prozac while staying on a small dose of Xanax which is an anti-anxiety medication.

It has been bloody awful; not helped by attending a transatlantic family funeral mid tapering.  I didn’t even want to come off Prozac although I don’t miss the nightmares.  It has been a partial success.  The tingling and numbness has decreased although too much or too little exercise can exacerbate it.  Poor Teddy has borne the brunt of my sudden emergence into the real world.  I told him I wanted to stab in the heart when he baited me one day.  He just moved on as though I had made a comment about dust bunnies.  Wise move from a man who knows me intimately.  Road rage overwhelms me, as does life.  It is in vivid Technicolor and I don’t like it without my hazy filter.

With Teddy’s support, I am moving forward slowly like a lizard after winter.  He pointed out that I dealt with the transatlantic funeral, our elderly cat’s slow waltz towards the ever after and some minor household crises.  I was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to write anymore but writing the Tumbleweed Fairy was a breakthrough.  Pragmatic is my middle name, so I know that I might have to try another medication or treatment and I am darned lucky to have healthcare.  For someone so unhealthy, I try to keep far away from doctors but I am willing to see one more neurologist to see if we can figure this out.

Keep your fingers crossed for me.  It sounds like a minor problem but imagine it every single day, so debilitating at one point that I couldn’t twist the deodorant tube.  When I worked as manager of a mental health project in Scotland, I was so sympathetic for patients who had physical side effects (tardive dyskinesia) from anti-psychotic medication.  I don’t know for certain what is causing my tingling and numbness but now I have walked a mile in the shoes of many, many people.  On a final funny note, I will never be able to do a sobriety test.  Two doctors had to hold me up while I put one foot in front of the other.  How could I have lived to this age without having known this??  Straight to the breathalyzer for me then…🍾

 

Quirky Kerry Ramblings

Alabama squirrel aka Kerry

I went to my psychiatrist for a regular appointment last week.  First, he asked what was wrong with me when I thought I felt more like myself (quiet and introspective), then I misheard him suggesting that it might be the Phage.  My head immediately went to Star Trek Voyager where the Phage was a recurring story line of an alien disease.  Their skin starts to rot and I immediately thought about my red scarred zit on my forehead.  Reality returned and I asked him to explain (do you understand why I see a psychiatrist now?)  He was referring to the seasons changing at the autumnal equinox.  That might explain why I kept waking up at odd hours and felt out of sorts.  There are all sorts of clinical evidence theorizing that we do react emotionally to full moons and changing seasons.  Seasonal Affective disorder is very common in Northern Europe.

Can you tell that my mind is hopping about like a squirrel on caffeine?  I keep trying to focus on tasks but failing miserably – my head is full of pumpkin puree.  So here are my current ramblings about my life:  –

Why are my fashion posts the most popular? I love doing them and really appreciate the interest but I am 58 and really past my sell-by-date.  My elegant modeling mum always wore tasteful neutrals with a splash of vivid red or blue.  Quite naturally I wanted to look the complete opposite.  Punk was emerging and I was determined to look like Blondie, dyeing my dark hair blonde and dressing very provocatively.  Then I had a ‘wholesome’ period and then I got fat.  It wasn’t until my mum had died and I was in my 40’s before I found my own style.  Before that I hated having my photograph taken – how times change!

Why do I have so many gay boyfriends? Why are they all better looking than any straight boyfriend in the past??  I come from a conservatively religious background and it wasn’t okay to be gay.  Despite that, one of my aunts was undoubtedly gay but stayed in the closet to her family.  She kept introducing me to her girlfriends and I still didn’t get it…  I really don’t judge people for their sexuality and perhaps that is obvious.  I cherish the close relationship with a gay man without the complication of desire and can flirt outrageously without consequence.  At college, I made an assumption that a man with some feminine attributes was gay, made him my best friend and ultimately broke his heart.

I have been head hunted by three new companies in the last two weeks. This is at a time in my life when I would like to ‘chill’ and keep my anxiety levels down.  I am delighted, of course, but surprised (especially by one VP who recommended me – I didn’t think he liked me).  My first diploma was in business with a focus on travel and tourism.  Most of my career was spent working for non-profit organizations but now I work for DMCs – Destination Management Companies.  Who would have thought that my quirky personality would work in my favor?  It is an over-used word but I am a nice person and that goes a long way when you work with clients.

My sole piece of art is on the dark web – just jesting. 😈 I can’t post a link because it is a private site…  My friend Rob has a beautiful body that he likes to post naked.  One of his followers did a beautiful charcoal sketch from his nude photo and this so impressed me that I processed it photographically as an ink sketch.  Rob then asked me to process a different nude photograph which he sent me by email.  In case you are wondering, I did tell Teddy and showed him my artwork.  He rolled his eyes…  The odd thing is that there is nothing sexual about our friendship – Rob is young, handsome and straight.  Beyond that he is a really lovely guy whose personality and writing clicks with mine.  I make lots of cougar jokes but even I have a limit – he has to be at least 45 years old. 😁

My current best writing is fairy stories. I have invented a Texas School of Fairies, situated in Austin but no pun intended…  My mum had many beautiful qualities but the one I remember most is that she would make up a new story for me every night.  It always included a little girl called Kerry and animals and fairies and elves – you get the picture.  It was a special moment because she worked long hours and Nana did most of the caretaking.  I don’t have children but I would savor reading stories to them at night.  As an only child, my head was always in story books and I read the library dry.

My longing to travel has left me, along with the desire to write travelogues. I can’t quite figure out why.  I have retreated from friendships and groups, rarely socializing.  For a while I was depressed but now I feel reasonably settled.  My personality is still the same but even my psychiatrist noticed a difference in my behavior.  In some ways I have gone back to my childhood; solitary but content.  If I get anxious, I can still talk too much but it is lessening.  I share more with Katniss and Toffee than anyone else!  No doubt this is another phase in my life but momentarily I am enjoying the quiet.

Rambling over, until the next fashion post…