I’m not afraid to die. I said to a coworker. I’m more afraid to live. I don’t mean this in a suicidal manner. I mean it in a finality, you can’t beat death kind of way. You have to live to die. It’s a song. I just want to live until I die. Bon Jovi. Or it’s lyrics from his song? Or maybe it’s not even a song?He comes up a lot in my song memories. So does the Star Spangled Banner. I love to sing this song. I was caught singing it yesterday watering plants. A customer snuck up behind me. I was so embarrassed I turned red. She said it made her day. I blushed more. Some belt out ave Maria or maybe hallelujah I sing the most American thing I can think of. Because it reminds me of what it used to be like to be proud of us. Am I still?

I can’t complain. I don’t vote for leaders and people who run houses and senates. I am grateful for all the women who fought for this right. But with the right to vote comes the right not to. I can’t maintain an accurate educated belief of candidates in our new age. I don’t know what to believe. I know my vote counts. It may have to be taken more seriously after this. I want to be an educated voter. I want to understand and listen to political debates. Form opinions. Stand my ground and beliefs. So what do I believe?

In the flag.

I believe in the American flag. I love the pledge Allegiance. It was my favorite part of the day at school. I sometimes wish we still did it each day. Maybe that will be my meditation right now? I can’t find a good word maybe I will stand proudly, hand on heart and say the Pledge of Allegiance. Get to what I believe. Something I can see and not let touch the ground. Fabrics made with rules and meaning, hanging and blowing in the breeze over war battered lands. Over destroyed buildings. Out windows. Over interstates. In space on the moon. On our soldiers, on our loved ones who fought and now are laid to rest. Covered with what they fought for. Burned at times. I know the history of the flag better than I could tell you what we squabbled over in any war. Maybe all along it was the flag? Pulling at it from all ends. It won’t rip. No one pulling actually wants that to happen.

Any American song about America brings me to tears. Pride yet disappointment. We need a wake up call. We need to call to action so much more than some of the things I hear we fight over. Climate change. A slow change that people study and predict to change. Is changing. Now it shows air pollution is decreasing because so many are being told to stay home. The ecosystem is resilient. But will it withstand what’s to come? Will it be able to fight back when we fight back to rebuild a stilted economy? Will air pollution not only increase but increase at a higher rate from so many doing and going to make up for the doing and going missed?

I worry about the internet. Probably more than climate change. Not in the same way as most. I don’t rely on it so much. Specifically because I’m worried it won’t be able to handle it all. Is there an end to it? Is that what people are looking for when they scroll? Why is there no end to it? Why does it keep making you search? It should just stop and say. “Sorry this is the end of the internet, your answers are within.” Quit looking. Can it be unplugged? Like for everyone. Where is the place it’s plugged in? With us all home not really socially distancing because we are still socializing. It’s physically distancing that they stopped. Something so many of us lacked and craved and are now afraid of. This will make us either more connected to each other or more connected to ourselves. It’s a choice.

What did you do? Who saw it? Was it important to you and you missed it because you had to also share it? Why do I even care? Because of my choice not to? Or because I wish I could? Or because I feel as left out as I did when I was little.

We used to play this game in grade school called toilet master. We meaning not me. It was a bunch of big tires stacked together to make little tunnels. People would collapse inside and someone would crush them down like they were being flushed down the toilet. It was the stupidest game. I wanted to play. I watched it. I could hear the screams of joy and occasionally see the master on the top tire yelling he had mastered flushing. When I tried once I was never flushed or sat on. I didn’t really know how to be. I didn’t really want to be smashed through these tires with shards of metal sticking out. What if my head got stuck inside the sides and someone came crashing down and snapped my neck? What if I did it to someone else? What if I won? What if I didn’t?

It eventually became banned as someone broke there arm or leg or some body part. If we were caught playing it we had to sit on the line. That’s were I sat anyway. That was my game. I would walk along the lines on the painted concrete. No one listened, then the tires were removed. The metal became too exposed and was ripping clothes. No more toilet master. Now I think there are monkey bars in place. A nice safe game of monkey bars.

Most people fear the dentist because of the noises, the tools, the mouth open and hands in there, maybe to avoid the lack of oral hygiene yet obvious over brushing and flossing from the enraged bleeding gums. Or the awkward conversation that is tangled with questions one can’t answer with things in there mouth or not gagging on spit. They should teach this. How to maybe just tell a story while doing the work. Or chat with the hygienist as if I’m in surgery out. I won’t mind. Pretend I’m not here. I don’t want to be anyway. The tools somewhat fascinate me, the thought of anyone wanting to even do these things to a person fascinates me, what kind of person wants to clean and fix teeth? Who are they?

My biggest problem is that teeth tend to make me think of skulls and being identified by teeth if you are ever found dead and can’t be identified any other way. Where are these records? I know the health department but there must be a database of teeth prints and xrays. Is that where my xrays go? Filed away to identify me in case Im burned beyond recognition. Is that why we are really supposed to go so often to update this? Who is it that is called? How do they know which health department to call? What if I’m found out of state? Who will solve this mystery then? Or does that make you a cold case? Questions to ask my dentist? Or therapist?

Once I told a man at a bar this story. It’s the quickest way to get someone to leave you alone. Trust me. Other than saying you need excused because of diarrhea. Even reading a book doesn’t. In fact it seems to draw them in. What I ask is. What about a woman in a bar reading a book with her meal says I’m approachable? Someday maybe someone will challenge me and force me to put it down. They will seem interesting and intellectually stimulating enough to engage. Or maybe not.

I am finding myself doing the weirdest things. I am hand washing my panties. For no reason. I have plenty of soap and money for laundry and time. Something about it reminds me of being conservative I suppose. I’ve backpacked multiple day trips so much I sometimes come home and feel everything is too much. Too far away. Too big. Such a large pot to boil noodles? Why would I do a load of laundry when my fleece made of recycled plastic bottles washes fine if not better by rinsing in the sink and hanging to drip dry? Why is my bed so far away? All the way down the hall. Silverware isn’t right in my side pocket? I carry spoons like I may need to drop and eat something quickly. I usually forget a spoon in a trip. I have used flat stones, bark, a stick, 2 sticks to see if I can do chopsticks better when no one watches, my fingers, a spoon I found and didn’t want to leave out to confuse wildlife. Would they try to eat it? It would be reflective would that scare them or make them curious? Depends on the creature I suppose.

I dreamt of a lady who was killing bats that were spreading this virus. I woke “in my dream” to a story online of a tally of bats killed. Instead of people. I couldn’t tell if I was less sad or more? Are bats to blame or people? People are in places they don’t belong maybe, maybe we don’t cohabite well with bats. Our shit mixed with theirs is saying something. Are we listening to what’s being said or thinking of what needs to be said?

Has everything I’ve learned been to help me get through this? Is that how it works? Everything is setting us up for what’s next. We don’t know it until we look back and look. I remember my trips better today than I did the day after them. I’ve written about them in so many ways and times that each time felt like I was recollecting more and more. Am I remembering my memories from that moment or from the last time I remembered them? Is that really remembering? I feel like I’m at a place I need to remind myself I’m extremely resourceful even if resources are readily available. Not just in case. Just, just in case.

I didn’t wonder off for thousands of miles across land on foot to find myself, I’ve heard of so many doing this, because they found others did? I don’t know if it was because I’m not that stupid, that brave, maybe I’m not that lost, on a time crunch. I demanded a journey of self discovery to meet my schedule? In reality it just wasn’t my journey, not my path to follow. Do I want to someday? Not likely. It’s too many others. I know the experience would be all mine but I create my path I rarely chose others. I have avoided reading books and watching movies of lost souls who hiked these grand trails in search of themselves or a purpose of life. I needed to find mine my own way. I know reading some of their stories would be too painful, I would relate to closely, I was still too stuck in my own pain to see the end of something less painful. Or is it a beginning? Or both. Honestly I have started to read a couple. Too clouded to even make sense of their story, I skimmed to the end and avoided the middle of once.I couldn’t bare to read how someone once felt what I still do. I wanted a happy ending and right now. Also I would like to point out that I do not think any of them stupid, but I’m sure others thought so.

I actually remember thinking when I first planned to go to Isle Royale that I would fail. Not at the hike but at getting anything from it. That there was no way it would work. But I was desperate. I felt so lost and so abandoned I couldn’t get out of bed let alone raise children alone.

What I learned was eye opening. No, soul opening.

I burst out laughing on the ferry ride. Getting everyone’s attention I couldn’t stop laughing at this plan. A military Sargent and his girlfriend from Minnesota who met online and were taking their first adventure, this same couple said they watched me pull into the gas station by the ferry station and drive over a curb as if it wasn’t an obstacle. grandparents with two grandkids whose parents were both scientists. And a little boy who’s mom worked on the island and he was going to spend the weekend. And Ben, the captain.

I told the young couple my plan. I do not know there names. I should but then I couldn’t store many other things. I remember the captains name because he kept saying it, like he was reminding himself. My plan was to walk the Greenstone Trail from one end to the other. I had no details of the in between. They seemed to think it sounded crazy yet exciting unlike what they planned to just spend some time on the other end I would walk to at the cabins. The Sargent grilled me about my supply. He seemed concerned my small frame wouldn’t hold all the water and food and heavy gear I packed. He was correct. I kept wondering the ferry. Asking captain Ben questions. I was anticipating the island appearing before my eyes. I was so anxious I wanted to swim. Lake Superior is super cold.

I laughed again. I left my kids and life and was now in the middle of Lake Superior to walk across an entire isolated island to look for missing pieces with a backpack full of everything Im afraid of. Spoiler alert. That didn’t happen. I spent zero time looking for pieces of myself. I spent all my time surviving. This is the place I found I was never lost. I was not going to bend over and just go ”oh hère I am ” and pick me up and put me back.

I spent time talking to myself, singing, yelling, listening, crying slipping in the mud. Crawling. Giving up. Then not giving up. Eating my unbearably heavy packed backpack to lessen my load, setting up a worthless tent in the rain, walking in the rain, crying in the rain, eating in the rain, cursing at the rain. Peeing in the rain. Pooping in the rain. Not sleeping in the rain. I should call this things to do in the rain. It rained for almost my entire trip.

I actually now love rain. It helps me appreciate a well packed pack to protect my gear to keep it dry so I’m dry at the end of the day. I appreciate the sun and dry rocks, I love the sound and can’t sleep unless I play a recording I made one night of rain on the tent. I make my own play lists of sounds to fall asleep to block neighbors baby and interstate noise.

When I got off the ferry the Sargent handed my backpack to me. Then helped me put it on. They were not getting off here. The ferry was leaving me and taking everyone else to the other end. He looked so worried. He looked like he wanted to go with me. Should I have been worried too?

I began to walk. This was not so bad. I can walk, I’ve been doing it since I knew that’s what my legs could do. Then it had been 10 minutes and I came up to a man also packed. He had spent the night there and was planning to do what I was doing. Crap. I didn’t want company. I didn’t come here to bond and create long lasting friendships built from a common bond and interest. He tells me his path. I’m relieved it was the harder Minong trail way. He even said that “you know, the harder path.” I nodded. Annoyed. Mine was going to be hard enough. I didn’t need added extra hard by people who determine what is and isn’t hard. I was also jealous. I’ll do that path someday. The harder one. As soon as I create a bond with myself. He turned left. I went right. He saluted and said “see you at Rock Harbor.” I thought, what’s that? I wasn’t even sure of the name of the harbor I was ending at. My goal wasn’t an end, it was a beginning.

That whole day I walked. I was irritated beyond belief of the weight of the pack. All of my water. For as many days as I was planning I had it all in there in little plastic platypuses. And two water bottles. I was too afraid to not. Why would I carry so much water? I’m on an island, surrounded by, water. I had days worth of socks. Changes of clothes. Pounds of nuts and beef jerky. Both of which I don’t like. I was tired after 2 hours. I dropped myself and took off my pack and laid down right in the middle of the Greenstone Trial. And slept. I hadn’t slept. I tried to in the parking lot at a casino near the ferry bay because it seemed safe to be somewhere where there were lots of cameras. But I didn’t want to miss my ferry. The next morning I woke after a couple of hours. I had driven 13 hours without a break other than gas, once even peeing in a bowl so I didn’t have to maneuver off the road. I dumped cookies I had made out of the bowl to pee.

I woke on the trial to confusion. It was raining. It had been sunny and now it was pouring. This is what they call unpredictable weather patterns. I quickly packed myself back up and started walking again. I stopped once to get my water bottle, it was gone. I couldn’t go back to where I assumed it was it had been hours. I went to get my map. Also not there. Then I recalled the last place I saw it. In my car, on my seat, miles across a lake on mainland. I’m furious for leaving the water bottle and challenging my water supply and also littering. I walked and walked in the rain. I gave up on being dry. There couldn’t possibly be rain gear to ever stay dry for this long. Before I had left my neighbor stuffed giant trash bags in my hand and said “just in case”. I packed them. Not my map, but 5 industrial sized garbage bags. They saved me or kept me somewhat dry. I covered myself, my bag. My sleeping bag and too many clothes after putting on as many as I could just to not carry them. I didn’t want them wet and adding wet weight. I cupped my hands and drank rain water. Not sure if this was safe I was too worried about having none.

The first night I tried to set up in the rain. I did but my dads tent from hundreds of years ago wasn’t water proof at all. I laid out my trash, wrapping up in a tent, slept on them all waking in a puddle. My sleeping bag was made of lead, it was that really old Coleman brand that was plaid inside and stuffed with what feels like heavy metal when carrying. I wanted to leave it behind so bad. The next “morning” I just kept walking. Eating nuts that felt like concrete in my stomach to lessen the weight. Why did I pack so many nuts? Can someone die from not enough? What about too many? My stove didn’t work. It was too old and I didn’t even check it before I left. I had no matches. No lights. I had tuna packets and a jar of peanut better and tortilla shells. This is not good if you put it all together. A tuna peanut butter burrito is a far stretch of the imagination to a Chinese dish I once had with peanuts in it. I wished for mayonnaise. Or jelly. Or Chinese food. Or to be anywhere but there.

I walked the next day through till night stopping once under a fire tower to dry. At this spot my cell phone was trying to bounce off of a Canadian tower. It never did. There is no cell phone service on the island until the end where you can connect to WiFi. I kept hoping it would connect. I wanted rescued. At this spot I found I was just going to have to be the one to do this. Save me. I took off all of my clothes and hung them there. Then laid down to rest with none. I crossed paths with no one. Ever. I went this way to end where there were showers and food and shelter. That next day after a little rest I gave up. I surrendered to where I was and what it was. It became fun. My collarbones and hips were rubbed raw. I had almost drank none of my water. I just gave in. I started to see things, hear things. Think through some things. I told someone once I cried and let it wash off me onto the land and imagined it being carried away down the hills and through the forest, some absorbed by the trees and plants, some carried all the way to the Lake Superior. It holds all my sorrow now. That’s why it’s so big and dark.

I had no idea how far I had gone or how far I had left. The trail started to change. I had passed Daisy Farms where a Girl Scout group was in all of the shelters. I think that was about 10 miles to the Rock Harbor. It was rockier. Did this mean I’m close to Rock Harbor? Is that why it’s named this. The rocks were slippery. A new challenge.

Then what happened next? It stopped raining. Like that. Not slowly. Just it was and then it wasn’t. Within minutes the sun was powering through the clouds. I squinted. Just now. Remembering this. Maybe I did then too but probably I cried. I stopped and took my boots off. My too new boots that I didn’t break in. My heels had rubbed raw. I had plastic bags and handkerchiefs and lambs ear leaves wrapped around them. I put on my sandals. Wrapped my ankles in dry handkerchiefs and strapped on my river sandals. I had not once used any socks of the 5 socks I packed. I laid clothes out to dry on warming rocks and hung in trees. Then I just sat. With myself.

Once I was back on the trail I felt safe to drink water. Water I had collected with leaves and dribbled into my water bottle afraid I would run out of water. Even though my pack still contained my water I had packed. Undrunk and just kind of walking across the island with me for no reason. Then I crossed paths with someone. An older lady and man. I asked if I was close to Rock Harbor? They said yes. about 6 miles. They were day hiking from there to Daisy Farms. I was almost to 3 mile they said. No clue what that meant then. It was so beautiful out. The trail is a lot of planks over bogs on the Greenstone to protect the land and now it was a lot of rocky cliffs and views of the Lake.

Once I got to Rock Harbor I found a shelter to sleep in I dumped my stuff off and went to find the bathrooms. I could barely walk.

The next morning I was walking up and the Sargent I had met was coming my way. He greeted me with a hug. He said he had been so worried about me. That him and his girlfriend had sat in their cabin looking at the map wondering at each point I might be at. Worried about the rain and the land. I was jealous he had had a map. He told me to come back and eat breakfast with them. To tell them everything. He just kept shaking his head in disbelief. I caught myself doing it to myself.

I sat and ate with them. I thought I was starving but I was just kind of picking at it. I drank my coffee and it burned my stomach. They asked questions. I tried to answer. I then found I had turned and headed to daisy Farms when I should have gone straight. Continuing on the Greenstone to end at what I saw on his map he showed me was Monument Rock. I never even realized I would have had to actually walk past Rock Harbor by a little to get to the end and then back track. I never actually mapped my trip. Just dreamed it up and went. It didn’t change the miles so much as my goal. I still walked the entire length I just did it my own way.

I wasn’t supposed to be done yet they said. That based on my plan which I didn’t even have they said I should still be a day maybe even two from finishing. I had to think back. Did I? Had it just been the two nights? I slept last night in the shelter. What day was it? It felt like 4? I was so unsure of this. I had to think back. Did I just keep walking that second night? I’m sure they were right. They asked if I had my map. I wrinkled my nose and said, um no. I left it in my car. He had asked me about everything down to socks and couldn’t believe I hadn’t remembered a map. I said in my defense my trail was just a single path across an island with very little actually mapping needed. I just had to follow it. I couldn’t count down my miles or add them, check for coming danger in changes of elevation. I wouldn’t have been able to anyway, it rained for 36 hours. I wouldn’t have wanted to know any of those things. Maybe a map is for those who get lost? If I never leave the path shouldn’t I not get lost?

So now I had to stay at the end of the island and wait for my scheduled ferry ride back in three days. I didn’t want to stay here for any more days. Maybe I could walk back to the other end and get on then?

The Sargent was able to convince the captain to take me back if there was room the next day. At one point the grandparents with grandkids offered to stay an extra day to let me go back in their place. I slept in a tent spot that night but would have to sleep in a different spot the next if I had to stay. They had rules about more than one night in a spot. Once when I returned to my site I scared off a fox. He had been eating my backpack. Trying to get to my food. It just got through a little mesh pocket. My book was safe. I had packed a library book to read in the ferry. Not realizing this meant also carrying it for 50 some miles already read in my pack. Note to self. No books.

I was able to go back that next day. Before I left I tossed my sleeping bag in the dumpster. Dumped out cups and cups of water I didn’t drink. Lightened my pack. I was already slightly less afraid of myself. I weighed just a little less. I never saw the man who took the harder path. I’ve wandered if he ever made it. What did he find? Was it harder? What would he have been comparing it to to be called harder? Next year, I’m doing the harder way. Which ended up being easier.

I admire those who walk as far as they do. I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes. I prefer mine, now that they fit.

The rules

They are everywhere. There are signs to caution you for every mis-step, every too hot or wet, frozen lake, under currents, dangerous curves, wrong ways..

Is it human nature to test boundaries or not be able to set them properly?

I was told once, “that back wall is still wet.”

That’s what was said. That’s not what I heard. I didn’t hear don’t touch it. I even asked. “So don’t touch it?”I’m lucky to have a job…I got into fire hydrants paint. It said it was wet but the signs had been out for a few days. Who was checking this? I ended up with paint on my face, my hat and in my hair. Not just paint. Oil based fire hydrant paint. We had to use paint remover to get it off, it nearly took my skin off.

When I go to the woods I see warnings of land boundaries, change of ownership of land, go this way or that way, stay off this, stay on this. These rules are out for those of us who can not lay them out for ourselves. They are also there to preserve this land that is clearly owned by such and such person or government affiliate, or even private property. Why does it belong to anyone? Who gets to decide? I see places I disagree, it’s clear in the maintenance of the land. It’s well done. Man intervened. Their are paved paths. Signs of what not to do, benches to view vistas, too many hard surface lots. Do we need to be told where to sit. I watched one park install new paths specifically because they couldn’t make people use the ones made, now there are options. Go this way for a 2 second longer walk or this way where we cleared our 15 feet of natural land to decide people take the path of least resistance. A 2 second meander to the right saved them countless what?

I’ve worked for a university where we were always giving in. Adding more paths that were paved for the students. These are for the people who will run our world someday. The future stewards of our lands. Or what’s left…They choose a quicker path and we go, ok. Because it tracks in mud, or it looks bad? The campus started to look like a race track, now it’s nearly just a parking lot for walking to and from buildings and beautiful hundred year old trees plopped in barely breathing anymore.

I will ask whenever I get the chance.

What are the rules here? Do I have to sit? Can I stand? Do I have to stay inside? Yes, so then I can’t go outside? Can I touch? Can I go this way? No, so I have to go that way? Should I close my eyes? Can I breath? Can I live? Can I let go? Yes, so it’s ok not to hold on? If it’s not laid out clearly I will decide myself. I need rules laid out for me so I can then lay them out for myself.

Most of our signs and warnings likely come from people who tested the boundaries. I could even be responsible for some of these warnings. Once a girl walked into a backhoe I was running. Smacked her face right into the rig. I was digging for a landscape project, why was she even in this space? How can you not notice it? It became a series of new rules we had to follow to make sure someone doesn’t go astray and walk into a thousand pound bright yellow machine. Maybe the rules should be. Pay attention, walk looking up sometimes, unplug, don’t walk through the lawn when we made you a path right to the door not through the landscaping.

We need to keep people safe. Is that it? We should be watching out for ourselves. Taking some of the responsibility.

How many disasters did I prevent by cautioning my kids? How many near misses were there? Almost drowned, almost hit by a car? Almost burned from the stove?

Somehow in this dangerous world full of cautions and rules I’ve managed to keep myself and 4 humans alive. Maybe even others? The rules aren’t trying to control the world or the fun. They are basically saying pay attention because someone else didn’t.

Dear anxious me,

Hey there lady it’s been awhile, just kidding, it’s been like what 2 seconds since we talked.

I know you are a little anxious about money. That’s life. We all get this way. Trying to make ends meet on barely one income with 3 kids is tough. But you’ve got this. I know you are worried something is wrong with social security, did you report wrong? Did it stop for some reason? Did he do something somehow? Did they take it to pay debts? Can they? All excellent questions but sort of getting in the way of what you are doing now. Don’t y’a think? Oh right, that’s all you do I forgot!

Try to relax and breath. I know you hate it when I say this, you complain it gets in the way of not relaxing and not breathing. Deal. With. It. Even if something is wrong you will figure it out. There is always a way through, around, under and over. You’ve done it. Don’t want to relax, walk. Be alone with yourself for a few hours tomorrow morning and chat it out. Is that your plan? Good plan. Good call some would say. You are worried about your grandma and her lilac bush she wants. She is behaving oddly. She buys dolls and doesn’t remember. She is almost 100 years old. Give her some flexibility on the memory.

Your dad is acting wonky. You are worried he is drinking more than he does. Dad isn’t a drinker. Just occasionally. What in his mind is bugging him he doesn’t want to think about? Dad is a thinker why now doesn’t he want to be? Is it close? Is he going to die soon and he knows? His thoughts are turning to the end. How does he know? Do some people? Why would he risk drinking and damaging his liver? Doesn’t he think he has more time? He will die I know but is it soon? What if he does? What will i do? What will happen to him? Where will he go? He can’t die, I’m not ready.

Taxes. Don’t, even, get me started!!!

I would like to point out to you that a calming sugar scrub is anything but. It is like washing with sandpaper that smells like lavender and supposedly orchids. It actually smells to me like plastic. Like when you open Tupperware brand new for the first time. How do they make plastic smell? Why would it? Can they scent it? Like they do soaps and shampoos. Why would they? How do they make the strawberry shortcake dolls smell so good? I actually bought it because it says it helps under privileged women. And it said calming. And it was purple. I thought I needed to exfoliate. I have been kind of itchy. So I either exfoliated or irritated? But not calmed.

I was told to write to myself. Not just myself but to my anxiety feelings.

Maybe even name it, like my daughter does her blankie. Make it a person so I can properly address it and deal with it. Maybe it will be Pheather with a silent P. See, even a smart phone knows this is not a word, it’s underlined in red, stupid smart phones. But then I can imagine it could be said as feather and all the things can float away after I write them down. Maybe.

I read in a book that said maybe anxious people never felt comforted and safe, we didn’t learn how to self sooth. That’s likely true since the last time I bet I felt safe was in my mommas tummy. I screamed a lot as a baby and small toddler. My parents didn’t seem to be able to sooth me. I was unsoothable. The more they did the more I cried. Did they give up? Did I? Did I just give into the fear very early. Everything terrified me so I let it and just decided early on that’s who I was. I will be afraid and never sleep. Done.

I created monsters under my bed. I became someone who thought under the bed was a place that lurked danger. Not monsters because my brain wouldn’t let it be make believe. They were people under my bed. It was even worse when my dog dying of dog cancer slept under there and made noises or bumped the bed. I would stuff things under the bed and even once just removed the boards and let the mattress touch the floor. Then forcing me to need the door cracked open and the hall light left on.

My fear just moved. I locked and unlocked doors and windows. Sometimes I would panic I turned it too many times and it didn’t lock. My dad put in a chain and it was a relief to hear it jingle. Sometimes when I was home at night I used to think I could see the door knobs turn slowly. Once when I was an adult, (was an adult?)that happened and no one could find anyone. Making me believe it never did. Making me feel crazy. But I know it happened.

I was once tortured by a story called the borrowers. Little people who lived in the walls and borrowed things. It still has me concerned. I still look under my bed. I still check locks, I still watch the door knob. I wish it was monsters or make believe things. To me they are real. Live. People. I would jump to safety as long as I got out far enough that arms couldn’t reach, slicing my achylies tendon, crippling me for life. When I became a driver I was this way with vehicles. Someone was under it. Always. I like my car now because it doesn’t seem to be able to house a full grown person under it, I’ve “repaired” my exhaust I barely fit and no way could attack someone at the squashed angle I was.

When I’m in the woods I panic even more. What’s funny about this is I intentionally am doing it. What’s even funnier,I love the woods. I am trying to feel close to something big to show me something big. Bigger than me and all the big life around me so when something big happens I feel ok to let it be too big. Let go. Big life=hard and sometimes sad. Which is ok. Everything is running smoothly as soon as I find this big huge feeling of trusting the universe. But it continues to let me down. Unless I’m in the woods. Which frightens the fuck out me at night. Actually all the time. Even though I love the woods. I repeat. When I lay to sleep I lay there and actually think of a side I want my back to face, which is silly because you are totally vulnerable all around. At home I don’t like to have my back to a door. Or a wall. Or a window. I’m too vulnerable, like peeing behind the tree, it’s not behind it’s just on the other side. One side always exposed. I have to be prepared for the attack that is coming or did and now I’m just sometimes waiting. Wouldn’t someone know I could hear them for miles walking to come and sneak up on me? Leaves crunching. At night a leaf stepped on by an ant is magnified to sound like a full grown human. What if they were hiding there first? Why would they be? Maybe I pick the one spot an escape convict is taking cover? I look around my camp sites for signs of escape murderers anywhere. Even before I check for tree issues overhead, you know, the more likely cause for concern. I’m trying to force myself to be a back sleeper so I can be totally prepared to fight back. Why can’t I be? Why do we have so much trouble with a side we sleep on? Does it go back to crib days? If so I didn’t sleep so I should have no trouble training a side or back sleep position. I have a significant back arch and kind of messed up tail bone from a ladder accident. So it can present a problem in my mind but as a side sleeper when I actually sleep my hips hurt. So why wouldn’t I correct this in my sleep? Because I can’t self sooth? I feel like all I do is sooth myself. Scraped knees, stuck cars, broken down, broken toes, broken, sore throats, long days, long miles, many bruises, lost babies…all on my own. I think I can self sooth like a bad ass. What I can’t do is feel safe from others. What is that called? Others sooth? Themselves sooth? People sooth? Does it become an action? People soothing? What about trust? Is it trust? Don’t I have to trust myself first to trust others? Trust this big universe? I must keep looking, under everything.

Best regards,

Me, to you, from me. The real me. Always curious and less anxious.

P.s. love the best regards signature

P.s.s. Kudos on the effort to try and make us suffer but I win today.

Piss. off.

I have a story to tell. My story is important, it matters. To me. The judgement and the criticism from others keeps me from doing this. I spent several years telling no one anything. Actually I told one single person everything. All the worsts parts of me. What I thought to be the worst parts of me. Turns out that others think they have worst parts of them too. Turns out when you say you have worst parts it makes others feel less like they have worst parts and that maybe they are just parts. I still tell this person all the things,the things that need to be safe.

I can’t even get a conscious thought to run through my head today. Instead I believe we are all going to suffer and die. It’s the absolute most horrible thing to think. To imagine suffering. Then to imagine not you being gone but someone you love being gone. Watching them suffer. Knowing that dying is what’s best. That living isn’t fun anymore when they make rules to protect us from things that we have no control over. Then you realize this and you realize these are things we have no control over. It’s a scary world now because it always has been and we all just know the scary things now. It’s not going to get less scary unless I focus on only what I can be afraid of and do anyway. Come back down to my scary. Leave the other scary out there to be unknown. It’s still there just farther away from me. I can only be locally afraid not globally. I’m just not grown up enough I guess. Or maybe I am grown up…?

I had a thought yesterday that we just have too many people in the world. Am I one of them? Am I going to be the one to not survive? Will my kids? My parents? Coworkers? It’s a scary scary world now. Because we all know about it. The less I know the less afraid I am. For some, the more they know the more informed they feel. Giving them a sense of control. For me I can’t know enough to ever feel that. I dig too deep, I look too hard, I try too hard. If I were a rabbit I would actually die in my rabbit hole, lost and confused, misinformed, naive, and afraid.

I do not do social platforms. I signed up specifically to make someone mad. I tried for about a year. They became too overwhelming and I worried too much about other people’s lives. It made everyone look like they had a better life than me. That to me felt unfair. I also tried too hard to make my life seem better than it was. I also stepped back and realized my life is very good and then realized that it really wasn’t for anyone to know about it either way. It’s my life. Says Bon Jovi. I constantly tell my daughter to worry about herself. So much that once on Mother’s Day thé teacher asked her to write something her mom always says. “Worry about yourself.” She writes proudly. I tend to worry about not myself too. If asked this question I would have written “take care of your sisters.” That’s just what I remember. My parents were loving, they also did what they could to keep us alive as well. I helped. I felt it was my job to.

I once tried to be an amazing runner to make someone like me. I once tried to learn to mountain bike like a badass for the same reason. I once backpacked miles to prove I was able to to someone else for no reason. I put myself in dangerous situations in my head specifically to hope someone liked me. What came out of this? Someone likes me. Me.

I found I love to run, for me. In my own way, places, and never again a marathon. It was hard but not as hard as I thought, I also got bored. Kind of annoyed with what there was to look at. You also can’t stop. It’s not part of the plan. You also can’t turn where you want. They need you to be somewhere specific to get to somewhere specific. I’m more of a non-specific place kind of runner person. You also can’t talk. Or I can’t. I passed people just chatting away. They train for this though. They ran socially for months ahead of me. I decided to run 2 months before the event and hadn’t ran for 20 years. I joined a running group only to feel like I didn’t know what the group was there for for me. I ran with them once and was told when I tried to chat a little it would be easier if I didn’t talk. Easier for me or him? I also don’t small talk good. If you read anything I write it’s a direct reflection of a conversation. I’m a badass long talker.

I ride, I’m terrible. I crash, get lost, break bikes, cuss like a sailor, fly through the woods with a carefree manner. I don’t look at trees or bugs or the sky. I focus on the little place just above my tire and occasionally glance up to see what’s about to try and kill me. Then I find band aides. Then I try again. It’s a break from my wondering mind and requires full attention in place I give no full attention to anything but the scenery. It’s not physically difficult for me to ride it’s like riding a bike. That saying of “its like riding a bike”works with riding a bike as well as many things that use procedural memory. Like music instruments and typing. I also did this with a group. I kept getting misplaced and forgotten. To me, they were actually quite tolerant of me. I arrived a few minutes late once and went the wrong way on the trail to meet them in the middle and crashed right into the group. Literally crashed. I carried my bike once through the woods frustrated. I hit a tree. I didn’t like the beer they offered me. I didn’t know what to say. How to dress, how to stand. How to be me. I am a terrible badass rider. I have since found now that I am comfy with how I am on a bike I have found my people. They love to teach the shit out of their bikes!! Passionate folks.

I’m also a badass avid backpacker. Not thousands of miles in months. I don’t have time for that yet. I love a good 50 mile long weekend. I love loop trails to avoid seeing the same thing and avoid arranging shuttles. I have some amazing stories to tell of my solo trips, the people you meet when you are just with yourself is very different than the people you meet when you are not. People gravitate to a solo traveler. It’s too curious why. I’ve had some of the most meaningful, deep conversations under the most brilliant night skies with total strangers I may never cross paths with again. We are like minded. We did trails together in our own ways and didn’t even know it. Shared night skies and footpaths without ever knowing. Splashed in lakes and gathered rocks of the same shore. We may cross paths again. We may not. We walked our separate ways the last day. I ran to say one last good bye before the seaplane left. Ran meaning wobbled, my ankles still swollen from my hike over the island, as I hug them one says. “You are one badass woman, don’t let anyone ever tell you different.”I will keep taking the paths I love. Stand the way I stand. Dress the way I dress and be the way I be. A badass.

Today I have plants to care for. And babies to keep safe. What if I don’t wash my hands at the right moment? I’ve washed my hands more times in a day than I have in a week. I sound like a filthy dirty disease spreading person when I think about all of the sandwiches I’ve eaten after working in the greenhouse with hands so dirty I see it on the bread. Now I look at my hands and they don’t look like mine. They look like someone who is afraid. Because right now everyone wants you to be both, afraid and also not. You can’t be both. I’m just afraid. But I’m going to keep washing these hands anyway.

It’s too quiet. I can hear the inside of my ears. It’s like a little white noise. Or maybe it’s a ringing? Do I have tinnitus? I’ve used a lot of power equipment over the years. Chainsaws specifically. Years of this.

They used to test our hearing every year. The boss would say “So and so your hearing test is at 10:00.” They would say “huh?” And prétend not to hear.

Is this what listening to yourself really is? Hearing the ringing in your ears from damage. Sometimes I think I can hear the blood rushing though them. Or through and around? Or is it the fluid in the ears? Why can’t we hear the fluid draining when it’s draining in our ears during a cold? You could tell the doctor “I know I have fluid in my ears, I can hear it.” Yet you can’t quit hear anything else.

What if I sat and listened to that and thought nothing? Do people really clear their minds? Don’t you have to say in your head “clear your mind” just to “clear your mind.”Like when people say “no more talking,”and they say back, “you just talked,”and you say “so did you.”It goes on for too long with a toddler. Or some adults.

Why would I quit thinking? What would go on inside my head if I did? I’ve tried to say a word over and over to sooth my thoughts. A mantra I think it’s called. I can’t pick a word. It’s too hard. I change it constantly. I want it to really mean something. Maybe that’s the problem. It should just be like “hot dog.”

Not some deep meaningful word. When I say a word for too long it starts to sound funny, even like another word. Then I wonder where the word derived from. I always thought it would be fun to get to be the person who writes the sentences they use for an example in the dictionary. Here is hot dog used in a sentence. “The hot dog was hot.””I love hot dogs.” Hot dog is actually 2 words. A compound word. Two put together. Not sure why I clarified that. It can also be a verb. Hotdogged- to perform in a conspicuous or often ostentatious manner or an interjection to express gratitude. Also not sure why I clarified and defined any of that. Bored. Never once did my mind stop when I tried to say hotdog a lot. Now I just actually want hotdogs and to hotdog something or someone.

Do they have to follow a script when choosing these sentences? What if the person got to really chose?Basically writing a book of sentences with every single word that needed defined. I’m sure it’s a team and a committee and maybe not even done by a human brain anymore.

It would also be fun to get to research where a word derived from. Is this done? Are we done making great words? Now words are just changing, evolving. It seems language has gotten lazy and we will soon need a dictionary to tell us what things are abbreviated or in symbols. Here is a picture of a hot dog. Back to picture books like children. Spell it? H.d. Or maybe h. Dog. Just to be cool like the cool kids.

Words are in danger. Now the word “word”is sounding funny. I just said it like a gangster, no hipster? No that’s kind of stereotypical? I said it like this, “word. To yo’ mother.”Its in a song? Maybe, words in songs aren’t my strong point. It’s a saying I hear some various none stereotypical people say. With a little dig in motion. Or they just say “word”as an answer to mean “I agree.”I will soon need this picture book and new dictionary to communicate with others. Or maybe I just won’t. “Word.”Out.

I used a lot of quotes. I wanted to show conversation with myself. And emphasize the use of a word. I’m not even sure of the rules for quotation marks. I don’t remember where the period goes, inside or out. There are some rules. I probably shouldn’t write blogs. My general rule is not to use punctuation to show emotions. Semi colons and colons and parenthesis don’t smile, frown or wink. They are serious business. I’m not a grammar police but there are some. I respect the rules but don’t know them and wish I could understand them. Grammar rules!

My phone is also part time French. I’ve tried undoing it. So occasionally it usés that little thing right over there over the word “uses”. I also don’t have proper paragraphs. My thoughts aren’t broke up that way. I’m a run on sentence nightmare and short sporadic paragraph user. I sometimes just add a space to show space. A moment you can’t feel me taking a little break in my mind so I’m showing it.

I write in cursive, I teach my child to. I have a magnet that says “save cursive”. I once disputed the use of connecting my letters with a teacher. I didn’t want to change. I wanted to stay printing forever. I learned the rules and didn’t want new ones. Like now. I know something and don’t want to know something different to do what I did, just in a different way. With the same outcome just at a faster pace. One which I don’t know how to moderate. I still hand write so much because it hurts my wrist after a few hours. So I stop. I can type out rampant thoughts until the next day. It gave my boundaries. It slows the mind down. I can’t cursive fast since I’m still reciting the rules I learned and was reminded of so many times that I argued with. How to neatly connect letters to make words.

Now I type doing the same thing. Knowing the rules are speed and very little thought to accurately punctuating. Knowing that an underlined word needs looked at closer. That I can be given options of words that I might mean even before I know what I mean. I’m not using my own mind anymore. Like math. It’s the hardest thing I know how to do which is why I try and do some basic math in my head often. So I never forget how. I add license plates up to make specific numbers. I don’t like letters on license plates. They can’t be added. I also didn’t like letters involved in general in algebra. The alphabet didn’t seem to need to be involved in my numbers that were already hard enough. Yet math makes sense everywhere you go until you make it currency everywhere you go. It is a global language. I add, subtract divide or multiply the minutes on the clock to make the hour. Or make the hour meet the minutes. I do this with radio stations.

I’m sorry grammar people.(dad, teachers) When my handwritten things are written they are done so well that I bury them in the ground to protect them from others. Too afraid to share, too afraid of rejection, or criticism. Too afraid of the world or myself. I have no idea how math got stuck in the midst of this word issue I needed to work through.

All my teeth will eventually need to be fixed. I found I have three cracked teeth. I don’t grind them unless there is a painful crack that I feel pressure and apply pressure to relieve the pressure. I can’t stop either. That sounded like grinding but it’s an attempt at self soothing. Cracking them further. I can’t wear guards either. I barely sleep and a guard is felt and creates pools of saliva I choke on. I could drown in my own saliva? I can’t take something to sleep, I may never wake, or I may wonder around and do things asleep, or it won’t work and they will try to make me take more. I sleep enough to sustain my life but not enough to protect my teeth from cracking.

I might just lose them all. I will have no teeth. Maybe I will get new teeth. Maybe they will cooperate with my life. Set them right in my skull so they don’t hit each other when I talk, cracking them and opening them to decay. Once I was told to just talk less.

I have a misaligned jaw.

Once I went to a surgeon to make him break it and reset it. Countless weeks of drinking through a straw he said. Be proud of your stubborn jaw. Easy for him to say he has a perfect jaw and tanned skin from all the money he makes from people who are afraid of him.

I just can’t think of all the people who might die today. One by one they are being named and known to me. Someone for me to think about, her children now motherless, a brave person who fought cancer only to die from a virus. The numbers are growing, will they continue to do this? We will only be reading about people who died soon? There will be thousands. When will they stop? That next person who they stop at isn’t worth the story? Too many have gone to keep up? There isn’t enough time to report the hundreds? For me the shock value of hearing a large number not attached to personal lives and stories is easier than a tally and countdown of a population gone out of control. I can handle thousands gone but not one if I know she loved puppies and sunsets and desired to be a veterinarian.

It happens all the time. I’m sad. It is sad. It is also life. Death is life. Life is death. The grandeousness of finding that comfort is an overwhelming feeling in itself. Then why am I here? Why bother? What is there to live for if I’m going to die?

Change the question.

What is there to die for if you don’t live?

Make every moment count because they could end. Once I asked my therapist if a good deep cleansing belly breath is as good for you if you are thinking it could be your last one? She nodded in her therapist nod way when she seemed to ponder yet be confused yet totally see why I’m there. Breath in really great. It could be it. After about five I start to think I’m not going anywhere. Unless I check the news. Then the world is trying to make me afraid. Afraid to even leave my home. It’s cautioned yes. But I’m a sensible, mostly hygienic aware person who naturally demands social distancing. I have nothing to be afraid of because I’m already afraid of everything. Goodbye news.

Every time I open an email it’s headlined with a picture of this new virus, to me it looks like a kids toy my kids once played with, or a dog toy, yet it’s scary spiky clingy proteins are showing you how scary spiky protein it is. It’s been magnified to look like an asteroid. It’s the scariest image I know right now. I’ve unsubscribed from any email that doesn’t directly involve paying a bill or my kids schools. Now I check my email and get zero emails. Goodbye emails.

There are lot of new rules. I’ve lost my rhythm. I’ve slept in twice, missed bedtimes, googled dangerous unknown virus’s, written with a tablet and not by hand, had a glass of wine before bed. I’m out of whack.

I went to the store. I hadn’t for several days because there are too many people there. They want us to be not so close yet here they all are. They want us to not be afraid but all the shelves are empty of bread. Hundreds of loaves of bread bought in a day out of fear. People buying too many things was starting to make me feel like I needed more things. I looked in my cabinets, was 7 peanut butter jars enough? I have 6 boxes of pancake mix for some reason and 4 boxes of instant mashed potatoes? I naturally apparently prepare myself to need strange things. I don’t have a freezer even big enough for what I need for a week so I can’t buy 14 pounds of hamburger. I also can’t think of that many things to make with hamburger except 14 meals of hamburgers. I also might be too afraid at some point to eat hamburgers. Aware it was a cow once. It depends. They are putting restrictions on the amounts of some things. They have to make rules because there are so many who can’t make them for themselves. It’s the world now.

I took off to the woods with the only goal of getting muddy and soaking wet in the rain. My daughter is a small version of me and joined me. Bluebells are coming up, buds on trees are swelling, birds are all clustering and singing, life is still here. I borrowed theirs for a moment to gather what I felt lost again. I’m careful to tread lightly, unless splashing. Leave myself not there so they can feel safe to have their space too. A toad crossed our path once. On the man made pavement. He went back and forth confused it was not land. We helped him find his way to tall grass and wet ground. I’m sure his little toad mind wondered what kind of creature was going to eat him. I couldn’t, he looks too much like himself when cooked. He was safe.

There are books about making your bed. Actually I think one book plus maybe a kids book. I’ve never read it but it came up as a book I should read. I haven’t read it yet because I don’t want to read tons of books of how others gained control yet. I’m trying to find mine on my own. The title got my attention simply because it stated what I had already found. Someone else knows? Amazon knows me. I bought a book and it said, “you might also like these books on how to feel control when the world is not.” Make your bed. It’s simple. When I wake it looks like a tornado slept there. So I shake it all out and straighten it. Hide the chaos that ensued. No one will know. Make it to a perfect military manner and get mad when the cat lays in it and wrinkles it up before bed. Once it’s made no one is allowed to touch it. I have this all under control my bed is made. My dishes are done. My kids beds are made by them. There is order.

I need a new rhythm is all. A new cadence to march to. I wrote cadences in school for our drum line. I can make a new rhythm. Everything is less scary simply because I chose to not less anyone else make me be afraid.

I’m on borrowed time, borrowed land and need to take better care of my teeth. Be less afraid.

I remember once I tried to “join” an alcoholics group.

I actually was assigned to go through an aggressive therapy program and attend AA meetings as a part of my consequences for my DUI which I got from driving after anesthesia and on various medications to get to a court date to get my order of protection hearing to protect myself. That was a long sentence! Like going over a bunch of speed bumps. Which I don’t think are necessary on any road.

In the end, I found I wasn’t even supposed to do these classes. Just pay a giant fine, do some community service and make better decisions. So I attended 8 weeks of aggressive out patient addiction recovery therapy classes for no reason and all the reasons.

I remember sitting there in my classes, sharpening my colored pencils with my desktop sharpener to color while they talked. Like a studious little student eager to be included. I asked her if this was ok, she seemed unsure what to say. She laughed daily when she heard my sharpener. I sat and practiced listening intensely and took notes, wrote stories, colored, looked for rocks with holes in the landscaping on breaks. I missed hours of work to sit and listen to how to change my thoughts. I opened up once. It was a little like opening a flood gate. I told my story in a few pieces, just a few. Once I did this, eager ears and minds to share started nodding, and agreeing, amens said and even some tears, they got it. I thought, these are my people. Except they weren’t. Except they were.

I attended an AA meeting. I didn’t like all of the rules and the feeling of having to follow them. But they all loved each other so much, relied on each other, they called one another in times of need, a phone list was passed around. I knew I would never use it. I was relieved so many had this for themselves. I wanted to keep coming just to be certain so many I had met kept coming. I worried that they would all actually start drinking again. That the best people to understand what someone is going through is to be going through it or have gone through it. You relate. Yet you also relate so sitting in a room with people who relate almost seems like a bad idea. Or the best one. But. I wanted to belong to something. So I kept going and even once announced I was one and cried and told a story about it but then I really couldn’t seem to make myself believe I was sitting here relating to anyone.

I was so starved of belonging to something that I wanted to be an alcoholic just to belong with this open caring but maybe dangerous group. I wanted to drown my sorrows in a bottle, waste my money that was needed to support my kids, struggle with healthy ways of coping, just to belong to something. To be that selfish. I know that is not what alcoholism is, it is a serious disease. But it is an achievable recovery. I know some people have or for now have. I also don’t really know if it is a disease. Some people say it is some say it isn’t.

The only problem with this idea to belong, actually there are lots of problems with this, but the main one is I didn’t get any of it. I didn’t relate at all. I could see how they all related to each other and felt happy that all these hurt souls and minds had a group to empower them or enable them. It depends. I was happy they all had each other, but, I didn’t belong. Not in a way that I am not accepting a problem either, just literally that I know my personality so well that the thought of tip toeing into addiction would be a nightmare, I only know how to obsess to concentrate sometimes. I would be, not just a terrible addict but a good one all at the same time.

I know what I can and can’t handle. I know that avoidance is not saying I have a problem or don’t, it’s saying I have control of creating one. I have self control. Lots of discipline. Too much sometimes. I crave control of myself. I feel like I’m in control of myself but stuck in a world felt out of control. Which can make you feel like you are not. In fact I may have been someone who would sit there and think somehow I could fix them all. That none of them could do it so I could for them. I may have been the most dangerous one in there. It wouldn’t have worked. I would have done everything for them and they would be just back to drinking. I would have driven and gotten it. I would have hidden it for them. I would have done anything for them so I still belonged to something. This is the rest of the problems with me being in an AA room. It is full of people out of control of themselves. Guess what I want? Everyone to just take care of themselves or let me do it for you.

I am not an alcoholic, I sat in a room once and tried to say so just because I was so alone, so afraid and so lost. I was just lonely.

I was thinking about the day my daughter came off of what they called Ecmo. Short for extracorpreal membrane oxygenation. Similar to life support. Heart and lung machine. I’m sure there are other names for it. She was on it for about 9 days after her heart surgery.

I used to sit and watch her blood move through tubes,out her body and back in. Her pretend heart the size of an old copy machine. Just casually plugged in to the wall. What if the power went out? Or someone tripped on it? Does it have back up power? But nurses flowed around with ease, like a dance. Checking lines and fluids and numbers and medications. I didn’t want to be in the way. No one was even concerned they might accidentally unplug her or trip over tubes of her blood, her life would spill all over the floor. Who would have to clean it?

There was a man who sat for hours and watched this machine. It was his only job. He adjusted things. Entered things. I had to hold my hands not to ask him questions. Not wanting to distract him from a single thing. What if he is distracted today? Did he sleep well? When does he sleep? When do any of these people sleep? Or eat? Or pee? He can probably run a marathon and not need to pee. He protected my little life with his. He was not distracted. I bet he could sit and watch a sunset so well, or a mixer beating cookies, or wait in lines.

The less clouded my brain the clearer the images come. Maybe my brain is saying, hey I’m finally feeling like I can pull these memories out for you to have, I was protecting you for so long. Afraid to show you.

After she came off ECMO Her chest was too swollen, her heart too swollen still to close, they had to put protective plastic film over her heart, it looked like Suran wrap. Was it strong enough? I’m sure it’s not what it was but it seemed to easy to just remove. Easy to puncture. The nurses knew I didn’t want to see her little heart and covered it, until one day it wasn’t. Now I have seen it. It was beating. Like we feel when we feel ours. That day I touched my own chest to make sure if was safely inside. Held on to it. I wanted to touch hers. Just lay my hand gently on her heart. It’s implanted in my memory like a stamp. Or an acorn. A little bruised acorn beating. It’s too small. How does the heart grow? Mine is the size of a fist. How will hers grow with this plastic? Can it breath? Does it need to?

The first time I saw her heart was the day after her heart surgery. It went terrible. Her heart surgery went terrible. She had what is called a complete AV canal.

Atrioventricular (AV) canal defect is a large hole in the center of the heart. It’s located where the wall (septum) between the upper chambers (atria) joins the wall between the lower chambers (ventricles). This septal defect involves both upper and lower chambers. Also, the tricuspid and mitral valves that normally separate the heart’s upper and lower chambers aren’t formed as individual valves. Instead, a single large valve forms that crosses the defect in the wall between the two sides of the heart.-American Heart Association

A big hole in her heart. Not a little one. I remember when I told someone this once they said “oh, lots of people have a little hole,if you are lucky it will close on its own or never need fixed.” Lucky? It gave me hope. People give people hope?

I came to know that a heart should look like a four leaf clover on an echocardiogram. Those are things I know. There are lots of things I don’t know that some do and lots I do that some don’t. Hers was not a four leaf clover. It was a sonogram of an acorn for all could tell. It lacked all the proper walls to form this lucky leaf. We weren’t lucky.

She was 7 weeks old. Her surgery was moved early from what they call failure to thrive. She was too tired to eat. She was grazing more. Breast feeding every 10-15 minutes. They wanted to do surgery the next Friday. I said “I have to work that day.” I was going back to work this day. It seems so silly to even remember this.

The day of her surgery they found her airway too small to intubate. The airway tube to go down her airway to put her on a breathing machine to do her heart surgery. This was a significant finding. They had to repair both. Splice the airway and remove the section narrowed and make less narrow. This is just what I heard. I’m sure it wasn’t splicing like you do climbing ropes. That may not even have been what I heard, it’s what I remember.

Her surgery was longer than they anticipated. Longer than I anticipated. I still can’t properly process this day. I don’t think I’ve been far enough away from it to have a chance to look and see what I thought then. I keep hoping it will come. The way it felt to be told things you have to be told and not be able process quick enough. It happened too fast. It’s been 16 years and I still can’t see that day well. I see the next day.

I woke the next morning around 3 am off this leather couch I was stuck to, to go see her in the ICU. I went down and even remember people running past me. Just two. They went straight to her room. A room she was sharing with several other infant heart patients at this time during a hospital remodel. I didn’t hear anything specific or think anything specific. I just went to her room.

There were too many people there. Her surgeon was there. Around her little bed that looked like a tray with a heating lamp above her. She was laying out, arms and legs out. Like she was reaching up. Her ligaments are more lax than others so her angles looked like her hips had been dislocated the way her legs were. Why was her surgeon there? I walked closer. The man who works in the chapel came to me. I kept walking. I remember it being slower. I heard. “Moms in here” then I wasn’t.

They had her chest wide open and he was pushing on her little tiny acorn heart. While machines were being moved in. People moving. The chapel guy was talking. To me? I was staring at my girl. Worried the tray would fail and she would fall off. Worried he would squash her tiny heart. Do surgeons practice this? Massaging hearts back to life? How? With fruit? Real dead hearts? Or was this his practice? He was doing it too hard? Too soft? Not fast enough? Too slow? Did I imagine this all? Was he really there? Was he really doing this? How can I be sure?

We were told her heart had stopped. They had to put her on this machine to give her heart time to heal. To allow the bruising to heal, the swelling to go down. Her chest would be open for awhile. She will be kept extra asleep. She may not make it.

But she did. She has a perfectly repaired 4 leaf clover heart. Probably the size of a Burr Oak acorn by now. Or a small fist.

I write about this now because I finally can. I can finally get the words to come out to come together and make a sentence. It seemed backwards to me the way it came out. I started from a moment and went backwards. But forward. To get forward. My brain is thawing. Moving forward.

Once I got into euphorbia sap, before I say more, Euphorbia is similar to a cactus. Often confused as a cactus. There are many kinds, It has a milky white sap when injured or pruned. I think, milk, huh? Cactus can be healthy when you drink the water, there is a taco place that has an amazing prickly pear drink. Aloe Vera juice, coconut milk, water…

why wouldn’t euphorbia be the same?

So I tasted it. Not even In a large enough amount to benefit me in any way. Just enough to see if it tasted good, or interesting. Immediately my tongue is numb and my lip is swollen. I find out from a coworker it’s toxic. I think I actually knew this. I’m certain I knew this. Also, my airway is slightly swollen. I think. I could be imaging this. I can only imagine what is going on in my gut!

I could have just googled this. That’s why the webs are there to tangle you up in information and not let you use your own brain. Did I learn a lesson? Probably not a good one. Just not to get euphorbia sap on me. But I’m naturally curious. If I allow the web to do it for me what part of the brain is getting lazy and more afraid. I could read for hours about euphorbia sap and likely even get to a search engine that says it’s safe. But why not find out the “touch the hot stove”kind of way?

I’ve tasted dirt, fertilizer, some medicine I’ve chomped up out of fear of it lodging in my throat, tree branches that are riddled with squirrel marks wondering what’s so tasty, all baby foods, amoxiciian of my kids(bubble gum only available at the time) sucked on rocks, pennies, quarters to see if they tasted different than pennies, craved laundry soap when my iron was low…I’m sure I’m leaving some things out and I’m also lucky Im still alive.

The other day I pruned euphorbia. Remembering this scenario I was a little more careful. By careful I mean I didn’t intentionally taste it. But somehow I still got it on the tip of my tongue. It burns for a few days. And it is a little like the dentist numbing your tongue. It is odd it is numb but also burns? I couldn’t sleep because I kept biting the end. So I got up and put what I thought was oral gel on it. Thinking I would really numb it. I thought it tasted kind of strong. I added a dab more. This was not oral gel. I had put wart remover on the tip of my tongue. Something the label I’m sure mentions not to do. I couldn’t even figure out why I had wart remover.

There isn’t really a lesson to learn here other than to look at things before they go in your mouth. But I know I’m unlikely to follow this. I want to, in hindsight.

Oh, I remember I had 2 warts on the bottom of my foot after my backpack trip last summer. This product didn’t even work. It burned and ate away at every piece of skin around it except the warts. Why would I then keep this tube of super dangerous gel?? The warts removed themselves weeks later. Or maybe that was how the product works? Hopefully the tip of my tongue won’t fall off in a few weeks.