Sisterhood and Writers Block

I recently enjoyed reading a biography of Flannery O'Connor by Brad Gooch. I am not a regular reader of biographies but once in a while I will find one that really holds my attention. I don't know if it's the good writing, extensive research, a passionate connection between author and subject or all of the above.

But Brad Gooch managed to make me feel a part of O'Connors life. I enjoyed the view from the sidelines, a silent cat sitting under the table and happily following Flannery throughout her life. When the book was over and O'Connor was dead I felt I'd lost a sister. I became eager to read all of her works which I am now in the process of doing. I have read nearly all of her short stories and one of her novels (she only wrote two).

There's nothing I love more than happening on new authors and setting about devouring everything they wrote. Flannery O'Connor wrote somewhere around thirty short stories and as I mentioned two novels. I am about two thirds of the way through her work. I also hope to read her letters. Then like a sated cat, I can sit back, purr and digest.

I have been blocked for over two years. My sister's recent advice when I complained of not having anything to write about was "Just fucking write - every day". Writers like Flannery O'Connor just wrote every day. For O'Connor it was after breakfast for two hours, she admits that's usually all the energy she had. .

My sister (the foul mouthed one) offered a beautiful metaphor for writers block. She equated it with an outside faucet. (She lives up north where it snows and freezes.) She said you just have to turn it on and let it sputter out all of the rust and nastiness before you get to the cool, clear fresh spring water.

By the way Celia is anything but foul mouthed. She is very well educated, her area of expertise being British literature. She is a gifted speaker and a beautiful writer. But, she is Irish and we Irish can't help ourselves. When we need to make a point our language can become colourful.

The daily commitment of two hours a day worked very well for Flannery O'Connor. She wrote some of the best southern prose of her day or any day. Her characters are so vivid that one can't decide if they like, hate or love them. She really captures the poverty and ignorance of the rural South.

She was a devout catholic. Yet her stories are full of protestant style Jesus fanatics. The hypocrisy of religion is well sketched and her tales are often dark even black and yet sometimes I can't help laughing. Her catholicism must have made her an outsider in much of the protestant South.

I too was a devout catholic for most of my life. I am currently devoutly unchurched.

Like O'Connor I suffer constant pain. I have periods where I feel well and then I have flare-ups. I doubt I can suffer with anywhere near the dignity of Flannery O'Connor. So I shall slog through the bad stretches (I'm having one now) and enjoy the good times when I am riding and being physically active.

So as I navigate the stagnant waters of writer's block, I have the audacity to glean inspiration from this great writer and to feel some sisterhood in our autoimmune purgatory.

And I'll wait for the muddy waters to become clear.

Back in the Saddle

It has been nearly two years since I have posted anything to this blog. I just looked back at my drafts from two years ago. Reading my words helped assuage some of my guilt about not writing. These drafts were my attempts, at the time, to explain what was going on with me, specifically my brain.

The drafts had titles like "If I only had a brain", "What a Long Strange Trip it's Been" and "Brain Death". They listed symptoms and diagnostic details such as; "just emerging from a fog", "last lucid memory is of waking up in a ditch", several hypo densities, white matter. The list goes on. As I read these accounts I feel tender self pity.

Two years ago I was becoming very ill. My rheumatoid arthritis was raging and my rheumatologist decided on a new medication called Enbrel. One of the effects of the drug is that it dampens an over active immune system. (RA is the result of an over active immune system.) The Enbrel caused a drop in my immune function, a drop which was a serious blow to my already compromised immune system. (It seems a contradiction that my immune system is compromised yet I suffer with RA.)

This drop in my immune function resulted in a serious untreatable brain infection. Several CT scans and MRI's showed white matter lesions. Clinically, on the good days, I was very confused and forgetful. On the bad days I was delusional and agitated . I was hallucinating and exhibiting symptoms of schizophrenia. I was hospitalized several times with psychotic episodes. Once for an entire month. I also developed a seizure disorder.

So, the last two years have been interesting. Fortunately I don't remember a lot of it. I remember slogging through days of half existence. I remember the sense of isolation that comes with mental compromise. But the last several months have been better - a slow steady improvement.

Now, present day, I feel great. I am back in the saddle (literally) - riding two days a week. Meds are managing my seizures and psychotic symptoms. I am driving again. I am enjoying a spirit of gratitude that comes from long suffering.

I am grateful but also frustrated. I haven't written a word let alone a line of poetry in the past two years. I hope the part of my brain that writes returns. The only thing I can think of is to go through the motions of writing. So, I am resurrecting the blog as a means to an end. An end that I hope will take the form of creativity. So, please bear with me.

Crisis or Faith?

I went to church with my mother today for Easter Services.  I love my Mom's congregation they seem to me to be what all churches should be.  Inclusive, diverse, progressive, devoted to social justice and ministry.  Also a hell of a lot of fun.  The Spirit is there in the laughter, love, eating and joyful celebrating.

It's a tiny church.   It's in its original building which is very old.  The church was founded around the time of slavery here in the south.  Recently freed slaves and other people couldn't afford pew fees were welcomed and the church has maintained a spirit of outreach and inclusiveness ever since that founding.  When I first moved to Charleston, twenty years ago, and while working in the area of HIV/AIDS,  I attended  many funerals, these funeral were not welcome every where.   The AIDS funerals were not popular.  Beautiful funerals were almost exclusively held in this tiny church with its huge heart.

The previous paragraphs are not an attempt to raise funds.  I am simply attempting to demonstrate that I am not un-churched, most of my life I have been "churched" as they say. Often, people dismiss discussion and criticism about religion as the complaint of one who dislikes God, religion or has been wounded in some way and is carrying the proverbial shoulder chip.

While I wouldn't describe myself as churchgoing at this time of my life,  I believe I arrived where I am as a result of many positive forces;  I have an amazing mother who loves God and always encouraged discussion about anything and everything without intellectual, spiritual or other constraints. 

I am a cradle catholic.  About twenty years ago, I started practicing a form of meditation which led me through an exciting evolution which ultimately resulted in me leaving the church.  The meditation was an ancient practice and was taught to me by my spiritual director, a Catholic Sister.   It has been a slow evolution and I didn't realize the profound and wonderful changes that are enriching me.

I started noticing some changes when I recognized the divine in unexpected ways.  I realized  I was worshipping in the woods, on the backs of horses,  while reading or writing a poem.  I am often nourished by the gospels and many other sacred texts.  At today's service (Episcopalian) the Rector mentioned the many different accounts of Christ's resurrection.  In my head I reflected on this year's gospel when the witnesses clung to the risen Lord.  I also remember another  account where Jesus says "Do not cling to me for I have not yet been to the Father"

Later that day I reflected on all the inconsistencies and variations of accounts in the gospels.   It seems the bible has  many spin off stories.  Who wrote what? When?  Why?  Who wrote Revelations?  Was it "John the Divine" or "John, the disciple whom Jesus loved?"  How many more gospels might there be other than the familiar synoptics.  What about the Gnostic Gospels and many other recent interests.

None of these bible study issues has ever interested me very much.  I've never been too clear on the details nor have I been interested in them.  One of my early recollections as regards musing over God or Gods, Saints and sinner's was when I was very young, not quite seven.  I was being prepared for first holy communion.  I believe I was tasting the bitter flavor of theology for the first time.  I remember sitting in my bedroom looking up at the white plastic crucifix (it was the sixties) and in particular I was looking at Jesus smiling beatifically.  I mentioned to Jesus in that casual way children possess when talking to Gods (I expect it's a refreshing way to be addressed when one is a God.) I simply said, "Hey, I don't understand you or what you do or did or why you did it.  But if it's ok with you, Jesus, I'm just going to deal directly with your Dad."

When people start discussing God or worse yet arguing about who/what/how God is, I just want to leave the room.  I'm not too clear on the details but that doesn't bother me.  The details don't interest me.  I'd rather assume that "Holy Whatever"  is way beyond the capacity of my tiny mind.   It is just TOO BIG for my standard issue brain.

I sometimes notice during these theological and sometimes nonsensical discussions that people can get very passionate in defending God or the beliefs they cling too.  One thing I do feel rather sure of is "God" doesn't need me standing in the shadows of some dark church alley cracking my knuckles, pulling back my trenchcoat/vestment to show off my piece, ready to defend him/her.  I do not measure my faith by the passion with which I defend it.  Does this make me a bad Christian?  If it does, should I care?

I love the great "divine" with all of my heart and soul.  My love is a blind love.  My mind only gets in the way.  I think this love, the most important of my life, would be sullied by dissection and detail.  Maybe that's one of the reasons I have a natural repulsion to theology.  There are other things about theology that leave me cold, to me it's been what educated and powerful men often use to lord over the poor and control the masses.  I think that as a six year old saying "I don't understand" I was exhibiting the early stages of a healthy aversion to theology.  

To me discussing theology in the presence of the divine seems akin to pontificating with your limited knowledge of music theory as Ludwig Van Beethoven plays a romantic sonata, written for you to express his love.  Imagine also, you sit with your girlfriends giggling and gossiping while this incredible, beautiful thing is taking place.  I suspect that a younger Beethoven might not have fallen so hard, before losing  his hearing.  While the eyes may be the windows to the soul, the ears are certainly portals for idle gossip.

I don't think I could be present to God, ultimate Light and Love while pondering how many angels can fit on the head of a pin?   I cannot be present to god, love, light while pre-occupied with wowing my colleagues or planning a dissertation.    I love to read and I'm intellectually curious.  I just hope I never confuse knowledge with faith.    Pure light, God, immortal love, I hope these exist but I cannot find them with my mind.  My heart and soul will have to do.  I believe these are to doors to the Divine.

Coming Home in the Evening

Every evening the same 

fever and bone deep weariness

accompany me home.

Once home my collie

and nature succeed

in luring me out

Tonight in the murky woods

there's a wet, warm fog

wrapping us in mute mist

Do you hear the fog I whisper,

the dog tilts her head but

offers no reply

The fog pulses

reminiscent of some benign

and distant delirium

Do you feel that I ask the air,

and with a grin answer to the dog

The fog has throbbed away my pain.

Home in bed I do not sleep,

I sit alone, smiling

into the darkness.

Never Look at the Road Kill

Maintaining ones mental health is every bit as important, if not more so, than one's physical well being.  By mental health I have depression in mind (no pun intended).  It's always amazing to me when I observe myself as I am going towards, staving off  or emerging from a serious depression.

I have struggled with depression over the last 20 years.  Of course, in the beginning,  I had no idea that I was depressed until I found myself in the hospital being watched 24/7.  My first depression crept up on me, I was tired, disinterested and felt progressively worse, everything just seemed too difficult and the next thing I knew I was suicidal.

After experiencing depression one learns what to avoid and what to do to keep the symptoms at bay.   One also learns that sometimes medication is needed to win the battle.  I attribute my survival to experience,  good professional advice,  the proper meds and hard work.  I can usually tell now when I'm being hounded by that "black dog" before he can get his teeth in.

A few weeks ago I was going through a change in medications that involved nasty pain, more than I should have suffered.   The pain became severe and  I could not get out to ride and I had a neighbour walking my dog. Time out of doors is an essential ingredient in my anti-depression routine.  Then my cat, my littlest sweetest pet was diagnosed with renal failure.  During this time of physical and emotional suffering, accessing useful health care and support was becoming problematic.   I have many doctors and support people but some of my primary health care providers weren't even available, let alone helpful in any way.

I found myself getting weepy.  But the piece of the puzzle that solved it for me was the road kill. I adore animals.  I can't bear to see an animal suffering;  furry, scaley, slimey or otherwise. Years ago I made a promise to myself.  "I will not look at the roadkill".  If I see it up ahead I don't look, I am sorry for the creature but I have to keep driving and let it go.

I have to let it go, when I find myself looking at road kill, I am comiting, a telling transgression. I am indulging the dark side.  After the roadkill, the floodgates open and I find myself crying for all the pets in my life that have died or will die.  I move on then to my father who died five years ago and from there it just spirals down out of control.   At these times, all of life is death, pain and misery, blah blah blah.   When it has been established that the world is an intolerable barren wasteland, I turn inward.  My life is awful, I will always be in pain, I will always be sick, I am lonely and I will always be lonely, wah wah wah.

I think the road kill is a metaphor for the whole deal.  When I look up ahead and I say "what a shame or that's too bad" but I carry on, life is ok.  But when I look at the road kill it's no longer a strange possum of little circumstance, it's a little black and white cat.  I had a black and white cat growing up.  So now, I'm on to the family of the present cat, wondering where their little pet has gone.  Some little girl crying at some dinner table.  I wonder about the little cat's last moment.   Indulgent wallowing.  I can't afford to indulge the dark side.

The rules are simple.  Obeying them is sometimes difficult.  Usually when I look down my metaphorical road and I identify myself as roadkill.  I can give in, straining my self to see the sorry state of me up the road or I can look at my behaviour and realize that I am in  the early stages, approaching the wallow.  Or I can look inwards to my sense of self and reality, continue to breath and go on.   Depression doesn't go away quickly or easily but if it's mending rather than festering that's something.

It has taken me a long time and many violent altercations with the black dog to learn these simple things.  I don't forget them too often because I know where that leads.  I am also highly motivated because nothing I've ever encountered hurts more than depression.  So as I drive down the road, I tell myself "eyes up, watch the road and never, ever look at the road kill."

Coming or Going?

You know that disorienting feeling when you are sitting on a train and it starts to move, then you realize that the other train has left the station and you haven't moved at all?  I experienced a familiar sensation today.  It effects me frequently but I've never given it the reflection it deserves. 

Whether I lived in the Northeast of the US or in the constant dark rain of the West of Ireland,  I always knew the season.  Summer hot. Autumn  lovely.  Winter cold.  Spring lovely.   I have lived in Charleston, S.C. for many  years.  By far a more pleasant climate than NY or Connemara.  

However, in Charleston, I often experience what I call seasonal disorientation.  It usually occurs when I am out of doors, walking my dog or riding.   Today I had a severe case of this particular confusion.  It was a cool and lovely day.  It was pleasantly windy and leaves were flying everywhere.  The horse was snorting, we were both quite happy, an exquisite New York autumn day. 

In reality it was an exquisite Charleston spring day.  Here in the South, we have (or had) an abundance of wonderful trees called Live Oaks.  Called so because they are green year round. They shed their leaves twice a year.  They have two autumns and two springs.  One knows if  it's spring only if one pays attention.  Still one may puzzle are these the summer leaves coming or the autumn leaves coming?  Two autumns, two springs?  No, well,  yes if your measure of autumn is falling leaves and spring new leaves.  Fortunately, to narrow it down one has other indicators, all stunning;  the azaleas in colorful bloom, many trees budding forth with tiny spring - green promises and more bird song than bad teeth at Wimbledon.   All proclaim, a happy corroboration that yes, it is spring!

In addition to the autumnal flow of leaves, the crispy crunchy spring - fall.  There is another strange symptom.  In northern climes we dread winter, the unbearable cold, snow, salt on the roads, never ending grey skies and dirty sludge.  In Charleston we dread summer.  The unbearable heat, insects, hurricanes, deadly snakes, alligators and Spoletto.  So some of us who suffer depression may find they have to fight the good fight and then fight it again.  

But the South makes it up to us.   Her marshes turn into lush waving eco-systems, a color all their own.  The sultry evenings, the smells of more varieties of flowers than all the bagels in New York.

This morning my dog and I walked by a gaggle of Canadian Geese.  They are so astonishing.  I forget how big and clean they are.  Growing up in New York they were often permanent residents.  They somehow looked a bit dirty or shabby.  Today's geese were glorious, clean and all business, miles to go... before it's summer well, hmm, that is if I am able to convince myself that they are heading north, then I will rejoice and welcome spring in all her confusing glory. Did I say spring?  Wait, summer or winter?  Rejoice or dread?  Coming or going?

Ah feck it,  it's a beautiful day.

O God! Obama! Slap America. HARD!

I have had it.  I have said this many times over.  And every time, I mean it.  Survival is brutal.  I say "this is it", "I can't take it", blah blah blah.  The tragedy of living is that you are here today and here tomorrow.  I have been exhausted and in pain for a long time.  Decades.

Four weeks ago I went off most of my RA (Rheumatoid Arthritis) meds and started on Enbrel, another RA drug.  I also have other causes of pain, sometimes bearable and sometimes, not so much.  So for me the pain rodeo is in town.  I hate rodeo's and the pain rodeo is my least favourite.

I have many illnesses and they all involve pain of different intensities and frequencies.   I have many physicians who specialize in riding a buck, lassoing a horse, catching and/or riding a bull. I don't know much about rodeo's but I know enough to detest them.  Horses, bulls and humans don't need to inflict or endure cruelty to mesmerize or inspire.  That's what CSPAN is for.

I often feel that I have a calf roper trying to lasso me and a lasso expert trying to ride me with my bucking strap way too tight.   Finally, over the course of the last week or two I found myself doing the bucking and kicking, wanting to get some help  and if necessary, maybe even draw a little blood.

But, I don't think anger accomplishes much except perhaps the motivation and energy to write. So,  I took action, invested a great deal of time, crafting letters, making copies of old medical records, new records and accounts of medications.  My pain level continued to increase as I sat surrounded by inconsistent records.  

It's funny, when you're a well person you think that doctors are quite organized.  They look at your chart and remember that you had vaginal yeast three years ago.   You blush even as you admire the organizational skills.

When your chart is thicker than the Manhattan phone book and you've had more surgeries, cancers, fractures, human immunodeficiency viruses, full blown AIDS, joint replacements and let's not forget major depressions -  any super hero may well feel they're competing in the wrong arena.  But unfortunately many doctors out there think they understand everything, all your symptoms and here's the worst -- how you feel.

So, struggling to make sense and trying to organize the current cluster fuck of pain,  I spent last week not being heard at the pain clinic, not being heard by other physicians even after faxing, and emailing, recapping and pleading.  I know many physicians are over loaded and some of them are good.  But they chose this lucrative career and sometimes greed influences decisions about patient loads.   I did not choose a life of illness and pain.  I did choose to take responsibility for my health but I can't do it without medicine. 

I met my primary doctor in the hospital lobby today so he could give me something if I needed it over the weekend, because another doctor totally dropped the ball, prescribing pain killers that might provide relief for a ingrown toenail on a petite flea but with enough acetaminophen to burst several Irish livers. 

I went to the pharmacy and it was crowded so the pharmacist said "ring in 20 minutes and I can give you a price".  I did and she was apologetic when she said there was no way they could fill the script because there was no name or date and it's a felony to interfere.  Also, had the script been written correctly, it would require pre-authorization which could take up to a week.

So, someone,  Please!  SLAP!!  America hard right in the face and kick me across the ocean. There I may again take up residence in a civilized country where the ill are taken care of, well.  

Yes, yes no country has perfect health care.  "Ah sure, me little auld auntie had to wait for months to have her bunion cut.  God love her."  I have heard the stories.  Truth is the dear auld auntie would never pass the financial triage in this country.  

I lived in Europe for many years, no financial triage and had excellent, timely care.  Never had to write letters or exhaust myself asking "Is anyone here?I am unwell, I am in pain."  I would go back tomorrow but for one major shortcoming, the love and support of family are here in the useless USA.