Life | velvetverbosity.com

Lyme or Cause Unknown

Nick — Fri, 22 May 2009 09:38:33 +0000

It was the first week of April and I was busy. Busy with a flooded basement, a job, two teenagers, and the what-nots of life. On this particular evening, I was going up and down the basement stairs dumping buckets of water I had sucked up with the shop-vac. I noticed I had an unusual pain in my right thigh, the kind of pain that made me think, “that’s weird, did I pull a muscle or something”, but not the kind of pain that stopped me from what I was doing. That night I had a fitful sleep interrupted by the itching and pain in my right thigh, but I was too exhausted and never conscious enough to sit up and investigate. I wouldn’t find the tick until the next morning when I was getting dressed and my hand brushed against the little parasite attached to the back of my thigh as I distractedly scratched at the itchy area.

Let me interrupt this story to tell you what torture is. Torture is knowing that something is attached to you that doesn’t belong there and having to put your pants on OVER that parasitic something and DRIVE to the pharmacy with that thing STILL attached underneath your clothing to buy tweezers and tea tree oil and then STAND IN LINE behind all the elderlies who are the only people at the pharmacy at such an early hour. Yes, if you want to make me confess to any crime then just HINT at making me repeat this scenario. No way in hell I would make it through intact a second time round.

I applied the tea tree oil, waited several secons, and then pulled the tick off without too much event. I placed the tick on a tissue and carefully inspected it, not unlike a new mother, counting legs and ensuring all parts were there and in order. Once satisfied, I wrapped it up in the tissue and put the tissue in a Ziploc.

My whole right leg was sore from just below the knee up to my upper thigh. The back of my leg was on fire and punctuated visually by a sizable fiery red circle surrounding where the tick had been. I couldn’t help wonder at how something so tiny could wreak such havoc on an organism thousands of times its size. I also couldn’t help being petrified. It was terrifyingly clear that my body was reacting in a big way to a very small invasion.

I was later sufficiently calmed down by a talk with someone who had experience with Lyme, so I flushed the tick and went on with my day. And the next day, and the day after that I went on with life, by which time the swelling in my leg had diminished. I mostly forgot about the tick bite until a few days later when I came down with a fever out of the blue and with virtually no other symptoms except a weird fatigue that was more like weakness than tiredness. I also had a bit of a sore neck, and a sore throat. I was burning up, and by coincidence had lunch with a friend and his brother. The brother had been diagnosed with Lyme two years prior and spent a long, expensive and exhausting battle fighting his Lyme. He told me I needed to go to the doc stat, and he made no apologies for being harsh with me in his recommendations.

I didn’t have a doctor of my own since I hadn’t needed one in years and I was starting to feel so sick I decided to go to the ER. The doctor I saw didn’t feel a Lyme test would show anything conclusive since it was so early, but the symptoms were sufficient enough that he wanted to put me on antibiotics. He prescribed two weeks of Doxycycline. Over the next few days before the antibiotic kicked in I woud spike sudden fevers that left me extremely weak. Then the antibiotic seemed to start taking effect…

…to be continued…

With love,

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I Used to Believe in Unicorns

Nick — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 09:35:11 +0000

I received this email tonight (along with another 30 or so impersonal emails):

Kindly be informed that Late Engr. Lukas Jonas Würth made you a beneficiary

(bequested USD$20,100,000.00) in his WILL. Reply to this email:

barr.adamuk@______.com for estate execution. Legal partner take note.

Signed: K. A. Adam (Esq.)

I barely glanced at it before deleting it. There was a time when I would have first felt a surge of excitement. The gears in my brain would have been set into motion looking for connections, some way that this inheritance could possibly be true. Back then I still would have dismissed it after a few minutes of analyzing, but I long for that part of me that had the ability to believe it might be possible. That part of me that still believed in fairy tale endings. That part of me that believed in the goodness of the world. That part of me that believed the future was wide open and pliable to my wishes and demands. That part of me that saw adventure around the next corner. That part of me that believed in soul mates and real life heroes. If only I were still that younger, more naive version of myself.

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Playing Catch With Life

Nick — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 09:35:03 +0000

Sometimes life throws you a curve ball, and if you’re not ready you it shoots right past you leaving you empty handed. It stinks, but you can catch the next one with some practice.

Sometimes life throws you a fast ball and the inexperienced has to dodge or be hit while the experienced can catch it but may walk away with a bruise.

Sometimes life becomes a pitching machine gone haywire and no amount experience will avoid hits and misses in rapid succession.

Sometimes life throws the ball when you thought the game was over and turned your back.

The last few weeks have brought a series of escalating revelations, good and bad, and I feel like I’m standing on the catcher’s mound without pads, without a glove, and a dazed sheen in my eyes. I had to call a time out even though the pitcher still wants to throw. I’ve had to walk away and go sit in the dugout while the game plays on. I don’t know when I’ll be ready to play again, or if I even want to play the same game by the same rules. I don’t know if I like the players. All I do know is that time outs are good for adults sometimes too.

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Libraries and Motherhood

Nick — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 09:32:16 +0000

I miss libraries. There are few times in my life that I miss, probably because there have been many hard times, but I loved when my children were young and I stayed home with them. I love the term, “stay at home mom”, as though “mom” needs any sort of qualifier. During those years that I “stayed at home”, I and my two children did little staying home. We did a lot of biking, walking, park visiting, people visiting, exploration of the world, and lots and lots of library visits. We were library junkies. Or rather, I was a library junkie and I dragged my kids along to get my fix.

Even though I was a young mother, and quite adamant before having children that I would NEVER have children, I found motherhood almost entirely blissful. Particularly all those hours when it was just the three of us, wandering around our life in a seemingly close to perfect symbiosis. Each day stretched out before us with infinite potential. I don’t judge it, but I’ve never understood parents who put their children in front of the television and walk away for hours at a time. I suppose it’s so they can keep the house clean. But for what? In the end, what real purpose will that have served? You bet our dishes were going to wait when there were probably caterpillars turning into butterflies right outside our door and right that very second. Life was all around us, and I didn’t want to miss a second of living through the eyes of my children as they discovered it. I was so in love with them.

So tonight, when I walked into a public library for the first time in three years, I was washed over with that melancholy nostalgia we feel when life hasn’t gone as we thought it would and we are suddenly reminded of a time that was full of blind hope. Back then, I was so sure that by sharing the world with my children that it was all going to turn out well for them, if not downright perfect. I would feel confident and satisfied as I tucked them each under one arm and read story after story out loud, complete with animated character voices. Everything, back then, was going to be alright. All those days at the library, curled in corners and chairs and beanbags and nooks reading was all the evidence I needed that life was kind and good.

As I walked through the children’s section of the library looking for my, now teenaged, son who was supposed to be there somewhere for community service to make amends for some trouble he got tangled up in, I couldn’t escape those waves of bittersweet sadness and longing. How did everything go wrong? How could it have? Why wasn’t I strong enough for my children, to keep them forever safe, forever in my lap with a book, forever ok?

When I found him finally, I wanted to be happy and carefree and beam that mother-love smile onto his face, but instead my face crumpled into haggard worry and I berated him for being late, for taking chances he shouldn’t, for making me worry, and for not being responsible. Who is this other mother that keeps eclipsing the mother I was and still want to be? How could I know then to let the dishes go, but now I lecture and nag and obsess and worry? How could I know then to not interfere with the unfolding of these two little sentient beings, but now I’ve let the hammer of cultural pressure knock me into senselessness as I hear that other mother tell them what they’ve got to be? How could I have so much grace, patience, strength and compassion back then, and now be reduced to tears, or yelling, or pleading, at the drop of a hat or a forgotten chore?

I’m going back to the library tomorrow, and every day after that until I find her again. The mother I was and still want to be. I know she’s there somewhere.

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The Truth of Matters

Nick — Wed, 19 Mar 2008 09:31:14 +0000

So Woman Remodeled and I were talking on the phone last night and I was on one of my usual spiels about something frightening, maddening, and even depressing. In this case, it was our tanking economy. She was firm in her optimism, and I firm in my resolve to get her to understand the situation we’re facing. Not that WR is one to keep her head in the sand about important issues (just read her blog and you will see she is a woman of depth and carries concern for the world), just that this was an issue that she couldn’t do anything about. Finally she asked, “Why do you read about this depressing stuff?” I don’t remember what I said, something off the cuff and vaguely humorous. Then she emailed me today with an article on the Federal Reserve stepping in that she had been reading, and I thought, “Oh, this is not good. What have I done to the cheery sprite?”

So I started thinking about why I DO read the things I read. Why does it seem I’m always looking for the problems? The answer to that is more complex than I can tease out, but I do know some of the core reasons. It is not that I am looking for problems. One reason is my untiring quest to see life as it really is, without the sugar coating. I do this with people too. A friend told me recently that I have a way of walking in a room and looking like I’m seeing right into people. Another person told me essentially the same thing, and then added, “not everyone wants to be seen that clearly”. It’s not that I’m looking for the bad or the negative, it’s just that I can’t really know anyone, truly, without seeing all of them, and it’s only the bad bits that anyone or any institution doesn’t readily reveal. I’m just always looking for the authentic person.

I carry this into my interpretation of the world too. I want to know the truth about what is going on. I’ve been this way since I was a child. It just seems to be part of my nature. The thing is, it doesn’t really depress me the way it depresses others. It just motivates me to do something, or say something, or write something so that others can be willing to see through to the truth of things, and make decisions for themselves about what they’re going to do about it. I realize that sometimes this makes me seem too serious for my own good. Sometimes people just don’t want to hear about it, much less talk about it. But I can’t change who I am. I’m passionate about all things generally. Whatever I become passionate about in any given moment, is usually either a truth I’ve myself recently discovered, something I’ve come up against in my own pursuit of personal freedom, or what people most don’t want to hear.

Yesterday, I was driving home from work and there were two police cruisers in front of a house. The officers were walking from the house with a man between them, cuffed, and obviously being arrested. Some people would see this and feel a sense of relief. Ah, score another one for the good guys, right? Another criminal sniffed out and taken care of. I can’t see it that way, I just can’t. I see this event, and I see the whole picture. It makes me a little sad. I know all too well, for example, from my studies in Neuroscience, that it is highly likely that this “criminal” they are arresting suffers from a frontal lobe disorder. I also know from my studies of Neuroscience and genetics that it is highly likely that a frontal lobe disorder can be attributable to a chaotic and “dangerous” environment during the early years of development. I know that we, as a society, actually breed criminals by our failure to address poverty and violence, and that our punitive institutions as well as our social services (arguable part of the punitive system) do little to help, and much more to harm. I know that it is likely this man will be released in a short amount of time, that our tax dollars will go into housing him, but not into reforming him, or getting him treatment that might help. I know that we cannot allow him to be free because we didn’t take the steps for preventing it in the first place, nor will we take the steps now to reform him. I know that the police arresting him may very well have their own dirty secrets but they are protected because they are on “the right side of the law”. I know they’ve been trained to think in terms of black and white, and I don’t just mean race, but it is probably not a coincidence that both arresting officers were white and the arrestee was black.

I find it a dangerous state of affairs when people don’t want to face truths, in themselves especially. It’s not that I fancy myself as some crusader of truth, or that I think I’ve got myself and everything else nailed down, it’s actually more innocent than that. I’m trying to make sense of things, and then vocalizing it to further help me make more sense. People don’t want to talk about things they can’t do anything about. While I know that I can’t fix all these problems with a magic wand, it still inspires me and gives fuel to creative forces within me. I’m a “big picture” person, and I can’t talk about the environment without talking about sociology, and I can’t talk about sociology without talking about evolutionary psychology, and I can’t…well, you get the picture.

So, if I sometimes seem the bearer of bad news, look a little deeper and you will see that I am struggling to make sense of it all, so that when the time comes in each little moment everyday, that I will make the best choices. The choices that will cause the least harm and do the most good. I’m far from getting it all right, but I aspire to at at least try.

Oh, and I also temper all of my media input with less violence on television and my daily dose of Gimundo, all good news all the time.

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Almost Tuesday

Nick — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 09:31:08 +0000

Sitting in a cafe, pondering stuff, feeling the pulse of the place and realized it’s almost Tuesday and I haven’t written here in a few days. There’s not much cohesive to write about but I could share a random sampling of tidbits. Actually, there are a few posts brewing underground, but I’m not ready to write them yet.

Over the weekend, I watched Lord of the Rings on a big-screen TV at my friends house, drank toasted almonds, and generally had good times. Since I myself don’t really watch TV, I rely on a few friends to make me watch what they find interesting. It is at other people’s houses I’ve discovered shows like House, or Scrubs. Just when I start to get addicted, I return home and it’s all over. Whew. Don’t ask me why. I’m not adamantly anti-television or anything, it has just never struck me as something I want to spend time doing. It’s happened more by accident that I’m without a television habit, but I must say I’m glad it’s worked out that way.

I also went to see a friend’s band, The Lowercase g’s. I wish I had a website or a myspace profile to send you to, but alas, couldn’t find one. They were awesome, even though it was a bit surreal to see these late 30-somethings rocking out Ludacris, and then Madonna in one set. Don’t ask me how they do it, but they were working the magic! Some dancing, some free food (courtesy of a friendly bartender), and lots of fun was had by all.

That does remind me though, a few weekends ago I had the pleasure of seeing the Alchemystics for the second time, and that band rocks in a way I can’t even define. Being in the same room with their live music equals exponential amounts of good times. If they play near you, I INSIST you go see them. Understand? You will not be disappointed. They are also in competition for a record contract and need lots of support. I think you can find info on their Myspace page.

And THAT reminds me. What is it with grown people having the tackiest Myspace pages? What’s worse, is that these designs often render the text on the page unreadable. Why would you do that to your “friends”? Really. Why? People, clean up your Myspace pages before I have to give you a good talking to. None of us want that.

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How to Flunk "Being a Grown Up 101"

Nick — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 09:24:10 +0000

1. Forget to pay the utility bill and then act surprised when the computer won’t turn on in the morning. (For a double flunk, find a way to blame it on the children!)

2. Sleep through your alarm and get to work an hour and a half late. (For a double flunk, show up with Dunkin Donut crumbs on your chin and sleepy seeds still in the corners of your eyes.)

3. Check your myspace. (Double F points for doing this while eating a banana freeze-pop and neglecting dishes in the sink.)

4. Think mean things about the other moms at your daughter’s lacrosse practice. (Double flunk by actually telling Mrs. “I’m so upper-middle class and proud of it” that you like her shirt and that your mother has one just like it that you bought her for Christmas.)

5. When your teenager bites your head off because she’s “hot and grumpy” and then stomps off to her room, make a face at her retreating back. (Oh, the possibilities for double-flunking this one are endless!)

6. Chew Juicy Fruit with your juicy boyfriend at the office. (Double F for chewing two or more pieces at a time. Loudly.)

To answer the question, “How can you double flunk anything?”, this is my blog and I make the rules ’round here (as well as the lies). Understood?

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12:30 AM – The Coffee

Nick — Fri, 28 Apr 2006 09:14:20 +0000

12:30 and I’m fading but I’ve still got pages to write. I need coffee but since I only drink it on a blue moon I’ve got none to brew.

I get in the car hoping something is open. I am still every inch a Northeast Kingdom (where they roll up the dirt roads at 6pm) girl so I assume the world stops at sundown.

The coffee shop windows are lit up. Good. I will have coffee tonight. Inside there is actually a LINE! Other Smithies getting their caffeine on.

A compact Indian man sits, impeccably dressed for the hour, at a corner table reading. His girlfriend contrasts him with her hippy stylings but I know they are together by the way their necks arc to bring their heads together across the small square of table.

I wait almost 15 minutes for my coffee. 15 minutes is far too long when sleep deprived and not having had a decent meal in days. I start to crave all the tastes on the menu. I want it all…sweet, tart, bitter, hot and filling, fluffy indulgence.

I can’t help myself. My turn and I order my coffee AND a smoothie. Mango…yum.

*Note on picture – I googled coffee images and this one came up on the first page. I recognized it right away as Michael Wood’s, a contemplative photographer I studied with in Montreal. However, when I clicked the link, it was contained in an index on someone’s MIT page. No credit as far as I can tell, but I am almost 100% sure this is Michael Wood’s. I’ll look it up tomorrow when I have more time.

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How Velvet Verbosity Came to Play the Trombone

Nick — Fri, 24 Mar 2006 09:13:52 +0000

Our elementary school was starting a band program. Everyone on the bus was all abuzz after the day’s assembly where the instruments were paraded out and played before our wondering eyes and ears.

“I’m going to play the flute,” says one girl, bouncing in her seat.

“Me too!” parrot several girls.

“Well, I’m going to play the clarinet,” declares Dotty (Snotty Dotty as I call her in my head).

She turns to me, “What are you going to play?”

Thoughts of a shiny silver flute held delicately against my lips flit across my inner vision. I feel Snotty Dotty’s eyes boring into me.

I shrug. “Probly the trombone,” I say casually.

Snotty Dotty bristles, “What? You can’t play that! The trombone is for booyysssss.”

I shrug again.

*****

And that, dear readers, is how I came to play the trombone for six years. The first year I had to use my foot to reach all the positions…yeah, I was that tiny.

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100 Words On Holiday Nostalgia – Across the Lake

Nick — Tue, 31 Dec 2002 09:27:04 +0000

Across the deep, dark, Vermont lake that is fabled to be home to loch ness’s brother, lights twinkle, nestled in the mountain. They are the lights of a home, winking to us in our little log cabin across the way as we fall asleep. There are eight of us, three sisters and five cousins, in the two big canopied beds. We giggle, our breaths mingle as we sigh, and our eyes twinkle in the darkness, winking back across the lake in Christmas tidings before we fall into slumber and dream of the fat stockings that will greet us come morning.

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