My Brain and Emotions?
Carol McLeod
That’s a loaded subject for me. My brain and my
emotions seem to be duking it out lately. Just when I think I’ve achieved
some kind of equilibrium (brain), I get hit upside the head with a fast
ball called a ‘panic attack’ (emotion).
Nowadays I can tell when I’m susceptible to running
amuck. I’m ready to run away and join the circus, live in a cave or
disappear under the bed. I start imaging things. I see
the world as distorted and hostile . I constantly look over my shoulder. I think
I am un-likeable. My dispassionate self tries to catch the attention of
my emotional self and throw it back into the closet before I can make an ass
of myself.
These out-of-control emotional episodes started years ago,
before my diagnoses of Parkinson’s disease. At the time I thought I
was showing signs of Alzheimer’s. I
was suspicious and full of angst. One day, realizing how unlikely
the scenarios playing in my head were, I began to notice the presence of ‘anti-matter Carol’
When I was diagnosed there was no literature about
panic attacks in the neurologist’s office. I had heard nothing about them.
They can scare you to death when you get them without warning.
What a relief when I learned that there was a name for what was happening to me. That meant I was
still a good person after all.
Then came the blessed day I started taking an
anti-depressant. After being on them for a few months my husband and
I were in the kitchen talking about something and I laughed. He looked at
me with surprise on his face. “What?” I asked him. He said “You just
laughed out loud, you haven’t done that in years!” That was food for
thought.
I realized that my world had changed. What had long
since faded to gray over the years was now in living, blooming color
again. I’m not always cheerful however. I still have “Wuthering Heights”
days. I have days that seem to be medicated into a fog .
Sometimes I feel like I’m from “Stepford”. I know
people who have those pill cases that chime “it’s time to take your pill”. Those reminder pill boxes are a great invention, but
they remind me of ‘The Stepford Wives’.
I feel like I’m now
medicated into normality (as normal as it gets for me), but I can be
a loose cannon when my meds get out of sync. I still prefer the medicated
Carol.
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The
Vase
carol mcleod
“It’s Mirano” my mother insisted, pointing to a new vase sitting on a low
table across the living room. The vase was a tall, cylindrical ceramic one
filled with bright orange alstroemeria flowers. “ Your Dad and I bought
two vases the other day and that one is Italian Mirano”. I looked at her
and said “you mean Murano? It would be glass if it were a Murano vase.
This looks like ceramic”.
She insisted it was indeed an Italian ‘Mirano’ vase. My Father,
overhearing this conversation, brought the other vase they had bought from
the kitchen to show me. This one was a brightly swirled pattern of glass,
which I recognized as ‘Murano’. Dad agreed with this identification saying
the other one (the one in question) was English and Mom was mistaken.
My Father is fond of gently pulling your tail when it’s within reach, and
he wasn’t going to let this opportunity slide by. He’s a natural pundit,
punster, and a bit of a prankster. Dad occasionally proclaims that when he
travels without Mom he’s Ruthless (that’s Moms name), I know this routine
but I still laugh.
When Dad, Carl (my husband) and
I go out on hunting expeditions to the local shops I would often notice a
shift in their conversation. Knowing I was listening, Dad would start
sprinkling politically incorrect male chauvinist rhetoric into their
conversation. I knew this for the bait it was, and let him go on for a
while, then I’d say “I’m not biting”. I would hear Dad chuckle. Once Carl
informed Dad that I had my goat hoisted up particularly high that day so
he wouldn’t be able to get it.
Back to my story ….
Dad insisted the vase we were talking about wasn’t Murano, Mom argued that
it was “Mirano”. He picked up the vase of flowers to look at the brand on
the bottom. I could see the flowers , I could see the ceiling fan, I could
see what was about to hit the fan.
Dad raised vase and as the
ceiling fan began clipping the flower heads and strewing them across the
living room floor he announced that this vase was English and made by a
company called _____ . I started laughing and he lowered the vase
somewhat. Mom questioned this information so Dad once again raised the
vase up into the fan blades and WHAP WHAP …. More bright orange petals hit
the floor as he looked at the brand name scratched on the bottom again to
be sure.
He was sure now, and he picked up the petals, shoved them into the
vase, and set it back on the table. Fluffing the remaining flowers to
cover the bare spots he said “ I get these flowers at Sam’s Warehouse.
They last a long time, at least a week”. Carl looked at him and said, “
they would last even longer if you’d turn the fan off”.
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It’s another lonely night at 2 AM or, I’m not
going gently
Carol McLeod
I used to feel connected to the world
through this bright box I'm staring into. I could find people to
talk to anytime but now I stay up trying to wring out the last drops of
the day and it feels lonely. I resist falling off my perch into sleep.
Instead of going to bed I sit here traveling through digital lands of and
light and thought.
The need to stay conscious as long
as possible has become a compulsion. Being awake and alone here at my
computer most of the night has become my natural environment. I used to
dread these small hours when I fought against insomnia but now they’re
precious.
At my desk I lose myself for hours at
a time in different pursuits. My attention span, which has been sifting
away year by year, is for a while focused, and I don’t notice the passing
of time.
There are mornings when I look up to
see my husband, Carl, standing in the doorway saying good morning as he’s
leaving for work.
There are some nights when I feel the need to connect
with someone. It's lonely in the wee hours of the night, like driving down
a dark street in the rain and looking into the windows of houses along the
way. I see lights on and people moving inside and I don’t know who they
are.
Lost dreamtime spills into my waking life, and dreams that
are denied tend to hang around. If I’m not asleep long enough to let
them play through they jump out at any time and demand my attention in
disconcerting ways. My unconscious mind plays tricks on me, it will have
its dreaming whether I'm asleep or not. I struggle with myself, not
wanting to give in and go to bed, not wanting to give up consciousness. I
wonder if it's an instinctive desire to live every minute while I'm still
able to function on my own.
I read some books by Dylan Thomas many years ago, and one
of his poems
sticks in my mind. “ Do not go gentle into that good night”.
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Rambling for VIRTUALITY
Carol McLeod
I've been asked to write a 'word from the editor'
page this month and I'm at a loss as to what to talk about. There's more
eloquent writing in these pages than you'll find here. I'm not
comfortable talking about advocacy because I don't offer the experience
or knowledge you'll find when you turn this page and read on.
My co-editor, Peg, suggested I write about my recent
unexpected trip to the hospital and subsequent eight day sojourn there.
I'm not sure anyone wants to hear about it, but here's the mid-length
version. I thought I was going to explode one Wednesday evening, and my
concerned husband drove the truck across the front lawn to the door,
bundled me onto the front seat and drove me to the hospital. They
admitted me and .... well I'll spare you the details. I am shy a few
parts, but apparently I didn't need them anyway so all is well.
I don't remember much because it was Demerol the
first few days and morphine the rest of the time. Here's a tip; don't
talk to people when you have a morphine drip in your IV, (especially the
aides). I do remember my daughter singing to me in the middle of the
night (she snuck in the emergency entrance) and Carl being there almost
the whole time. I don't know what I would have done without them.
IV's, drain shunts and Parkinson's disease do limit your ability to
reach your arse when you need to. I knew I was getting better when one
day I overheard Carl telling someone on the phone that "she seems to be
better, she's complaining less liberally". And so I am.
I have other subjects I could ramble on about, and I
think I will. For instance; it's a glorious Spring out there and I love
flowers, but I can't take care of my garden like I used to. I'm more
likely these days to sit and watch my neighbor getting out his
guerilla-gardening gear and proclaim war on weeds.
I like to sit in the grass out back, under a tree for
shade, the cats guarding me from whatever cats worry about. They usually
end up next to me with their heads lying across my empty shoes. We like
to watch the birds.
There are more birds this Spring, or my hearing has
gotten better. I think about how many birds there will be in a few
years, as I watch them pick insects and worms from the ground which have
been basking in toxic sprays. I wonder why it hasn't occurred to people
in the neighborhood that they may be contributing to the extinction of
these beautiful creatures. I see many birdhouses, almost every house on
my street has at least one, yet toxic-death-to-unwanted-vegetation
trucks are out plying their trade and it looks like business is good.
I think that's about it. I guess I had something to say
after all.
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Christmas Remembered
Carol McLeod
When I was a kid I used to sneak out into the living room at night,
turn on the Christmas tree lights and lie on the floor under the branches
watching the patterns the twinkling lights made. The world seemed full of
magic and possibilities. Christmas was evidence of that magic and the
world seemed changed for some few days.
Whether or not it would snow on Christmas eve was always a topic of
conversation, my sister, brothers and I hoping it would snow heavily and
long, and my parents dreading being stuck in the house with the four of us
. We could think of delightful ways to pass the time as we were well
equipped with rubber bands, paper for spit-wads, hiding places, a chess
set and wild imaginations.
Snow was good for so many things. The first thing to be done was to
collect the newly fallen snow for the making of 'snow-cream'. It had to be
new snow, collected in pans set out by the kitchen door so it wouldn't be
too contaminated by radioactive residue (this was the early sixties, when
the cold war was in it's prime, and I did say we had wild imaginations).
When full, the pans of snow were brought into the kitchen and sprinkled
with sugar, vanilla and cream. Remembrances of things past ... vanilla.
Snow was also useful for snowballs, snow forts and tunnels, sledding,
keeping one home from school, and just going outside to see how different
the world was when blanketed in white.
A couple of years ago I put strings of colored lights on the two young
blue spruce trees by the front door. I put a few random blinkers in with a
set of steady burners ... just a few to make them twinkle. It was
Christmas eve and it had been snowing since afternoon. It was one of those
dampish snows that form a heavy mantle on tree branches, rooftops and just
about anything that wasn't moving fast enough to shake it off.
I opened the front door and out in the dark the colored lights on the
spruce trees were half buried under shelves of snow and twinkling through
the snowy crystals. I was transfixed at the sight. I stood out on the
porch looking at the lights covered with snow ........ and remembered .
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Dusk, one stormy evening
Carol McLeod
It was raining hard as we ate our dinner on the screened porch. As the
storm grew closer and the light faded I lit the little candles on the
table. Lightning lit the woods behind our house. I kept peering through
the screen door at the tops of the trees swaying in the wind. Something
large caught my eye at the top of one tree. It had been in one spot so
long I thought it had to be a squirrels nest.
After the dishes were carried to the kitchen I looked up at the tree and
saw that the ‘nest’ had moved a bit. A tail had been added to the
silhouette. This was really making me curious. I remembered seeing a Great
Blue Heron back there a few years ago that hung around for a week or two.
Thinking it must be another migrating heron stopping for the night, I
asked Carl if he saw it. He looked around, not seeing it at first, then it
moved and caught his eye. “oh you mean that turkey up there?” he asked.
I didn’t know turkeys could fly that high. This was definitely up there.
The thought of turkeys flying around over our heads entertained me for
quite awhile. It must be a harbinger of Winter and Thanksgiving. No that’s
too cruel a thought, imagining a turkey flying around the neighborhood
crying out “The time for Thanksgiving is near … eat me! “.
Well, here it is, the end of October. How did this month slip through
my fingers along with those other months , weeks and days. This is my
favorite time of the year, and for the first time I spent most of it
indoors looking at the world through glass instead of feeling the seasons
change with barefooted enthusiasm like I usually do. Halloween is one week
away as I write this and only three pumpkins have been put outside …. I
hope this isn’t a sign that I’m growing up .... Nahhhh
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From an early issue of VIRTUALITY
Carol McLeod
By now the new PLWP website has been made public, and is well and
happily used . I felt like I had my head stuck in my computer for the past
two months while working on it. There will probably be some bugs in the
website's cupboards and corners. I'm hoping that folks just swat 'em and
the rest take heed and go away .
However, I did get out of the house a bit this summer. I offer proof below
of a trip through the Kentucky countryside on a potato buying excursion.
The produce they sell at the farm stands at the end of summer is not only
a delight to eat, it's also great fun driving to the riverside farm-stands
to buy it.
We've grown our own vegetable garden every year but this one. This year
there are a few scraggly plants down in the back yard begging for
attention. The raccoons and deer ate more produce than we did in past
years. I do kind of feel like I let them down this year. I think it's
getting to be too much to handle, the weeding and daily care of a garden.
I did plant it though, really I did.
I get offers of help, but somehow there's just no one around when it needs
weeding. I could deploy my Dad's method of weeding the garden, but I don't
think I could get away with setting a brush fire. It's a tempting thought
sometimes. Guys garden differently I guess. My niece once called my
husband "Conan, the Agrarian" as he rode by on the tractor-mower.
I'm going to stick my head back in my computer now. It is still August as
I write this, and I have one week to finish the new website and a week and
a half to finish Virtuality. Bye .
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The Fourth
In my neighborhood the folks go kind of nutty on the fourth of
July. I remember our first Fourth of July here eight years ago. Our dog
and two cats hid under the beds in terror from the madness outside. Our
otherwise calm neighbors were running amuck, or so it seemed.
The pyrotechnics start almost two weeks early, each night a little louder
than the previous. I remember thinking the neighbors were about to set the
woods on fire shooting off four inch morters. The screams, whistles,
bangs, pops, shrieks and sparks were like an old war movie as the whole
neighborhood filled with a thick fog of gunsmoke. I stood by with the
garden hose ready to protect our roof. I was a worrier back then.
Eight years have passed since we moved to Kentucky and for me, that's a
long time in one place. I've changed in that time. I was diagnosed four
years ago with Parkinson's and that started me on a new path. Since then
my meds have been adjusted and fine tuned. My Parkinson's induced
depression is now treated and the world is a brighter place for me. I
don't get so worried by the neighborhood fireworks, or by the little
things in life that used to send me into a negative tailspin.
It's been an interesting four years since being diagnosed. I went through
the usual cycle of denial, anger, grief and acceptance. Learning who I am
all over again without Parkinson's at the controls has been enlightening
because now I know what causes those over reactions and I can deal with
them. I've found a strength in myself that I didn't know was there.
Getting the right meds has given me back my sense of being my 'real self'.
This fourth of July I plan to make a big pitcher of ice tea, throw
something on the grill, make sure our cats are tucked in under the bed and
wait for dark. Bring on the fireworks!
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Creativity by Carol McLeod
I live here in fantasy land. My imagination and creative impulse
is so much a part of me I wonder it isn’t visible. I feel like it
is. It feels like there’s some extra appendage growing out of my
head..
When I was growing up my life was half lived in this world and
half in the one I made up. I usually played by myself in reality
but I wasn’t alone in my world. I could live under the sea, I
could become any animal. A patch of trees was a ‘fairy woods’, the
creek was a mystical river. I’ve never really grown up, and I
think my creativity springs from the ‘inner-child’ part of me.
As I was looking through my files, hoping to find a poem or two I
hadn’t printed anywhere that I could use here I was struck by the
oddity of the file names in my collection. They almost made a poem
of their own. They certainly say something . Here;
I could call this “The File Poem”
A few years ago I started losing my mind
Basking in the cathode rays
Bill Withers Lean On Me Lyrics
Bird Song
Chicken Cordon Bleu
Clean up
Crawl
crawl_post
drive_in
Drug companies are obviously not altruistic
Dystopia
fishing_rodeo
Frogtown Films Collection
House Projects lite
I miss your hand holding mine
Im in my prime
It is the time between darkness and light
letter to ash
Need to
Sleepover
Soon you will wake up
SQUARE EGGS AND EXPLODING HAMPSTERS
Stuff List
The dead Maple tree in the back yard needs to be removed
The rest of my life hung on a moment
The rock hurtled through space for millions of years
To Chicago
Trials
Under the Boardwalk
Wall outlet covers downstairs were not painted or put back on the
wall
Welcome Home – Status
Yard plan
yoo hoo
The rock hurtled through space for
millions of years
A remnant of a violent meeting of
matter far away
Born of fire and colliding
inevitability it began
And traveled to this end
Millions of years it journeyed through
this galaxy
Passing miracles on the way to this one
night
And as it broke through the heavy air
to die
I looked up
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