Second Position

I’ve been standing wrong for decades.

One of the first things you learn in ballet (and lots of other dance styles, too) is how to stand. First position, heels together, toes pointed outward. Second position, heels shoulder width apart, toes pointed outward. Third position, one foot in front of the other, toes pointed outward, heel of front foot touching the instep of the back foot. Fourth position, toes pointed outward. Fifth position, toes pointed outward. Despite everything every dance instructor has ever told me, this is apparently not how you are supposed to stand.

When my physical therapist corrects the way my toes are pointed, making me stand with my feet parallel and my toes firmly forward, I feel pigeon toed. It’s weird, it’s wrong, it’s not natural. My knees aren’t meant to turn that far in. My hips aren’t meant to hold that shape. I can feel my muscles fighting to turn my feet until my toes point outwards and somehow my pain therapist (so many therapists) wants me to just sit with that discomfort and allow myself to just… be.

It’s apparently pretty common for dancers to have this problem. And with it come a whole host of attendant issues. Hip pain, knee pain, foot pain. All of that just from standing wrong. Nevermind the various injuries that every dancer will cheerfully rattle off. The twisted ankle from a bad leap. Hip and back injuries from being dropped by an unprepared partner. A wrenched knee from a poorly executed turn. And those are just the injuries that I remember. Dance can be just as hard on the body as any other sport. And anyone who doesn’t think it’s a sport has never been to a dance competition.

It’s hard to undo decades of training in just a few months of therapy. Even now, as I type this, with my mindful yoga practices firmly at the fore, I still find my toes slowly drifting out. My hips relax, my knees let go, and my heels roll. And soon I find myself back where I started. Back to what feels natural. Back to where I have always been. Back in second position.

There’s No Wandering In My Wanderings Anymore

One of the things I miss about traveling is the ability to get up from my gate and just wander through the airport shops. I mean, I could totally spend a few spoons wobbling away from my gate just to gawp at the overpriced wares that I’m not likely to buy anyways. But I can never tell if I might need that energy at the end of my journey, and that’s something I have to weigh carefully. And then there’s the possibility that some helpful airport attendant will scoop up my transfer chair and take it away to use for someone else. In the press of boarding, the transfer chair is a giant red pole screaming “Hey, this person needs help getting on the plane!”

At least if the transfer chair is an actual wheelchair, I have a bit more freedom. A transfer chair is designed for an employee to move me. A wheelchair is designed for me to move myself. And while I’m not likely to roam through any stores while in a wheelchair, I could at least check out a restaurant. Get myself a cup of coffee. Go to the bathroom without a stranger standing outside waiting for me.

It’s just one more piece of my lost independence. One more thing I used to do not that long ago that I can’t do anymore. As I sit at a gate, waiting for someone else to push me forward on my journey, I mourn that.

Plus, these transfer chairs are always so fucking uncomfortable.

Mindful Journey: Week 1. Ish

My pain therapist gives me homework. And boy do I have a mental block about that. I’m supposed to be keeping track of the yoga practices he’s prescribed, but it is so hard just to find the time to actually *do* the practices. The kids have been home from school for the past two weeks, I’ve been preparing for Yule, and then having Yule and then cleaning up from Yule, and then swapping out the kids’ clothes, and laundry, and dinner, and cleaning, and physical therapy, and dealing with medication issues, and, and, and at some point I just wanted to STOP. I wanted to sit down at my computer, play my little home building game, listen to my audiobooks and just shut down my brain for a whole day.

I recognize that those are all just excuses. And I also recognize that shutting down my brain for a while is self care. And that one good way to do that is to… use the mindful yoga practices that I’ve been prescribed.

It’s hard to be this honest with myself. It would be easy to say that my occasional stretches are enough, but if I’m really honest? I mostly do those when I want to play a game on my phone for a bit. By doing some stretches while I play, I’m giving myself permission to not be doing any of the other hundred things I “should” be doing. The guilt still stands there with me, though. A nagging little voice that runs down the list, telling me that I’m wasting time, wasting precious seconds and minutes that could be used to do something else. And that’s the worst voice, I think. The one that’s hardest to quiet, the hardest to ignore.

On the plus side, my new medication does seem to be helping. I still feel some of the destructive urges that motivated me to start on Prozac in the first place. They’re quieter, though. I’m hopeful that my medication issues will be worked out by the end of the week and I’ll be able to get on to the next step up of my dose. The step where I should hopefully plateau for a bit, and be stable. At least for a little while. After that? More medication changes. Ever more medication changes. It’s a bit like doing the laundry. There’s always something more to do.

A New Day, A New Doctor

It’s always weird getting to know a new doctor. There is so much wrong with me, so many different diagnoses, so many weird issues, that talking with a new doctor can feel like a lot. I have pain, I have depression, I have migraines, I have nightmares, I have eczema, I have asthma, I have, I have, I have… Getting a whole history in within the 50 minute time frame feels like trying to help someone cram for an exam that they have to take OMGRightNow.

Today was my first appointment with my pain therapists. One is a doctor and one is a doctoral student, so it’s almost like having a team of therapists. I’ve seen a lot of therapists over the years, usually for one issue at a time, piecemeal, as needed. I’ve had therapists I loved and therapists I disliked and therapists that I disliked but I still worked with because the appointments were helping. So far, I feel optimistic about these two. There’s still a few things that I forgot to discuss with them, but hey, that’s what future appointments are for. My calendar is filling up with new appointments, new therapies, new specialists, new treatments to try out. And though I am in pain right now, I feel a small space has opened up for hope. And it’s been awhile. It’s nice.

A Little Unsteady

  It’s not that I don’t know when I’ve over extended myself. It’s just that I would rather pretend everything is perfectly normal right up until everything isn’t. Moose knows my limits. He knows the signs that I have pushed myself too hard and he presses me to admit that if I don’t stop, rest, slow down, let people help me, that I will start showing those signs.

  I hate that I stutter. Years spent learning to speak smoothly, to speak past the trips of the tongue, to wrap myself in the strength and confidence of the character of myself who is Good At Public Speaking. I hate that I lose all of that when my sickness begins to pull at the threads of my disguise and unravel the person I have worked so hard to pretend to be. I hate how my sickness drags me down, further and further, until the words pool in my mouth and weigh down my tongue and I have to push forward against their drowning tide to drag forth that one word which will communicate the thing that matters most to say in that exact moment. I hate the sound I make when the roof of my mouth catches my tongue and won’t let go. I hate the weakness that sound shows.

  I hate that I stumble. I want to walk, I want to run, I want to fly free of this crumbling castle with its prisoner in the high tower that sings “Hold, hold on, hold onto me/ ‘Cause I’m a little unsteady/ A little unsteady.” I joke about my cane and my walker and how broken I am to need these things in my life. I hate them, I hate that I need them, and I hate how I am without them. Hand up, a little out stretched, ready to catch and spring back from the wall that comes rushing up to me. I hate how I look when I’m well, a woman too strong to be parading about with the tools of the disabled, mocking those who really need them. I hate how I look when I’m weak, a woman too young to be needing these tools of the disabled, too pitiable with her two small children and her brightly colored cane. I hate the sway I can feel when things are coming undone. I hate the weakness that sway shows.

  I hate who I am right now. I hate this body, falling apart around me, finding new ways to break and be broken.  I hate who I am when I’m sick. And I hate to admit that, really, I am always sick. I hate when the world reminds me that I am sick and I hate having to remind myself. I grieve for who I used to be. For the woman who could get up and dance with her children. For the young woman who could dance until 2 am. For the little girl who dreamed of dancing like her sisters. And I hate that I have to grieve for them, those long lost echoes of myself.

  I don’t hate myself. I just hate all of these things about myself that my melancholy mind wants to weep over and cry out “This is not me.”

A Cajun in Cascadia: Strands of Amethyst

  About 9 months before the start of the pandemic, I did something that I’ve been wanting to do for a while. I went and got my hair professionally dyed. I’d had a friend dye my hair blue before and I’d dyed my own hair a variety of theoretically natural colors for years. For this time, I chose to go with the colors of my children’s birthstone. Purple for Acorn and blue for P’Khan. I figured I’d get a fun mermaid sort of look for our big summer trip and then I’d go back to something more natural.

  Except a weird thing happened.

  Purple felt more real on me. When I looked at myself in the mirror, suddenly there I was. Not the stranger who always looked back out at me from windows and mirrors. Not the woman carrying forward the face of her matrilineal ancestors. Not my mother. But me. For the first time, really and truly me.

  I used a variety of shampoos and leave-in conditioners to keep the color vivid for almost six months. I loved how purple hair made me feel. Moose hated that the grout in our shower was turning purple. I tried to blend my roots with the purple for as long as possible. Moose tried to ignore the purple hair everywhere. Eventually, I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to go back and get my roots touched up.

  Then the pandemic hit.

  As with so many things, my plans for patching my purple hair were postponed, pendulously preserved by the purgatory of the pandemic. Moose learned to cut my hair and my strands of amethyst finally disappeared. We dyed the kids hair, because why the heck not, but their golden locks took color much easier than my dark brown (even with all the silver). I bid my purple hair goodbye and moved forward, onward, and in time, out of Texas.

  In Texas, my purple hair stood out. Small children looked up at me like I was magical. Old ladies looked at me disapprovingly. Men frowned at me like I was out of my mind. In Oregon, the culture was so different. Men, women, and even children walked around with brightly colored hair as if it grew that way out of their heads. Elementary school children had their hair dyed wild colors while school was in session and it was completely okay. And so, in time, I decided to go purple again.

  The first attempt was more garnet than amethyst. But when I looked in the mirror, my mother no longer looked back at me. And eventually, I went back for the full bleach and bright purple. My stylist did the entire process sans gloves and she looked like a true daughter of Thanos by the end. I told her to go wild with the final hairstyle and my punk mohawk was truly a wonder to behold. Moose was astonished by the color. The children were completely unfazed. I am too much Mom to be magical to them. Which is okay. My amethyst strands are magical enough for me.

A Cajun in Cascadia: Dashing Through the Snow

So, Acorn tested positive for COVID. We knew it was going to happen to one of the kids sometime, especially since we started them at school. She dealt with the isolation mostly okay, but we could tell that she was going to need some extra special love once she was out of quarantine.

So we took the kids snow tubing.

Acorn in rainbows. You’d think I color coordinated this outfit, but I totally didn’t.

It was quite an adventure taking the kids out to find snow clothes. A neighbor in Texas once marveled that I had clothes for the kids the last time it snowed, but an hour or so playing in the cold was nothing compared to what we were planning. We’d purchased puffy jackets last fall and that was about it. We all needed snow boots, snow pants, warm hats, warm gloves, and thermal underwear. I figured that places up here would have plenty of snow gear, even in this slide down into the back half of winter. Apparently I missed that window by a week.

I did manage to dredge up some inexpensive outfits for the kids at Marshalls and Ross. Acorn, naturally, fell in love with a pair of white glitter boots with fuzzy tops. P’Khan went for Paw Patrol boots that lit up as he walked. I thought they weren’t going to fit him because they were marked as two sizes below what he normally wears. P’Khan insisted on trying them on, though, and they fit perfectly. Which is probably why they were so cheap in the first place. We had to hit the local sports supply store to for snow pants, but that was about it. Sadly, their “Mens 2XL” were too small even for me, so Moose and I had our own separate adventure getting snow pants. Which is a story for another day.

Mt Hood viewed from the passenger seat.

One of the things we love about moving up here is how beautiful the scenery is. Just about everywhere we go, there’s mountains and valleys and rivers and rolling hills of wine grapes and hazelnut trees. The drive to Mt Hood was no different. Though I slept for about an hour in the middle of the trip, so I can’t be 100% sure of that. 99.9% sure, at best.

We’d done our best to hide our destination from the kids. They knew we were doing something cold and potentially wet. And they knew they’d been allowed to bring their new sleds. So when they got their first look at the rows upon rows of snow slides, they were a little prepared. They still about lost their adorable little minds over it.

Moose had found a place over by Mt Hood that had snow tubing. But the best part? There was a conveyor belt to the top! Exactly the sort of thing a mobility impaired Squirrel would need in order to participate in the fun. And exactly the sort of thing a mobility impaired Squirrel was bound to get hurt on.

Yes, he had a hat and gloves. Yes, he was big enough to ride. Barely.

I’m a planner, y’all. I packed and checked and double checked that we would have everything we needed for this adventure. So you can imagine the record scratch my brain did when P’Khan asked if it would be a problem that he didn’t bring his jacket. Fortunately, Acorn had left a sweatshirt and a lighter jacket in the car earlier in the week, so we were able to layer him up. He was the subject of much delighted laughter during our time on the slopes, in no small part due to how HUGE the coat and sweatshirt were on him.

It was actually kind of nice stomping through all that snow. I was unsteady pretty much all the time, so any additional wobbliness didn’t really register. I managed to get around fairly easily, save for the occasional conveyor belt mishap. Most of which were minor. Most.

The incident which laid me out happened on the first ride up. I stepped on what I thought was a mat. It turned out to be the conveyor belt. I was half turned to talk to the kids, so my left leg stayed in place, while my right leg decided to go for a trip to the top. Imagine doing the center splits. At speed. I might have cussed a smidge. But I eventually made it onto the belt safely and up we all went. This was probably the only way I’d ever get to do this sort of thing and I was damn well determined to do it!

Acorn, going down backwards.

And damned if it wasn’t worth every minute.

There was nothing fancy to it. You shuffle into the mass of people at the top, try to figure out where the ragged lines ended, and wait your turn. Then you place your tube, push off, and down the slope you go.

Except it was so much more than that. I suppose this will come as no surprise to people who have done sledding and skiing since they were kids. But it was all new to me and I loved it. The rush of going over the edge, the cold air sweeping by, the exhilaration of trying desperately to steer in a lane only slightly bigger than the tube I was riding. And then at the end, a rise to the slope that sent me skyward and I was briefly airborne. I wish I could freeze that moment in time, that feeling of being weightless, and bottle it up so that I can feel it again and again. It was all too short a moment before I went crashing down next to the catch net.

Moose, the catch nets, and the beautiful scenery.

Everyone laughed and smiled at the bottom. We were scrambling to catch ourselves before we went back down the slope, trying to stand in the uneven snow, and fumbling to pick up our tubes so we could get back on the conveyor belt and into line to go again. We watched each other race down the lanes, tumble out of tubes, and one pair of riders found themselves quite grateful for the catch nets. There was was big family group that caused a bit of exasperation as they rearranged themselves in lines so they could go down at the same time. But it was hard to be truly irritated with them. We were all riding a joyous adrenaline high.

Moose and P’Khan in a double tube.

Our tickets reserved us only an hour and a half on the slopes. It took around 15 minutes to get from the bottom of the conveyor belt to the front of the lines. If you were quick and were lucky enough to get short lines every time, you might squeeze in an extra run. The kids were eager to go again and again, but by the time our reservation was up, Moose and I were ready to be done. It was exhilarating, but also exhausting. And there was that little issue of my hip. Adrenaline can only keep a person going for so long.

We did drive around a bit to see if we could find a place for the kids to use their sleds. This is how we discovered that you have to have a special permit to park on the mountain. I do wish we’d been able do a bit of exploring in the tiny tourist trap just outside the snow park. Ah well. Maybe next time.

I did make it up the stairs when we got home, but that’s about as far as I went for the next day or so. I got lots of sleep on my heating pad, did lots of gentle stretching, and went back to the Bed Flex level on my DDP Yoga. By the time I’m back to my typical level of broken, we’ll be ready to head off on our next adventure!

A Cajun in Cascadia: Halloween 2021

We now live in a neighborhood where Trick or Treating is more than just a few kids from the street making a loop. Moose took the kids out and they made a pretty big loop of the neighborhood before getting tired and coming home.

I loved opening the door on teenagers just seconds before they ring the bell, probably giving them the only genuine scare of the night.

There was tweenager dressed as a 90s club kid whose friends were absolutely TICKLED that I knew what she was dressed as.

I made a girl in a yellow raincoat sad because I guessed she was Georgie and she was actually Coraline.

Lots of compliments on the house, so even though I didn’t get all the big stuff up, I’m still pleased.

I was apparently the only house in the general area handing out healthy snacks. So I guess that makes me the pretzel and gummi snacks house?

Me: Oh, you’re Rainbow Dash and this is… Chucky.
Tiny Rainbow Dash: Oh my gosh, how did you know who we were?
Me: Because I… *flourish* am a giant nerd!

Random Dude Walking His Dog: Hey, I just had to come up and see where you got those lights.
Me: (expecting a trick or treater, not some dude) … Amazon.

A Cajun in Cascadia: Packed In Tight

The pod we packed in Texas was filled to the brim. Every nook and niche filled with the things that we felt we couldn’t replace. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall, end to end. I’m starting to feel sympathy for our stuff.

It has been 48 days in this little AirBnB. 48 days of wondering which box the thing we need has been packed in. 48 days of tumbling over each other as we move from one tiny room to another. 48 days of an almost complete lack of privacy, save for in the bathroom. And often not even then. But tomorrow a new phase to our adventure begins. Tomorrow, we get the keys to our new house.

We won’t be able to actually unpack into our new home for another week yet. The new flooring starts going in on Monday, and then the painter will begin working his way from room to room. When they are done, the interior of our new home will be transformed and updated. A fresh new canvas for us to craft a life in. After that, furniture will slowly trickle in from the various websites we’ve ordered off of. Some of it more necessary than we planned for.

The pod we packed in Texas won’t arrive at our new home until a week after our planned move in. The pod we packed our beds and mattresses in. Fortunately, we’d planned to replace P’Khan’s bed with a larger model. And the craft parlor is going to double as a spare room, fancy daybed and all. So we’ll be sleeping on newly ordered mattresses and not much else for the first few days. But we’ll finally be in our own home again. Our own spaces to spread out in. And the doors to close between them.

A Cajun In Cascadia: And You, Brutus?

On the first night of my trip to Wyoming, Moose called with some bad news. The cats had gotten out. And while Parker and Lil’bit had come running at the shaking of the treat bag, Brutus had not. So there I sat, in the basement of a strange house, on a couch made up as a bed, 800 miles away, making kissy noises into my phone so that my big, stupid cat would come back.

Brutus was a street cat. He was picked up by the local shelter and dubbed “Alfred” for his tuxedo-like markings. He was considered less likely to get adopted because he was not one of the dozen adorable little puff balls that had been turned in that week. Instead, he had the gangly awkwardness of adolescence that comes from having too big ears and too big paws.

Those ears and paws told us he was going to be a big boy. Which was just fine with us. Moose had gone into the search looking for a companion like Gabe, who had passed the year before. Gabe had been a giant, stupid teddy bear of a cat, his blue eyes perpetually crossed, and his belly forever ready for rubs. And Moose hoped that “Alfred” would a worthy successor for the title of “Biggest Cuddle Loaf Ever.”

He got along well with Moose and the kids at the shelter. I hung back so that Moose would get the most bonding time with “Alfred.” He came home to our house full of cats and acclimated fairly quickly. We knew that “Alfred” wasn’t going to be his permanent name. So we lobbed names about for a few weeks while we all adjusted to having another cat in the house.

One night while sitting on the couch, “Alfred” spurned Moose’s attempt to pet him and flopped down next to me, belly presented for pettin’s. Moose looked down at this puddle of cat who was supposed to be his and exclaimed “Et tu, Brute?” And we suddenly knew that Brutus was the perfect name.

He fit right in with our little clowder of kitties. Lil’bit immediately established dominance by settling herself in as the little spoon whenever he laid down. Parker would play fight with him as often as he cuddled with him. Ninja didn’t like him, but Ninja didn’t like anyone. And the kids loved him. They could be much rougher with him than they could any of the other cats, which frequently meant vigorous belly rubs. Brutus loved it all. But whenever he could, he would try to sneak out the front door or into the garage. He would never go far. Mostly because we always quickly shooed him back into the house.

The drive across the country was particularly hard on Brutus. All of the other cats had been through moves with us before. They knew what the packing and sorting were all about. Being stuck in a crate for 6-8 hours a day was new experience for all of them, though. It took a couple of tries to get the right arrangement inside the cage but with a few small changes to our setup and a lot of drugs, the cats made it through.

He seemed perfectly content in our tiny little temporary home. Basking in the sunlight, getting love and cuddles from his family, and healing up from the stress of the drive across country. But much like in Texas, he often tried to sneak out the front door to explore. This last time, he succeeded.

Moose likes to say that until we are presented with proof otherwise, he plans to believe that Brutus is out there living his best life. Catching small snakes and lizards and terrorizing the chickens. I like that idea. Better to think of him alive and happy in this beautiful little piece of Oregon. Even if it does leave me looking longingly out the kitchen window, searching for a tuxedo wearing shadow stalking through the long grass for prey.