denial

I’ve never particularly been one for self-denial. Not that kind! Jeez, people. The kind where I don’t ‘allow’ myself to do things I might enjoy because I’m chronically ill. There are several reasons for this, but the main one is that over time, I have come to feel guilty for still being sick and have twisted this into a toxic “I’ll do it when I’m better” mantra. This was extremely easy to stick to during COVID, but now that the world is coming to life, I’m starting to wonder why I’ve been doing this.

As I expected, there are tons of articles about this. There is guilt, embarrassment, shame, and disappointing others, and whoa! back up…grief. I think I’ve discussed this one with my therapist, but I shrugged it off as something I’ve already been through. What if I haven’t, though, and this stupid mantra is one of the ways I’m dealing with mourning my old life. I didn’t know this, but ‘serious illness’ is #6 on the life-stress scale, after Death of a Spouse, Divorce, Marital Separation from a mate, Detention in Jail or Other Institution, and Death of a Close Family Member. I suppose I have ceased to think of Lyme as a serious illness anymore. It’s been with me for over six years now, but it’s nowhere near as debilitating as it was for the second, third, and fourth years.

Wow. Maybe I am grieving, because sometimes I forget that there were THREE WHOLE YEARS of being sick over 80% of the time. That’s crazy. I could be either beginning to grieve again, or emerging from a long period of grief. Ugh. I’m going to have to think about this.

Fortunately, I’m not alone in my journey. So many people are having trouble emerging after a year of lockdowns that there are columns offering advice on how to rejoin the world. The decisions can be overwhelming, especially if you have worries about catching anything. Can I fly? Is it better to drive? Where can I go, and once I get there, what can I do? When do I where a mask? What if someone confronts me about wearing/not wearing a mask?

Overall, I’m not particularly worried about any of these things. My fears are more existential, it seems. Do I deserve to be out here? Should I allow myself to be frivolous, to have fun? If I do, will it be my fault if I have a relapse?

I just noticed the language I used above, the words ‘deserve’, ‘allow’, ‘frivolous’, and ‘fault’: I am limiting myself, I’m not sure it matters if it’s because I feel guilty, or I’m embarrassed, or grieving. Now that COVID restrictions are lifting, there is no excuse for self-denial. I have to re-learn how to let go and do more things that I enjoy. This is different than relaxing. I have to relax and take it easy to stay healthy. But what good is a life that isn’t lived?

I came back to Denver this week for a lot of reasons, but one of the main ones was to see my Lyme doctor. I knew something was off kilter, but didn’t know what. I’ve had a return of babesia and bartonella. I asked him if it could have been something I’d done. He said maybe, or maybe they made a return for reasons unknown. I hate the feeling of bacteria, parasites, and spirochetes hiding in my body, little bombs just waiting for an opportune time to reemerge and proliferate and not having much control over it.

Babesia is a real fucker, and I’d forgotten the crippling symptoms. The main ones are burning, blurry, itchy eyes, neck pain (like whiplash bad), headaches, body aches, a wicked intermittent sore throat, drenching sweats, and constant fatigue. This one, though, is the one that gets me: migrating, unrelenting, throbbing pain in my teeth and jaws. It gets so bad that I can’t chew. I spend quite a bit of time thinking that it’s not babesia, that one or more of my teeth are truly rotting or cracked or something. That’s the babesia speaking, as there is also a mental fog/rage/OCD component to deal with. And then the pains move somewhere else, and my teeth are just fine.  All in all a miserable experience, one I was glad to put behind me several years ago. Seems that babesia has other plans for me, forming cysts in my body until the time is right.

When I’m relapsing and herxing, self-denial is the last thing on my mind, the thought of ‘getting out there’ momentarily shoved aside. On a day like today, I feel thankful to walk the dog, get through some Spanish, and take care of myself.

But like everything Lyme, I’ll take the herbs and medicines, and the flare-up will subside in a while. I will play catch up, and then I will start wondering if I should get myself out there into life. Logically speaking, if there is no predicting when I will relapse, wouldn’t the strategy be to ‘plan’ for a relapse after I’ve had a trip, or a conference, or whatever I choose to do? That’s kind of what I’m thinking about now. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m scared. Scared of making plans and scared of NOT making plans. Both choices carry risks and neither is a guarantee that I won’t relapse and feel as awful and numb as I do right now.

I can’t live like that though, and I’m going to have to figure out a way to spin this to myself in order to move forward and live. I want to stop denying myself the pleasure of playing pickle ball, or taking a trip to see friends once in a while, or going to the movies, or even relaxing one afternoon to binge-watch tennis.I think I’ll give myself credit for recognizing my dilemma and work on stopping this self-denial and start planning for the future. When I feel better.

 

 

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Judgy

I try mightily not to be judgmental. In the effort to put myself in someone else’s shoes, I fail most miserably with myself. Some of the ridiculous judgements I make (only with myself): should you be doing this? Why aren’t you doing that? Do you really feel that bad? You’re just being [lazy, a drama queen, too soft, too hard, not serious enough, too serious] and more, every permutation a judgment on me.

It’s hard not to do this when you’re always navigating a chronic illness. Chronic illnesses like Lyme are floaty ephemeral things, randomly disrupting your life in dozens of ways. That makes it less real and concrete, unlike, say, arthritis, or diabetes, or an illness like cancer. In these illnesses,  the causes of those diseases are measurable by tests and the core symptoms never shape-shift and morph on a whim.

And Lyme, along with its co-infections, may be chronic, but it is mostly—and I fucking hate this word— manageable. And so I judge. I look at people I know who have far deadlier and scarier challenges than Lyme and all of a sudden my ability to see things as they are for me vanishes.

When I get in a judgmental funk, I often second-guess what other people are thinking. ‘Well, she was able to [swim, hike, write, clean, cook, shop] so she can’t feel that bad,’ ‘She was fine yesterday. How can she be sick today?’ Maybe they don’t think any of these things, but I think they do. I tell my self to stop it, but I don’t listen when I’m in this kind of mood. Like an overtired toddler, once I’m wound up, I can’t unwind.

I tend to second-guess myself, too. At least twice a week for the past six years, I wonder if I really have Lyme. I wonder if I am relapsing at all. You’ve felt pretty good for the past <day, week, month> my brains says. You’re probably not sick at all anymore, just goldbricking. Cool etymology, goldbricking. Look it up.

That’s when I catalog my current symptoms, the ones that make me doubt everything. Yet, they are the realest part of all. They may not operate on a schedule, but an aching liver, shooting pains in my teeth, a neck ache, sore feet, and muscle pains are concrete, solid things that, as much as I deny them, cannot be denied. Stoicism does not equal wellness. The other symptoms, like fatigue, or when I forget dad’s phone number and address, or what day it is, are much easier to judge as non-worthy symptoms of illness.

And so I scrutinize, picking at myself relentlessly. It starts from the moment I wake up and assess how I’m feeling. How bad is that headache I ask myself. Bad enough to not walk? You have to walk. I suppose if I am being generous with myself, I’d say that this state actually gets me to do things, regardless of how I’m feeling. I almost always begin the day charging hard, getting up early and getting as much done as I can. That’s because it could all grind to a halt at some point in the day. I’m okay with that if I’ve managed to accomplish a few things before the crash.

This has been workable during COVID. We all seem to have had a collective fever dream where ordinary life has hung suspended from the pandemic. Being judgmental took a vacation as we struggled to deal with isolation and fear.

Now that most people’s lives are slowly returning to ‘normal’, I’m certain that the critical cacophony in my head will increase in direct proportion to my perception that everyone else is moving on. And I will respond with the urge that I have to work harder and do more, an insane reaction when I think about it. But that’s just it, isn’t it? My brain becoming mushy with a relapse, my body betraying me once again. I’ll obsess about lottery tickets, fight the feeling that I am running out of time (for what, I don’t know), and worry that I need to write and do things to prove I am worthy, even while I am sick.

My therapist tells me things like, ‘be kind to yourself’, and ‘give yourself some credit’. Easier said than done. I don’t know why I’m harder on myself than on anyone else. If I knew me, I’d think I was handling a shitty hand pretty damn well. Maybe I’m harder on me because I do know me: my foibles, weaknesses, and bad habits. Lyme has a way of exacerbating the bad parts of me and obscuring the good parts. I need to keep working on things that matter to me because I want to, not because I’m struggling to define my self-worth outside of being a chronically ill person.

I have a feeling this is going to take some time. I’ll probably stomp around on my walks muttering to myself, trying to figure out how to accept that who I am is not defined by my illness, nor is it defined by how hard I work to show that I am not ill. It’s a stupid conundrum that is self-created. It will become one of those opportunities for growth that I have come to loathe.

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bowling pins

Lately I’ve been looking at my life as a set of bowling pins. The bowler is life, and when all ten pins are gone, the show is over. I like the bowling pin analogy, because when one pin goes, it tends to knock down the other pins. If the ball strikes hard enough at the right spot, a lot of them topple. Many people go a long time without having any pins knocked over. Their bowler tends to roll a lot of gutter balls, or the kind of rolls that make the pins wobble without falling down. My bowler came out with a wicked spin before I was even born, knocking out the head pin. I’ve managed to reset the adoption pin over and over throughout my life, relegating it farther to the back. The knowledge of being unwanted when I was born has become easier to bear as I’ve gotten older.

At the age of seven, my bowler knocked down about eight pins when I fell out of a tree and fractured my skull.  I managed to reset those pins when I came out of a coma with only the loss of hearing in my left ear.

After that, the bowler messed around for a good long time, knocking down a few pins here and there. Then I don’t know what happened, maybe the bowler took some lessons or something, because at twenty-one I was diagnosed with endometriosis. That knocked down three or four pins with every surgery and every new treatment, until I had all the lady parts taken out. The last surgery was when I was 42.

At each juncture, I was able to reset almost all my pins. By the time I got Lyme, I’d say I was at eight pins, ten being perfect health/life, and zero pins being, well, dead. Since then, Lyme has been the number one pin, with a shifting cast of health problems behind. I’ve started re-reading Dr. Richard Horowitz’s “Why Can’t I Get Better? Solving the Mystery of Lyme & Chronic Disease.” Not a very exciting title, but it’s jam-packed with information. Aside from bartonella, most of my miseries are the secondary infections and inflictions brought on by an immunocompromised body. Dr. Horowitz calls this ‘MSIDS’, or ‘Multiple Systemic Infectious Disease Syndrome’. Quite a mouthful for what is essentially a pretty easy concept to get. He believes that diseases like Lyme open the door for  parasitic or fungal infections, allergies, environmental toxicity, compromised immune function, and many others.

I’ve had all of these, labelled on the pins behind Lyme for varying periods of time. The grossest one wasn’t parasites, although that was definitely an experience. Note to all of you: deworming is not fun. No, the one that made me gag (literally) was thrush. My tongue and mouth were coated furry white with fungus. Most disgusting thing I’ve seen on my body. At my worst, I’d say Lyme and all of its shitty friends had me down to about four pins. I’ve reset many times in the last six years, although the amount of upright pins has dwindled to seven, maybe eight or so on my best days. That’s because I’m never completely well. There’s always some niggling symptom or problem.

The newest pin behind Lyme is not technically new. It’s a new name for a bunch of unexplained problems I’ve had since my early thirties, about the time I had my eighth surgery. I itch when I exercise. I’ve had an unexplained cough for over twenty years. I have random allergies, most definitely not seasonal, and sometimes I wheeze when I cough. I don’t know what it was, or is. The symptoms come and go, and have never been bad enough to incapacitate me. However, after I had the Johnson & Johnson vaccine, I had itchy, watery eyes, blurred vision, headaches, and itchiness over my body, plus a wheezing cough.

I read something on a Lyme forum about a ‘mast-cell storm’ after a Lyme sufferer had their COVID vaccine. This meant their immune system overreacted to the vaccine. At any rate, to calm a mast cell flare, doctors recommend using H1 and H2 histamine blockers. Sounded complicated, until I read more. Zyrtec and Claritin are H1 histamine antagonists. Tagamet, Pepcid, and Prilosec are H2 histamine antagonists. I was so miserable I bought some of both and took them. Within two days I felt much better, and I mean much better in general.

Is this mast cell storm a one-time thing, or something else? The information is, like Lyme, all over the place. Yes, it’s a real thing, called “Mast Cell Activation Syndrome,” or MCAS. And yes, there is a Lyme connection. But for me, these two little pills made a difference in those other problems I’d had for years. I’ll bring it up with my LLMD on my next visit to see if he’s had other patients with this.

Some people think this would be a failing of my doctor not to notice all these symptoms and put them together for me. I would say those are people who don’t understand how complex and perplexing MSIDs are. Part of my job is to help him by analyzing my symptoms and noticing patterns and unintended consequences, like taking medicines after the vaccine. Is it frustrating? Sure it is. But these kind of diseases are on the rise, so the model for patient-doctor-doctor-doctor relationships needs to change (I put a couple of extra doctors in there because Americans LOVE their specialists).

My bowler so far has been frustratingly competent, always knocking out a few pins. There have been no strikes, but there have been a few spares. It is inevitable that one day the bowler will roll a great, booming strike in my sleep—at least that’s what I hope. Because if I had my druthers, it would be when I am a ripe old age, after a fabulous meal. Some great sex would be nice, too, but then one can’t hope for too much.

 

 

 

 

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vaccine

I got the Johnson & Johnson COVID vaccine this week. Surprisingly easy, except for the questions. “Have you had any COVID symptoms in the past week?” “Have you had muscle aches, fever, or fatigue in the past 24 hours?” Ummmm…yes? I’ve learned to lie when asked these kinds of questions. It’s not technically a lie, but the explanation of Lyme is too lengthy to go into. It’s more of an omission. I easily separate Lyme from the rest of my health history. If someone asks me if I’m healthy, I say ‘yes’, because I am healthy, aside from Lyme.

Most people my age are on some kind of prescription for something. Blood pressure, cholesterol, thyroid, etc. Not that they aren’t healthy, but they need a little help. So far, I have none of those problems. The ol’ colon is clean as a whistle, the boobs lump free, and no weird moles or skin things (thank you, birth mom for my genes, and real mom, for making me wear sunscreen). My blood pressure is always 116/72, my pulse is in the 50s, and my weight is still teetering a few pounds shy of ‘mildly obese’. So yeah, I consider myself healthy.

And yet, almost every day there is something that hurts or doesn’t feel right. The brain doesn’t fire properly or my throat hurts, or my joints, or my eyes are blurry and irritated. I’m fatigued, or my body aches. There are a ton of other minor problems that come and go, like death from a thousand paper cuts, but none of it is a big deal to me anymore. It just is. Once, while at an appointment with my Lyme doctor, I mentioned some things that had been bothering me. He said, “Why didn’t you call or go to your primary care doctor?” I answered, “Why bother? Almost everything that goes wrong is Lyme-related and disappears or changes.” He agreed with that, and I’ve learned that I’m the one that has to separate how I’m feeling. I use two categories: “Lyme-related” and “getting old.”

I suppose there is a third category, the “Oh shit” one, but so far, I’ve been out of that column since I burned my right hand six years ago (I think it was six years ago, but I just got my daughter’s age wrong, so I can’t truly be trusted with anything time and date related). The thing is, through Lyme I’ve learned that people tend to freak out about their health far more than I do. I haven’t gone to a primary care doctor since that burn, because I haven’t needed to. Virtually everything wrong with me is Lyme related.

As far as COVID goes, many of us Lyme patients have had to play the really fun game of “COVID or Lyme?” After all, the early symptoms for COVID and ongoing Lyme symptoms are virtually the same. I usually allow myself about five minutes to assess how I feel and then I wait to see if anything changes. It usually does, either within hours or days. The pain migrates, disappears, or morphs into another symptom that has nothing to do with COVID.

There is another dimension, the question of how vulnerable Lyme patients are to COVID. My immune system is compromised, but how vulnerable am I really?  I chose to stay safe and isolate myself rather than find out the answer to that question. And I chose to answer the pharmacists’ question as it pertained to COVID, not Lyme. The week before the vaccine, I had been experiencing some old symptoms that I knew well. I had already contacted my LLMD and gotten the answers I needed to begin treatment. I had no fever and I wore a mask. I know my body very, very well and had no doubt that what I was experiencing was not COVID. So I went and got the vaccine.

And after the vaccine, I don’t know if I had a reaction to the vaccine or if it was Lyme. I guess that part doesn’t really matter, since it wasn’t going to change the fact that I had gotten the vaccine. Now I have some measure of comfort that if I were to get it,  I won’t die, or have to go to the hospital. Those are big things, especially for the chronically ill. We are always on the edge of a health care crisis. They always cost money. The last thing I need is one more.

I’ll continue to separate my general health from Lyme. This paradigm has, oddly enough, motivated me to take the best care of myself so that I can so I can continue to brag that aside from Lyme, that “I’m very healthy.” Diet, exercise, and positive thinking are the only controllable factors I have. If Lyme is the reason I am staying healthy, then that is one of the positive aspects of chronic illness, and that, my friends, is positive thinking.

 

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curmudgeon

Is there a word for female curmudgeon? The formal definition is a “bad-tempered person, especially an old one” and is unisex. I’m not one yet, but I’ve been flirting with the possibilities of allowing myself the luxury. This would require energy, maybe more energy than the daily decision to find something good about the day. That is the choice these days, isn’t it? I don’t know about you, but most days find me on a roller coaster of highs and lows that I’d rather not experience. I’m more of a lazy river kind of gal, and yet the universe has strapped me onto the Tower of Terror.

Pre-COVID, I would have done some the things that kept me cheerful while sick with Lyme: museums, movies, visiting friends, and the occasional trip. This is by no means the whole list, but it’s the one most affected by COVID. Joni Mitchell had it right, “you don’t know what you got ’til it’s gone.”

I have deep, strong inner resources. I’ve had to, with the challenges life has thrown me from an early age. This isn’t the place to get into that, but those of you who know me know that no matter what, I manage to see hope and joy in anything. Lately, though, curmudgeon-ness, or at least the freedom to let oneself become a grumpy hermit, happier alone than with people, is quite tempting. There is a word for this. It’s not even German! Apanthropy: An aversion to the company of men; a love of solitude. I suppose we could quibble about the use of ‘men’ in this sentence, but you get the gist. That’s what I’ve been experiencing, and it’s blossomed under the rich fertilizer of COVID.

The main problem with this scenario is that I’d actually have to say really shitty things aloud. I think this is one of the requirements to becoming a full-fledged curmudgeon. It could be this is why curmudgeon is associated with men more than women (don’t fight me on this. You know I’m right).

Although I care much, much, less what people think of me, it is not in my nature to hurt people, whether they are strangers, friends, or family. This may prevent me from earning the title curmudgeon. I’ll never say never, though. I could become one of those mean old ladies who says exactly what they think.

The pandemic has been hard on virtually every person I know. It doesn’t seem to matter if you are angry at having to wear a mask, or sad that you have lost loved ones, or sick of being isolated, or missing loved ones. I’m not sure any of us can comprehend what we’ve endured yet. I do know it has made me less tolerant. Things that would just slide by irritate the hell out of me, and it doesn’t seem to matter who or what it is. I’m positive I irritate the hell out of people, too. Our national zeitgeist is one of emotional exhaustion. I just had a head start on everybody else.

Most people are new to social isolation, being alone with themselves, or being forced into sharing close quarters with the same people for days, weeks, months on end. Our ability to move, to go anywhere is one of the privileges of living in a wealthy democracy.

Six years ago Lyme forced me to re-evaluate this privilege, but I was no stranger to being alone. I have always been content to be alone, and as the youngest child, that is a good thing. Both of my brothers were out of the house by the time I turned thirteen. My cousin Ginger lived with us for a few years after her parent’s divorce, so it was the two of us for a little while.  From my sophomore year on, Mom and dad worked full time, so I was alone before and after school. I reveled in the  solitude, happily eating dessert for breakfast, blasting my music and dancing with no one to bother me. I was never afraid, because at that time we had Charlie the Great Pyrenees who would have killed anyone who threatened me. I don’t say that lightly. Anyone who knew me then and came to my house could tell you how scary he could be.

I’m sure I was lonely at times. Who isn’t at that age, especially if it was a Friday night and you thought everyone else but you was out having a magnificent time. But even then, I had things to do. I read voraciously. I listened to music constantly. I tried sewing occasionally, and I baked things when the spirit moved me. I didn’t mind my own company back then and I don’t mind it now.

Then I got Lyme. Or rather, I’d had it for over a year and didn’t know it. When I started treatment, I was so sick I barely noticed my isolation. The first three years were the worst. I’m sure I lost friendships over this period, because virtually all of my energy was consumed with taking care of myself. I may have been a little prickly during this time. Really, who could blame me? People had no idea how I could be so sick for so long. Reconciling myself to chronic illness and trying to educate the people around me made me extremely grumpy.

And I grew used to being alone. Not just, you know, a day or two, but days and weeks of alone. I anticipate that the biggest problem for me in life after COVID will be returning to a social life, as in, will I want to? It’s hard to imagine the anticipation of going to, say, a new exhibition at the art museum, or a concert at Red Rocks. I’m pretty sure I’ll be excited over these things once again, I just can’t quite picture it. For now, though, I’ll put my scanty reserves into holding my tongue and trying to see the positives.

 

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resettling

I railroaded my dad into letting me move in with him this past September. It seemed like a good time with COVID and lockdowns and my continued journey with chronic Lyme. The original plan was to sell my house, move in with dad for a while, and later on, move to Costa Rica. Then came COVID and a radical change in plans. I kept my house. Katie is living there and taking care of everything. Keeping the house  was more of an emotional decision than purely financial. It didn’t  (and still doesn’t) seem like a good time to take risks.

Isolation was wearing on everybody by this point. I had stopped writing, unable to draw on any of the emotional and mental strength writing requires. I was sick of Lyme, sick of COVID, sick of myself. There was no life-guarding or teaching swim lessons.. Airbnb had ground to a halt. Strangely, none of these things particularly bothered me. Trying to help dad solve his everyday problems with his computer, or his phone, or some mail he received, that bothered me.

It would have been about time to go for a visit without COVID. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I should be down there for a much longer stretch of time. Not anything concrete or pressing, just a feeling that we could, and should help each other through this time.

My best friend Laura ( I can say that, right, Laura?) needed a break from sheltering with the four males in her household and offered to drive me down to Tucson. We set out the day after a freak September snowstorm and arrived in Tucson late in the afternoon the next day for my 14 day quarantine. Our first place was a tiny condo across the street from dad with NO WIFI. I cannot stress this enough. NO WIFI. We got another place and saw my dad every night outside with masks on.

I moved in the house on the 15th day. Dad had cleaned and moved his office out of the room next to my bedroom. This visit was very different from earlier ones. We were going to co-exist for a long time. I truly appreciate his willingness to turn over parts of his house to me, allowing me to make them functional for myself. There was another person in the house, though. My mom has been gone for ten years. Most everything has been left the way she liked it. I helped dad go through a LOT of her things after she died, and we got rid of the things that accumulate in illness and old age: blankets, medical equipment, assorted kitchen things that haven’t been used in years, and knickknacks that must have meant something to someone at some time. We never really moved any of the furniture., though Dad had moved a few items out of his bedroom and rearranged the den and his office, but that was it.

This was more cataclysmic. My mom was precise. Not house proud, exactly. Everything had it’s place for both aesthetic and utilitarian purposes and it was to be kept like that. I felt like I was thirteen again, rearranging my room late at night, knowing mom would not be thrilled.

The kitchen was where I started first. Dad, like many widowers, had adapted to a simple kitchen routine: coffee, OJ, English muffin and sausage for breakfast, granola and milk or a sandwich for lunch, and either crackers, cheese and fruit or a frozen dinner for dessert. He used few of the many things in the kitchen. I started small, rearranging the pots and pans and cleaning out the pantry. Then I forged ahead and went through the cabinets. So many mysteries! Why were  there so many mismatched storage containers and lids? Why did we have three candy thermometers? And the biggest mystery of all, why did we keep spices from at least the 90s?

There must have been about thirty containers. I took a photo of some of them. Note the labels and prices. When was the last time you saw any spice for .57¢?

After I cleaned out the spices, I found it easier to change things in the house. I’ve rearranged my bedroom and office. I’ve added plants. The pantry and the fridge are well-stocked, just the way I like it.

We do pretty well, all things considered. Dad’s small retirement community has been and is very isolated, the threat of COVID moving through the community a powerful impetus to not gather or go out. Zoom classes don’t come close to filling that gap. Sometimes, like in my Spanish class, it highlights the differences in how people act during COVID. The three people under thirty have done the bare minimum in terms of isolating and social distancing. They talk about their travels and adventures while the three of us over sixty listen. We don’t do much at all, except go to parks or drive to pick up groceries, or go to appointments that can’t be avoided.

Sometimes I get frustrated when I see how differently people act during the pandemic. I can’t work up too much anger, though. I would probably do the same if this happened when I were much younger. It seems to me that it’s easier to hunker down at home and keep busy when you’re older.

At any rate, I can’t control what other people do. I can only control me. So I write, read, hike (a LOT), cook, clean, and keep trying to learn Spanish. I get depressed, I have relapses. I try not to think about when everybody else goes back to normal and I’ll still have Lyme to deal with. I think about letting go of the illusion of control to gain control, a futile, koan-like pursuit that so far, has not given me any intuitive enlightenment or tranquility.

I have done everything that I can do to protect myself and Dad from COVID and from the crushing loneliness self-isolation brings. Next week the Australian Open begins and we’ll watch tennis together, something we’ve both missed far more than I would have thought pre-COVID. We’ll continue to do our best to get along. I’ll ponder the fact that I have become my mother about many things. And then I will return to what I’ve learned best in the last six years with Lyme: the full-time business of coping.

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