BJ's Blog

In 2002 I lost my mind. I was doing the dinner dishes. A pile of recycling had accumulated on the counter and threatened to spill into the sink and onto the floor. Yogurt containers, beer cans, an egg carton. I lost it, it all came pouring out: my pent-up pain. Through tears I raged against everything that had piled up in that kitchen. When I was done, I turned and saw my children in the doorway. They were 2 and 4.

I started with Prozac, which made me “not feel”–something better than the crushing pain I felt before but not a good state. I remember imagining that both of my children died, hit by a car, and found myself incapable of generating any sort of emotion related to such a disaster. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t empathize. When I switched to Lexapro, my emotional range grew. I emerged from that alternative fog.

Now weaned, I find myself racing through memories. Thoughts of my earlier depressive episodes. In the summer of 1990, when I returned from three-week trip to Kenya, I isolated myself from friends–convinced they didn’t like me anyway–and cried at the slightest provocation, and slept and slept and slept. My parents’ friend, an infectious disease specialist, tested me for every conceivable third-world disease. Nothing. Nothing until late summer at a friend’s wedding, where I partied into the wee hours and something let go, something lifted. The parallel story: after leaving a PhD program in English at the U of Arizona, I moved home for the summer and took a job working with kids in day camp at the Salt Lake County Recreation Center. My illness coincided with my post-Africa, post-Tucson stay in Salt Lake City. By the end of the summer I had moved into my own apartment in the Avenues and started a new PhD program at the U of Utah. I guess transitions are hard.

There are more episodes, but I’ll stop here.

Prozac Culture – I related to this piece a lot.

The God of Depression – Thanks to William Styron for speaking out; you didn’t cause it, you can’t control, and you can’t cure it. So suicide may be the only option.

Why Writing Matters in the Age of Despair – Reminds me why I write–to keep track of the trivia that comprises a life. And of course we all need a room of our own–a place to breathe freely, to let our minds race, to gather ourselves together and return to the hearth.

The second meaning:

• accustom (someone) to managing without something on which they have become dependent or of which they have become excessively fond.
  “the doctor tried to wean her off the sleeping pills”
  synonym: disengage

I’m in my second week of weaning off my SSRI. From 20 mg a day for the last 16 1/2 years to 15 mg for the last 7 days to 10 mg this week. On Sunday I’ll begin 5 mg for 7 days and then be done. Weaned. After the first couple of days, when I felt flu-like I didn’t notice much of a change. Kind of an anti-climatic end to the journey. I must have been ready.

I want to embrace the synonym, “disengage,” which reminds me of my mantra “detach.”

• separate or release (someone or something) from something to which they are attached or connected.
  “I disengaged his hand from mine”
  synonyms: release, detach

What once was connected, now becomes separate, unattached.

And then I wonder if I’ve yet to experience the full effects of withdrawal. Apparently it’s a thing: SSRI Discontinuation Syndrome. Effects ~20% of people who discontinue antidepressant use. Maybe I’ll be one of the lucky ones?

I was reading about weight gain during menopause and happened upon this phrase, “the menopause.” The article stopped me. Not “menopause” but “the menopause.” Not “war” but “the war.” Not “life change” but “the life change.” Not “cancer” but “the cancer.” It reminds of the work usually assigned to a specific noun. The difference between generic and named: professor versus the Professor; woman versus the Woman; mother versus the Mother. But “menopause” was not capitalized. Still it was “the menopause.”

Perhaps “the menopause” is bigger than “my menopause.” More universal. As if “the” can encompass all of the experiences of menopausal women everywhere. We all pass through “the menopause.” A unifying experience. A hand-holding, gathering in a circle, singing songs ritual where we rejoice in the rite of passage known as “the menopause.”

Praise be to our flames of power–firing surges of hormonal heat!

Hallelujah for our hearty middles, jiggling thighs, fluffy flesh!

Amen to the almighty god, the Menopause!

5/24/16 journal entry

Three weeks since we took Bubba to the Animal ER and paid $$$ to have him euthanized. I have his picture everywhere: on my phone’s lock-screen, as my iPad’s wallpaper, in my office, on my Facebook page. And I imagine I can smell his sweet doggy paws and fondle his soft floppy ears. Although he hadn’t done it in the last couple of weeks of his life, I hear his basset howl when I open the garage door. His greeting. Drool dried on the walls, mopboards, bathroom scale, kitchen appliances, crown molding around doors to the outside. To freedom. To roam the neighborhood, marking the trees, the bushes, the signposts, the rocks, the hydrants, the circle of walking that narrowed from a circumnavigation of the golf course to a leash walk around the tennis courts to a neighborhood stroll to a shuffle to the corner, across the street and back to his front yard. A closing circle, a tightening spiral, a looping inward to his last few steps in the grass. Breaths of grass. Then carried inside and laid on his bed.

https://visitantlit.com/2018/05/15/bubba/ – but his picture should be first

Henry now has 7:

1. Tramadol – 150 mg 3 times/day (narcotic for pain)
2. Gabapentin – 300 mg 3 times/day (anti-convulsant for nerve pain)
3. Novox – 50 mg 2 times/day (NSAID for pain)
4. Metronidazole – 250 mg 2 times/day (antibiotic for diarrhea)
5. Omeprazole – 20 mg 1 time/day (proton-pump inhibitor for reflux)
6. Diphenhydramine – 50 mg 1 time/day (antihistamine for allergic reactions)
7. Entederm – applied 3 times/day (anti-inflammatory, anti-itch, antibiotic, anti-fungal ointment for bedsore acquired while being kenneled)

How much more can he take? How much more can we administer? Marking time now.

Henry had a mast cell tumor removed from his ear on December 13, 2013. We found out later that it was malignant. Our vet explained that we had a couple of options: remove the ear, in order to prevent recurrence, or leave it and see what happens. He also referred us to an oncologist in SLC. We took Henry there on January 2, 2014. They gave us a 50/50 chance for the mast cell tumor to return if we did nothing. Two and half years later, I believe it’s returned and spread to other parts of his body: Mastocytosis.

It begins in my lower back, draws up my spine, blasts out through the pores in my neck. I sweat and steam pours. While I’m flashing I cannot concentrate. How do the women playing Vivaldi play their violins? Can they saw through these temperature extremes?

Idiopathic or “Old Dog” Vestibular Disease

9 days out, Henry still wobbles, still tilts his head, and still doesn’t eat much

I dreamed of Henry the other night…

Almost a year since we lost Bubba, and I’m not ready to lose this one–my baby, my pokey little puppy. Last night he whined and whined because Maggie and I were downstairs. I remembered as a puppy how he would whine in his pen upstairs. Unable to bear his crying I’d lift him out, hold him on my chest, and sleep with him here…upstairs, on the couch, again. He is the same; I am the same. In the summer of 2004, I felt a hole emerging in my life. Maggie was 4, Jake was 6, Carlos was 9. Carlos would live another 2–almost 3–years. Parenthood, marriage, teaching, scholarship, and service were taking their toll. When I saw Henry in a bin full of puppies at the Farmer’s Market downtown I couldn’t resist. A farmer and his son from Hooper said he was 8 weeks old. He was probably closer to 6. Still needing his momma.

People said, “What will your husband say? Have you talked about getting another dog?” No, we hadn’t. If anything, we’d discussed staying “animal free” when Carlos died. But I needed this puppy. I needed him to be the one creature in my life that I wouldn’t have to say “no” to. I needed him to love me in ways that my husband and children and colleagues and students couldn’t. Unconditionally. Someone said, “Your husband is so forgiving. Getting a new dog could be grounds for divorce.” They were trying to be funny. But I knew my husband wouldn’t and couldn’t deny me this. The seeds had been sown long ago…before we moved to Ogden, before we had children, before we married. Perhaps the puppy was another gesture toward marital dissatisfaction. He was mine. All mine.

And so we named him “Henry.” Jake came up with the name–well we sort of happened upon it together. Maggie wanted “Pajama Sam.” He’s always been Henry. Not Hank, as my neighbor refers to him. Henry. My Henry. Sweet Henry.

Normal, norm, normalize

Adjective: conforming to a standard; usual, typical, or expected.

Noun: the usual, average, or typical state or condition.

Verb: bring or return to a normal condition or state.

In these post-presidential days I wonder how quickly we can become normalized to the new regime. How soon does Trump become normal? And then I ponder what it means to be normal. Jake once told Maggie that he wished she would just act normal. In high school students tend to be normal or not normal. Jake wanted to be normal. Maggie does not.

In graduate school we held norming sessions before reading writing placement essays. I always found the concept rather disturbing. We read a few essays then discussed what rating we would give them. The discussion was meant to normalize our ratings. Apparently “norming” is a stage in group development: when the group starts to bond, becomes harmonious, and develops a kind of synergy.

In some ways, norms are good: moral standards, ethical boundaries, etc. But it’s a tricky balance, finding that edge between what society expects (the normal) and maintaining your own sense of self, your own standards. Normal is a safe place. And when the normal shifts, we scramble to find the new normal–fearful, anxious, and volatile until something settles. It’s an uncomfortable place–the non-normal, post-normal, abnormal. Few people like to stay in that place very long. Four years of a presidency can seem like a long time. Three years of high school can seem like a long time. Five hours of essay reading can seem like a long time. Not to mention seventeen years of employment, twenty years of marriage, thirty-nine years of habitation.