I am remembering 1992. David and I had only been married for four years and I was still ecstatic and in love. That Spring I got it into my head that we should go to Alaska and have a Bed and Breakfast so we called Edith, my mother-in-law who scrambled to get onto the next bus for Fox Creek to look after our three darlings, and we, being adventurous and young, thought we'd camp along the way. It was April. We thought we'd camp. Yes. April in Alaska. Camping. So we packed the camping gear and northward we drove. I think we pulled into Fort Nelson around 2:00 a.m., found a church parking lot, climbed into the back of the Jimmy with my dead father-in-law's army sleeping bag and tried to sleep. In minus 16C. Brrrrr. Close to the U.S. border we found a "motel", basically a row of mobile camp residences because everywhere we'd looked to set up the tent would have meant digging into the snow about four feet. I was sick that night. Back then it seemed that I got nauseous every time I needed to have a bowel movement. Once it happened, I'd be fine. I discovered that traveling is constipating so after that I took my Herbal Fiber Blend twice a day. This was the only product that ever did anything beneficial for me. Not anymore, of course. That was 25 years ago. We got into the creaky bed with it's thin covers and straight away half the floor caved in. So we pulled the meager blankets off the bed, grabbed the army sleeping bag and made a makeshift bed on what was left of the floor.
Let me tell you - that trip through northern BC was lonely. If you're heading that way, carry a couple of gas cans because there is nothing for hundreds of kilometers. It is beautiful though. The Yukon Territory though - now that made me want to stop and build a cabin, forget the kids, and never look back. The utter desolation is what drew me in, like the mesmerising gaze into fire flames.
Can't remember which passageway this story was racing down. I've forgotten. I remember lots about 1992. Alaska, Washington and introducing my husband and daughter to my parents for the first time, getting together with my childhood friend, Robbin, with whom I fell in lust just because she was the kind of friend who "got" me, who wanted to do the things I liked to do - camping, hiking, quading, laughing, building stuff, even hunting, not going out for coffee with the ladies. Yuck. Robbin is another series of passageways. Where are you now, Robbin? Maybe the point is, I was constantly seeking distraction by then. Before that I had tried to rationalize away the discomfort, pain and fatigue on just having a baby, or being pregnant, then having another baby, or being out of shape, not exercising enough, not eating right, always thinking I was eating too much... and by age 19 I was 110 pounds and had skin for breasts, with downward pointing nipples. So by 1992 when Abby was three and I had had a tubal ligation and would have a hysterectomy within the year, I was seeking anything for relief. I would fast for a few days, then add peas, then rice, but by rice I was already feeling poisoned so I went back to peas and still felt poisoned. I only felt okay if I didn't eat. I spent my piano teaching money on supplements that only gave me expensive urine and nothing else. I bulked up on vitamins and minerals in quantities the Canada Food Guide would have considered suicide. But I did feel something, I think. I remember saying to Robbin, "I don't know if I have any more energy, but I don't seem to need as much sleep". What the hell did that mean??? Great, so now I'm awake more hours of the day to feel how unenergized I am. Oh! Now I remember! I just don't remember why.... I was thinking about David's transfer to the Crossfield plant in southern Alberta. Maybe if I keep yabbering on I'll eventually remember.
So in August, after returning from Washington, I took the kids and went to stay with David's mom and looked for a home for us, out of the city, closer to Crossfield, but close enough to Calgary that I could attend classes at the University of Calgary. Since I was late in registering, I had to stand in line, all day... all day. Benji came with me. He was my gopher boy. I kept sending him to get fudgsicles for us. Sugar. I was learning to live on sugar. I sat on the corridor floor, leaning against the wall, getting up only to plop down again when the line moved ahead a foot. All day! I did get registered in three classes. But David's pancreas had other plans. He was tired, sometimes a bit nauseous, always thirsty, alway peeing. He was quickly diagnosed with diabetes which meant he could no long work shift work which meant no Crossfield transfer, which meant no move to Calgary which meant no university for me. Instead we bought the farm at Little Smoky, a quarter section with a log home, garage, machinery, an acre of raspberries, 1/2 acres of strawberries, three rows of tobacco, a field and an enchanting forest to roam about it, usually naked. Sometime down this passageway I mean to find the day I drove to Grande Prairie to see about getting into their nursing program. Remind me later...
So we moved while my husband was still in the hospital getting used to needles and figuring out the units of insulin he'd need and how often. I loved the farm. I loved it! But overnight something happened. I became so fatigued, not just after eating, or "post prandial fatigue and hypotension" as is the medical term and typed in my medical documents, and couldn't get past 9:00 a.m. Was it mold in the crawl space under the floor? Was it all the work involved in moving? I remember curling up on the sofa in the evening, listening to the fire crackle in the tiny wood stove that I would be getting up to stock a couple of times every night leading to less sleep and more fatigue. I remember gazing at the walls - logs with cracks and dust and the hues of nature, and feeling astounded at my good fortune... and yet feeling empty, like, "what now"?
David came home, had three months off work because of his diabetes, and spent all day every day outside playing on his dirt farm. I have to admit, when I could get up and go out with him we had a blast! But I still had school on my mind. I looked at Valleyview. They had a course for secretarial/reception. Blah. I drove to Grande Prairie to check out the college, knowing full well I couldn't handle nursing, or rather, I had a vomit phobia. And my sister Robyn, a nurse, used to come to dinner with vomit on her uniform and not bother changing. I remember driving home, not stopping for the hour and a half drive, just so I could get home and into bed. I pulled in, turned off the ignition and just sat there in the Jimmy, aching everywhere, exhausted beyond belief. Eventually David came out to help me in. I took 1/4 of a zopiclone and fell asleep on the sofa. I was 28 then.
David's brother Greg came up from Calgary to help build us a porch. I was so tired I would get the kids off to school and curl up in a chair with my beagle, "Suza". I could hear the brothers talking as they worked. "Just divorce her" Greg told him when David mentioned that I seemed depressed. Just divorce her. Eventually he did.
I learned to get through the days by not eating, or eating just a spoonful here and there. My favorite was mashed carrots and turnips with butter. But even that much would feel like poison. My "narcoleptic" sleeps started happening every morning at 10:30 and every afternoon about 2:30. I didn't understand them. They scared me. They always had scared me. Every day I would become so lethargic and exhausted, I'd fall into a dream sleep, but awake at the same time, paralyzed though, unable to wake myself from the auditory dreams. My eyes would be open so I could watch the clock, but I couldn't move, except the rare moment when I'd emerge from the sleep just long enough to throw myself onto the floor to wake myself up. Those sleeps only last a few seconds up to five minutes. Sometimes I would then go into a real sleep, but most of the time I'd get up, shake myself awake, all discombobulated. But by 1993 I had begun to realize these sleeps were extremely refreshing and throughout the following years, I learned to control them - another passageway that includes "angels" in the forms of young, beautiful boys who would come get into bed with me and comfort me. I always understood they were projections of my own mind trying to console myself. Nevertheless, they were pretty cool! Remind me to come back to the angels later - there's more.
Point is, by then I knew something was wrong. I thought the hysterectomy would fix my sacro-lumbar pain. It didn't. In fact, I never really recovered from that surgery. And I never had any post-surgery help either. Other ladies got casseroles brought to them by caring neighbors. Not me. I still struggled to my feet, leaned on the counters to make meals for my little family, got stuck trying to go for walks when the bowel pain stole my breath away and there I'd be, in my pink bathrobe, holding onto the fence, too far from the house, needing to go.... fortunately we had a funky out house.... so two weeks after my hysterectomy I had my first, hard, oh so painful, bowel movement in an out house behind the garage. After that I kept it stocked with toilet paper.
Back to the present. I've been waiting to feel good enough to drive into Onoway to put some documents in the mail - receipts for AISH for reimbursement, Canadian citizenship documents, divorce documents that state David would be giving me $500/month. It's been 12 years. 12 years of back pay would build me a nice little yurt and a piece of property. It's unlikely. But I'm told each spouse should be able to maintain the same standard of living as they did during the marriage. Our divorce judgment states I am self-sustaining at $8400/year. Really? Did a judge actually read that and sign off on it? And phone calls. I have to feel good enough to make a phone call, phone calls I needed to make years ago but haven't felt good enough yet. A phone call is a major project. Should I take 16 more mgs of hydromorphone? Should I go smoke the rest of my indica Purple God? It won't help. Oh, but that reminds me, I do have to order some more CBN oil. From what I understand, CBN is a by product of aging marijuana. It sure helps for sleep. I ran out my first week here. That first week was my best in a very long time. So at $100/syringe which is about 1 gram, I can feel a little less horrible. Cross my fingers hope to die stick a needle in my eye.
Who do I beg for relief? And what do I beg for? It's not right that I'm still here, still breathing. Two months ago a nurse in an Ottawa hospital told my sister that "death was imminent". Not sure why she said that. Alas, had she only been correct in her assessment!
Signing off... must try to wake up. Take Paco for a walk. He's farting. He needs a poop. My head hurts. My face hurts. My hair hurts.
Weren't we cute? I think so! I love that family. My husband doesn't remember me though. Neither does he seem to remember his children. I need to send him the box of photo albums. But then again... why....?
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