I should be excited

I just received emailed photos of my new home (in its raw state). Unfortu-nately (or fortunately, considering the size of the place), the kids aren't included in the deal. New place, big move, closer to people I love, I should be filled with anticipation and plans.

But right now my mind is focused on Mom and how long she might have left. (She's already having trouble sitting because of the pain.) And, horribly egocentric as it is, I am worried about what's coming up for me. I talked to my own family doc last week and he agreed, the vertigo isn't caused by any of the medications I am still taking. The three primary possibilities, he told me, for causing a "more central" (i.e. brain-related) vertigo like mine are: multiple sclerosis, acoustic neuroma, or brain tumour. The MRI is scheduled for Oct 26th.

A part of me is going "Ohshitohshitohshit", especially when I read the wiki page on MS and I wonder if I've been misdiagnosed all these years with Fibromyalgia. (The overheating, that's the one that strikes me.) Or when a longtime friend, the one with whom synchronicity was always most meaningful, emails out of the blue that one of his friends has just been diagnosed with a brain tumour. But that shock also snaps me right out of my moping stupor, and makes me realize I need to follow my grandmother's advice: Don't borrow trouble.

I'm sure the MRI will be clear, and we (the various docs & I) can go on to explore what else might be causing constant vertigo for nine months (and frequently for long periods before that), unceasing headaches (that aren't sinusitus, the ENT says) & pressure, tinnitus, parasthesia, pain & muscle stiffness, extreme fatigue, vision weirdness (but not prescription changes), cognitive, memory, & speech problems, bladder & bowel problems, hyperosmia, and, most recently, balance & coordination difficulties. (Yes, those could almost be copied straight from the MS faq, but they weren't. The list is from the notes I made for myself to talk over with my doctor.)

Picking out flooring and paint colours will be a good distraction. The big question is whether or not to paint out the kitchen cupboards.

They wore whites!

Cricket whites! Vivid against still green grass with yellow leaves falling from a bright blue sky.

For the first time ever, I saw cricket live today, and it was astoundingly beautiful. In Riley Park they play every summer weekend, but normally I work weekends, so I've never been able to get over there to watch. Today I had the day off, and in spite of my bed calling "sleeeeeeeeeeep", I dragged myself over there. (It's an epic transit ride, especially when the LRT is down for maintenance.)

I knew I'd made the right decision when the red ball rolled over the boundary line straight towards me to just a meter away from my feet as I walked up. If I hadn't slowed down I could have picked it up before the fielder. I was afraid I'd accidently crossed into the field! But there was a park bench still in front of me, and the painted boundary line was just a foot or two in front of that. I spent the afternoon blissed out, mostly from that bench, for a while in the shade on another, a few times teary-eyed at the pure joy of watching it all. Two matches were going on, one in front of me on the large field, one just off to the side and behind on the smaller one. I was too far away from either scoreboard to track those details, but that didn't matter. I was there to watch — and listen to — the play.

The little things surprised and delighted me:
• The non-striking batsman really does stand in that classic leaning pose, lounging on his bat while waiting for the bowler to throw. So elegant!
• They really do shout like crazy for a call from the umpire. Once the fieldser in front of me and I both heard what sounded like the ball hitting a pad. He started to shout! But then none of his teammates joined in, so he let it die. But that batsman was walking funny afterwards, I'm sure of it.
• They really do polish the ball on their....thighs.
• Freaking seagulls, they really are stupid! We're 1000 km inland, over the Rockies!, not even a lake to be seen for god knows how far, and still there were seagulls wandering around the field.
• Batsmen really do swipe the grass with their bats when they take that walk away from the pitch after losing a wicket. Is there any walk so lonely and so long?
• As bizarre as the names already are for the fielding positions, they really could be stranger yet. Cover and mid wicket (I think; I'm still not 100% on these, and I was flying solo) should be called rabbit and squirrel, they way the leap and dash about after the ball. I saw some amazing catches, though. And no gloves, of course, except for the wicket keeper. Very strange from a baseball/hockey/etc. perspective. My hands still sting in sympathy.
• They have a batting cage. Surprised me! Don't know why it did. More of an alley, really, but well of course they do.
• This is either the slowest fast game or the fastest slow game in the world. Nothing happens nothing happens nothing happens and then wooshbangwhoaomgwhoopswow and relax. I caught fielders of each game watching the other match in progress instead of their own at times.


So many wonderful, gorgeous moments, but I think I had two favourites:

On one field, a batsman popped up a fly ball so easy that even I could have caught it. The fielders were jeering and hooting, and I expected the poor guy to stomp off the ground in humiliation. But he just took off his helmet, grinned, tried a bit of an explanation to his teammates (yummy British accent), and finally just laughed, while he walked off the field.

On the other field, after a wicket where the pegs went flying, there was a moment when the umpire was holding the stumps while the batsman pounded them into the ground again. Of course, this batsman's job after that would be to protect them. I wondered what he was thinking while he bashed them down. Against the western sun, he looked fiercely intent.


(Monday Update:
I've figured out I was watching the Star XI Vs Glenmore (I) on the small field. I think it was Stuart Robinson who popped that easy one. The results aren't up yet for the large field, but it was the Crown Vs Cavaliers (I) scheduled.)

On the midway

Life is a speeding rollercoaster at the moment. The corkscrew kind.

Work is frantic, but I can handle that; working full-time (a two-person job) will be done by Sept. 24th for me, after all.

What I'm not sure I can handle is not seeing my mother. Amid all the gafuffle of the job & the possible move & all the doctors' appointments, I lost the plan to see her this apple season. And now her cancer is back. Ovarian. She was originally given two years to live, not quite three and a half years ago. The doctors aren't really sure how to handle her because they aren't accustomed to anyone surviving like this.

The new mass is still too small to treat so it's "wait and see" as yet. Yeah, right, like there's gonna be some outcome other than the usual. These are the same doctors who told her she was "just depressed" (the multiple ways that offends me is an epic rant I won't scream out in this post) for years while the original mass was growing so large they had to take out half her insides when they finally did figure out what the fuck was happening and removed it. Even the surgeon was a bit shocked when he was done. ("We had to do extensive surgery," he kept repeating.)

I'm 1162.92 km (722.76 miles, thank you Mapquest) away from her and I may not get to help her pick apples and make pies and sauce and whatever else we can come up with. I have to figure out a way to do this.

Sorry, just found out last night, still reeling from the news, even though it wasn't unexpected.


Somehow all the wonderful, joyful moments aren't ending up in here, just the stuff I need somehow both to remember and forget, usually upsetting. Maybe I'll change that.

Wrinkle in Time author dead

Madeleine L’Engle, children & young adult's writer, died Thursday.

A Wrinkle In Time had a profound impact on me as young reader. Not only did it change the way I view the world — most good books do, in one way or another — it helped form who I wanted to be, how I thought, and gave me a sense of hope that has rarely left me. Neither has the book. I gave away or sold many of my childhood books, and left most of the others with my father & step-mother (the glass-enclosed bookcase in the sunroom is a pleasant home for them — my earliest books, that is), but my original Dell Yearling edition of A Wrinkle In Time has stayed by my side.

“Why does anybody tell a story?” Ms. L’Engle once asked, even though she knew the answer.

“It does indeed have something to do with faith,” she said, “faith that the universe has meaning, that our little human lives are not irrelevant, that what we choose or say or do matters, matters cosmically.”

She wrote with such liveliness and complexity, vibrancy and profundity, about family and morality and science and love, all well beyond what a child is supposed to understand, while never being condescending. She was gifted beyond measure.

If you haven't read it, maybe give it a try. In any case, buy a copy for a young girl or boy you know.