One of my chief pleasures in the summer is listening to (and watching) the endless hummingbird war over the feeder. This morning it is cloudy and raining, so the windows are open and I can hear all the little Jetsons sounds they make as they chase each other away from a feeder that contains enough food to support the entire backyard colony. Yet, it’s not good if there’s enough—I guess hummingbirds are capitalists at heart.
Lately I get up and check my blood pressure, my husband brings me coffee (we have a running joke/dialogue around that:he says, “I brought you something” and I say “AND some coffee?” and he says “Careful, it’s hot.” and I say, “So’s the coffee.” this is the secret to marriage—regular, prescribed dialogue. Or someone to bring you coffee, idk which) and I start soaking two tablespoons of chia seeds in either water or, this week, dark chocolate cashew milk. I am struggling with the Propanolol; even though the dose is very low, I think it is causing some shortness of breath (it’s known to aggravate asthma) and, I suspect, greater heart irregularities. Also, they aren’t kidding about it making dreams weird. I’ve had nightmares and long, strange dreams that are very intense.
On the flip side, it seems to prime my sleep switch without making me drowsy; it’s like I just go to sleep like a normal person might. I faintly remember the days of simply lying down to go to sleep, and it’s like a fairy tale. More often than not, I wake in the morning to a still full glass of wine (which I then return through a funnel to the bottle, yes I am cheap), which is a congratulatory event instead of my usual initial thoughts of guilt and self-loathing. It’s different….
I’m trying to be good about taking vitamins, so once I eat the slightly jelly, faintly gritty chia seed/cashew milk potion, I take eye vitamins, vitamin D, two Glucosamin Chondrotin and a probiotic. This chia seed business has resulted in the closest thing to normal gut function I’ve had in, oh, years. Gritty or not, slimy or not, I’m committed. The cashew milk will not have a second shot at breakfast, though, because it’s fairly gross–when this carton is gone, we will say goodbye. Too thin to be milk, too thick to be juice….no me gusta.
Last 4th of July weekend I was crashing off of Xanax, plunging into serotonin syndrome with Cymbalta, and texting my PCP as I clenched my teeth, cried, and couldn’t sit still. This year I’m just a little short of breath and floaty feeling, along with odd heart rhythms. This, then, is an improvement. Clearly my orthostatic/autonomic disorders are affected by hot weather. Hence my happiness about the rain, even though it may kill the whole fireworks option. The red and white fireworks tent in the field behind our house charms me with its circus implications during the day and annoys us with its intrusive lighting at night.
It’s whimsical. The child criticized it, “What’s with her feet? Is she an amputee? Wait, why are you mad?” I pointed out, testily, that the whole point of this daily drawing exercise is to suspend judgement–mine or other people’s. Or, maybe it’s about at least being tough enough to resist the needling of a 13 year old. There’s the challenge.