I am feeling a little lighter today. I think I was on the floor of the basement, so anything could be an improvement. I may have been fighting off some illness, too. I mean a physical one. The mental crisis is another matter. As a consequence, perhaps, there will be a lighter tone to the post as well. Let's see.
What's on my mind? Hmm. First off, I think the "vegetable first" diet has made a real difference in the way I feel. I'm pretty sure it is changing my gut biome. Last night it was a cabbage, carrot, potato, spinach, and poblano pepper medley. Oh, and every night I've been adding a package of mixed mushrooms, too. Mmmm.
I had gone to Whole Foods because I can buy small portions of things there unlike the other chain grocers around me who package everything for anybody who is not single. I asked the nice butcher lady for the smallest chicken fillet she had. She found the right one. That got chopped into pieces and cooked in a spicy wings sauce and sprinkled over the vegetable medley.
Breakfast has been whole grain cereal high in fiber sprinkled with creatine and collagen powder.
Did I tell you about my gut? I'm not a vegan nor a vegetarian, but yea. . . vegetables, grains, legumes and nuts first. What is THAT called?
Back up. I went to the hospital yesterday, of course. Mom was sleeping. Later, when a nurse came in, I asked where we were with the IR docs. Nowhere was the general takeaway, but the nice woman (young, again), said she'd check. My mother woke. She was nauseous. She wasn't eating much, and she still had not pooped. They were still giving her Tramadol, morphine, and laxatives. I watched the nurse put some liquid from a syringe into the I.V. port. It was for nausea, she said.
Later the nurse came back and told me there had been a glitch, that the IR people had never gotten the information about my mother. I was shocked both that such a thing had happened and that the nurse would tell me so. Naive honesty, I guess. She said she had her supervisor put in another request.
God love her.
When the hospitalist came, I went through all this once more. It seemed my mother would be going for surgery the next day.
My mother said the coffee they gave her was horrible. I made the half mile trek to the cafeteria in this massive hotel/hospital to get her some. When she sipped it, she said that it was good.
The afternoon rolled on. My mother said that she was sleepy and that I didn't need to stay. I said I'd come back later then.
It had been a rainy day. Earlier, some streets were flooding. Now, however, the rain had dissipated. I decided to go to the gym and do something for my creaking body. I was stiff with sitting for days. My back and knees and hips were howling. I would stretch, do some body movement stuff akin to yoga, and I would trek uphill for a good long time. No weights at all. Just body movements.
I felt life returning. My heart was pumping. I got a good sweat going. Pretty women were looking, smiling. . . winking. O.K. Maybe not. But I felt it could happen. Indeed, after I had done my final stretches after miles of uphill trekking and even a little bit of old man stumbly running for many seconds at a time (😜), a gym pal stopped me for awhile. She is a young Black woman who was a Division One NCAA sprinter for one of the largest universities in the country. She is in grad school now and works as a sometimes trainer at the Club Y. She also is working at the hospital in admissions, and the last time my mother was there, she insisted on coming up to meet her. She is a real sweetheart, very polite, but she is a bit of a devil, too. She had been training a fellow nearly my age who owns a couple of the biggest clubs in town, and rumor has it that he has put her up in an apartment and given her a car. But he is no longer around, and this day she was waiting for a ride, so. . . . Rumors.
While we were talking smack, a little Black girl in a bathing suit, with some weird pink bathing cap, came walking by with an older White man. My friend lit up and said hello to the little girl. I watched the sweet pleasure on the little girl's face as they talked. The White man just stood and watched saying nothing. Then my friend asked the little girl, "Do you remember me?" and the little girl shook her head no. Oh!!! I couldn't help myself, and I blurted out, "Stranger Danger!" My friend began to explain to the older White man that she had talked to the little girl before when she was with her grandmother.
"This is my grandfather," the little girls said. The little girl was still looking with a sweet admiration at my friend.
When they were gone, my friend said, "That was awkward."
"You'd better wear your Y employee pin if you are going to talk to kids," I said. "I was going to explain that you worked at the Y, but Stranger Danger came out instead. The old White guy was looking like we were a couple of creeps, some hippie Jewboy and his bBack accomplice."
"Yea," she laughed. "Are you Jewish?"
"I'm not a Jew, but I think I am 'ish.'"
She walked me outside and we stood again to chat. A little Black boy walked by with an older White couple. Again, my friend said hi. This time, they knew her. When they were gone, I said, "What the fuck? Do you just say hello to every Black kid accompanied by White people?"
"I know, right?"
"What do they do, steal those kids? WTF? What would you say to a Black couple with a White kid? Do you ever see that?"
"No," she laughed wide-eyed.
"Yea. . . you know what I'm saying. The White couple was taking the Black kid to the basketball court. That be some White racist shit," I chuckled. "You Black, son. You gonna play hoops! I'm sure they stole him."
"You're crazy. The kid's a tennis prodigy."
"Really. That's some White shit, too."
I know, I know. I just like fucking around and pushing some buttons.
"I've gotta go," I said. "I need to get to Whole Foods, cook dinner, and get back to the hospital. Love you babe."
"Love you, too."
I hadn't gotten to fuck around like that for days. I was aerobicized, stretched, and feeling good. The sun had begun to shine.
Inside Whole Foods, I was looking at the packages of mushrooms. The prices were outrageous. I picked up one pack, put it back, then picked up another. "Chef's Choice." As I walked away, a woman I had seen somewhere before, maybe the Club Y, approached me. She was maybe in her early fifties. She'd had plenty of work done. Her lips were full of collagen. You couldn't not see them. When she spoke, she had a heavy accent. Eastern Europe. She held out a package of Maitaki mushrooms to me.
"You picked this package up and put it back. Why?
Holy shit--what? I was certain she was about to make a ruckus. I looked at the package she held in her hand and knew I had not touched it. I pulled the package I had chosen out of my cart.
"I got these."
"Why? Are these better?"
My eyes did a little dance as I thought what to say.
"I don't know if they are better. The Maitaki mushrooms are really good for boosting your immune system."
Holy shit, really? I sounded like some health store geek.
"These are a mix of a lot of mushrooms."
She was watching me closely. She hesitated then said, "Oh. . . I see. Thank you."
"Sure," I said wondering what that was all about. I'm pretty certain, though, that I will see her again somewhere.
I wandered about the store picking up a few unnecessary things before checking out. On my way to the car, a woman pulled up beside me and slowed to my walking pace. She was young, had dark skin, wavy black hair, and what seemed to me to be a Polynesian face.
"I like your hair," she said smiling. Stunned, I simply said, "Thanks!" She slowly pulled away, me thinking I should have said more. But no. That would have been dumb.
"It's the plant first diet and the aerobics," I laughed. "I'm getting pretty again."
I am thinking about giving up the weight room workouts, though. It really is doing more damage than good now. There are so many other ways to exercise that are better for me. Yea. Hippie workouts. Vegetables. Mushrooms.
I didn't go back to the hospital. Eschewing water, I concocted a Negroni and called instead. My mother said she thought she was scheduled for surgery in the afternoon. The cardiologist had come in once again and checked her over and said she was good to go.
"O.K. mom. . . I'll see you in the morning. Love you."
Now. . . for a little something fun. It is a good representation of what I see in my mind's eye when I think of a bar scene--some psychotic man getting your mother onto the dance floor to the beat of a keyboard and backing track played by some wannabe dj. Enjoy.
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