Last we heard from our intrepid adventurer, thanks to a series of bizarre-o blackouts, she had decided to wend her way down to Sister and San Diego for some R & R & R & S (Rest, Relaxation, Re-evaluation and Sun).
BFF Ken, bless his ever-lovin’ heart, chauffeured me, Crazy Ivan and the cats the 1,264 miles, and I think even he, with his devil-may-care plan to “point the car south and see what happens,” would agree that the drive was a little more than we bargained for: 26 hours of driving in two days; a mix-up with the hotel rooms; lost directions; a zig when we should’ve taken a zag, which almost landed us in Meh-hee-ko; my not being able to remember the address of the house (only to discover we were parked in front of it); and my not making it up the driveway before collapsing and having to be hauled into the house like a sack of potatoes. (Pretty look, that.) All that being said, we had a wonderful time—talked and laughed and played Yellow Car (using his family's highly suspect modified rules) all the way.
As for what the cats thought of the trip, this photo speaks for itself. There are actually two cats in the cage.
Sister has an old, slow, wonky-in-the-hips dog but, for all that, still a cat-eater so Benny, Joon and I are tucked safely away behind the door of the beautiful, cavernous master bedroom with bathroom en suite (as the realtors say) which Sister has kindly given over to me as our little “apartment” for our stay. Er, to be clear, I do have full range of the rest of the house; the cats, not so much—although this doesn't seem to stop them from pushing the boundaries:
(The cavernous bedroom also has an equally cavernous California king bed. I've discovered the naughty little secret to California kings. When the sheets get dirty, you can just move to the other side. Saves water and electricity. It's "eco." That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)
Health-wise, things have improved greatly although I don’t trust the "I'm fine" vibe my body’s giving me because it felt fine-ish before the blackouts. However, I’ve gone from not being able to walk at all (see "sack of potatoes" above), to being able to stumble drunkenly for a block, to being able to walk a good mile with no drunken stumbling, to getting lost and having to/being able to walk three miles round-trip to get back to Point A. Muscle mass is coming back; I can see better; I’m perkier; and I’m eating again.
All told, by the time I head back to Seattle, I will have seen three neurologists, three psychiatrists, three GPs and attended a variety of quirky self-help groups. And yet—surprise, surprise!—nobody knows what’s going on. The neurologists say it’s psychological, the psychologists say it’s neurological, and none of them are being evasive or condescending (except the neurologist who apparently took his medical training in the 1500s and hinted I was being an hysterical female. No lie. He actually managed to insert both the words “hysterical” and “female” close together into his diagnosis. Very smooth how he did it, too.). Sigh. How can a girl make important life decisions with this kind of iffy information?
In the meantime, the cats are doing well—although this week Benny almost ripped out a claw when he got his head and one front leg stuck in the handle of a crackly plastic bag and broke land speed records trying in vain to get away from the bag—and I am being spoiled.
Wait. Didn't this use to be a knitting blog?