Occam's Razor
And just like that…almost a month has passed since my last update. The last four weeks have been a blur, a slog, a fever dream, and the opposite of what I look forward to in September, which is a restart and return. Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, was last week. I always forget to take time to celebrate this holiday, and this year was no different, but as I’m sitting down to write this I realize that I have always held September beginning of the year, spiritually. The afterglow of a birthday on the second-to-last-day of August combined with the muscle memory of back-to-school excitement is a potent combination for us Virgos. Even without a new Mead folder and Esprit outfit, September always feels full of possibility.
But this month didn’t go according to plan. I spent the drive back from Portland on September 2nd running through the NEW FALL PROTOCOLS I would be starting on my return to Orcas (up at 5:30. Meditation and exercise. Write from 7-9. No sugar. Read from an analog book for :45 before bed, etc..) Never have I so wanted foundational routines to support my writing, my body, and my self-imposed directive to juggle multiple priorities, singlehandedly. And never before has it so hard, probably because of that last, hubristic objective. My drive back was supposed to be my psyche-up, but something felt off. Why did my scalp hurt? Why was my head pounding? Over the next few days, things only got worse and more mysterious. Joint pain. Brain fog. Ulcerating sores on my scalp and forehead. On the fourth day, when my eye swelled after a night of unbearable itchiness, I turned to the internet. It gave me several diagnoses to ponder, but one stood out among the rest: shingles.
How it started, where it went, how it's ending.
Shingles, as a friend phrased it, is an “absolute dick” of a virus, and anyone who has ever had it would agree. Once I realized what it likely was, I was able to get on a telehealth call quickly, and borrow some antivirals from a neighbor until the pharmacy opened the next day. When, a day later, the virus had breached my eyelid, I was able to get seen in a walk-in clinic immediately. When the clinic said, “You need to see an eye specialist right away!” I was on the phone with the local optometrist within an hour with an appointment booked and the assurance that despite the pain, itching, and swelling, I was not going to lose my vision. It’s a story with a happy ending and many endorsements for telehealth, Island Primary Care, and the entire team at San Juans Vision Source.
If you're enjoying Bucolia and would like to support my writing and the grand project of restoring this property, consider a paid subscription! As of now, none of my writing will be paywalled, but that may change in the future. And if you know anyone who would enjoy reading this, please spread the word.
Shingles shows up when your body is already knocked down by stress and/or a weakened immune system, which is also a perfect time for an obnoxious fungal overgrowth like candidiasis to show up. Turns out, the body does keep the does keep the score, and mine was 0-2. Thus in addition to antivirals, I added anti-fungals to my prescription count, about 5 new supplements, and joyless diet.
The other morning, I was laying in bed (well after my ‘up and at ‘em 5:30 wake time) thinking, “why all of this, now?” and two words came into my head. Two words that had perhaps been circling my consciousness like the vultures I watch from my window, gripped my waking mind with its talons and carried me off into the sky in a panic: toxic mold. Long-term mold exposure would explain the dismantling of my immune system, though all of my symptoms starting while I was away from the possible sources (down in Portland) doesn’t. Nevertheless, it got me on my feet with my moisture meter, looking for areas of moisture and/or contamination. It wasn’t long before I found a leak in the roof over the utility room, an extremely creepy part of the house that is only accessible from the outside, containing an ancient wood boiling furnace, propane furnace, and water heater. Copious black mold. This is a part of the house where I spend virtually no time, but what's more concerning is that while I’ve been in this in-between stage of not really knowing where I want my bedroom to go, I’ve been sleeping in a carpeted room on the other side of the house, on a mattress without a bed frame, i.e. directly on floor. This has turned out to be a bad idea. The moisture readings around the bed were predictably high. Whether I chose a particularly bad spot is mostly irrelevant, considering I live approximately 200 meters from the sea, in an old home, in the Pacific Northwest. Whether my ill-conceived mattress placement is the underlying cause of my health issues? It might be the Occam's razor of it all. Today, the mattress is propped upright. I’m sleeping upstairs in a twin bed with a real frame. This week the roof will get repaired, the moldy materials removed, and some questionable flooring opened up. Two air purifiers and a dehumidifier are arriving soon. Life goes on.
There is so much more to report: Clayton, who lived in the cabin since June, went back to LA. The apples are almost over, but the Asian pear trees have just started. The tansy ragwort is acting like I didn’t just spend the last 3.5 months pulling up thousands of rosettes, roots, and flowers. Last week I cooked some bacon and dumped the grease on some scotch boom at the furthest part of the property. This morning Sarge, who has been on bedrest nursing a sprain, disappeared for a long time and returned with his head covered in an applewood-smoked conditioning treatment.
September’s been a trial, and possibly a mere prelude for the next 6 months of cold and darkness to come. Still. This morning, while brushing my teeth on the deck, I spotted a crimson fleck in the distance. A perfect red apple hung from the branch of a tree I’d never noticed. I pulled it down, and it was already half-eaten by birds. But that apple was blocking my view of another one, on a taller branch. A little smaller, a little less Disney-perfect, it was unmolested by bird or bug. A different variety than the other trees, which I think are much older. They all need to be pruned this winter, and it makes me so curious to see what this place will look like a year from now. I'll keep making a home here for as long as an apple can still get me excited.
If you're enjoying Bucolia and would like to support my writing and the grand project of restoring this property, consider a paid subscription! As of now, none of my writing will be paywalled, but that may change in the future. And if you know anyone who would enjoy reading this, please spread the word.