Memories

 saturday

Saturday was one very slow day. It was foggy all day, but there was no rain. All the snow is slowly disappearing, but Sheba was sill ill inclined to walk, so our walks were short. And all I did was read and putter. But I had a lovely Facetime with David, who’s still not over the joys of his visit at Christmas.

The worst thing about yesterday was discovering that many of my raspberry canes are destroyed and my fence around my edible garden is broken because several huge branches, one of which is so big I can’t life it, fell onto my garden and fence. Come the next sunny day, I’ll have to take the chain saw to the branches and tote them to the backyard, behind the fence.

 

sunday

There is nothing in the forecast but rain. However, I when I go out for wood, every time I do, I marvel at the beauty of the outdoors. It smells good, it feels good; I love being inside by the fire, but when it’s warm-ish and not raising, it’s a wonderful comfortable Winter we get. I can’t imagine a better place to be in Canada, for a person in my condition.

As I’ve written before, I keep thinking back through this new lens of understanding. For example: Out of nowhere, a thought comes into my head. I think, “I never got any presents.” It came to mind as further evidence of the neglect. And then I thought, wait a minute, there was the polar bear, the speed boat, and the artifacts. And immediately, comes the realization, they were all from other people, not my custodians. 

I’m overwhelmed and shocked by what I’ve come to understand about myself due to having a nervous breakdown. Plus, the narrative of cause has shocked me. 

I’ve referred to my life since mid-October as post second coming. Something happened, like a shock wave, and now I have worse symptoms, plus new physical ones that were horrid. I think of the second coming as an aftershock of my breakdown. And I know it ain’t over. This is a journey. and I am not the navigator.

Another example of a recalled memory: I remember being a kid of 7 or 8 and on the ferry to one of the Gulf Islands or Vancouver Island. I was standing on something to allow me to better see the view, and the boat sounded its horn. And I almost went overboard. Thereafter, I would not get out of the car until after the horn went, and that always angered Don.

Since my breakdown, I am toxically reactive to sound. That’s why I sought the silence of rural Gabriola, and why sudden edits, in film, into loud sound makes me grossly overreact physically. That memory tells me my issues have always been there, my breakdown just amplified the reaction.

Something rather wonderful happened.

Alerted by a local FND Facebook group, I listened to a podcast of a very eloquent speech therapist who was advocating for a change in government policies to benefit chronically disabled people with FND. Her concern is for people needing care as well as a residence. The moderator was a physician. 

She described various subgroups of the FND family. Her groupings concern the nature of the experience at the rood of the FND diagnosis. I was a perfect example of one group, and she said something I already know: I’m not going to get better. But when you hear someone else say it, especially an experienced voice, it’s shocking, and it hurts.

But …

She also spoke about ‘diversion’ as a way for people like me (speech impaired) to give a boost to fluency. She’s used marbles, beads, and finger exercises to accomplish divergence with her patients. She has her patients sort the marbles and to tell her about anything at all. I’d they’d be fluent.

So, I tried it, and it worked. But again, it’s odd. But when I’m struggling, and that’s been happening a lot lately, I’m going to use finger exercises. I touch my little finger with my thumb on one hand, and then I do the same thing on the other. Then I’ll touch three fingers with my thumb on one hand, and then so the same on the other. And while I do that, I speak, not perfectly, mut more comfortably and quickly.

Whatever works.

•

Last night I watched Conversations with my Gardiner on Kanopy. When the film opens, we see a road as some credits, barely visible in white, happen. It’s the golden hour and tall grass sways outside the fence of a farmer’s field. The light is misty and glows. There are trees and my heart is beating. I am hooked and there’s still credits rolling.

The story unfolds in rural France. The Gardner and his family go to Nice and walk along Promenade des Anglais. A film about two men finding friendship in each other, but in a paid master-servant relationship at the same time It’s lovely. It’s all dialogue, that’s quick and witty, and I loved it.

I spent just over a year in Nice, and I’d usually stay in Nice, but also, in a small village just north of Nice. And my friend Beth invited me to stay with her in her friend, Lynn’s house in Gordes, with a car, as I remember, and a pool. My friends and I rented a house in Autoir for a few weeks. These visits to France are when I feel that God loves me most. How could I not love this film?