Dance of the Cod Fish, Bizarre Happenings, and Bunny Longings

Dance of the Cod Fish, Bizarre Happenings, and Bunny Longings April 26, 2017


Are you ready to hear that story I promised about fainting? And a few other stories?

1. It’s not exactly a fainting story, as I didn’t exactly faint. But I did come close in Wal-Mart a few weeks ago. Typically, if I faint or nearly faint, it’s at Target or King Soopers. Although, there was that time I fainted at home as a kid. The time(s) I fainted in P.E. and got kicked out of class for it (haha! – the P.E. teacher didn’t want to have any responsibility for a girl who passes out during mandatory runs). And then there was last week, at home, when I blacked out four times. I have felt plenty sick in Wal-Mart before, but never to the extent I did a few weeks ago. Honestly, I don’t know what causes it for certain, but I know that during an episode, everything my autonomic nervous system is responsible for regulating goes haywire: heart beat, blood pressure, etc. All the involuntary bodily function people take for granted every day.

Anyway, Shaun always goes with me if I go grocery shopping, and this is why. He’s seen the way I’m fine one minute, about to hit the floor the next. Thankfully, he was with me during the Wal-Mart episode. We were standing in the peanut butter and jelly aisle, right? And it dawned on him that he hadn’t been able to find his raspberry jam at home lately. So he was asking me whether we have any, and as I was saying I thought we did, but wasn’t one hundred percent certain, blood started rushing from my limbs to my core. As if I was hypothermic. Only I wasn’t. My blood pressure dropped dramatically, my heart rate increased, my neck felt icy, icy cold (a new symptom for me). I don’t typically have a lot of strength anyway, but what strength I had that day left me. Meanwhile, Shaun was continuing his commentary about his dire need for raspberry jam. JAM. Not jelly. The stuff with the seeds in it. “Does the stuff at home have the seeds in it?” His words seemed to exit his mouth in slow-mo and were jumbled like freshly thrown dice.

Jelly. Jam. Jam or Jelly. I feel so confused …

Finally, I tossed what I was holding in my hand (honey, I believe) into the cart and slowly let out a soft  “Ohhhh nooooo.”

Shaun, thinking my twisted up face was due to his jam/jelly indecisiveness said, “What? It’s okay, it’s fine! I can settle for jelly!”

“Nooo, no, no” I said. “I am really sick.”

In front of God and whoever else was there, I bent over in an I’m-going-to-puke-any-second stance. Thankfully, Shaun knows what to do in these cases and simply grabbed my purse, gave me his arm, left the basket, and walked me to the car so I could get horizontal – always a helpful exercise when your blood pressure plummets, your heart thuds, and most of your muscles twitch and burn. Anyway, I made it to the car, made sure Shaun and I both had our phones, and sent him back in to finish up shopping, because no way I was going back in. Not for a long time. I haven’t been back since. I’ll probably have my groceries delivered this week (thank you, Wal-Mart!), as we don’t have a lot of leisurely time to spend on wandering the aisles of Wal-Mart. And because I have PTSD.

I’ll go back, eventually. I always do.

I’ve been ordering groceries online routinely anyway, since my walking troubles began. But the day of the fainting episode, my legs felt quite well, and I was determined to move my meat and get my blood flowing. So it’s frustrating, this thing we call chronic illness. Especially when you don’t know why crazy episodes happen. I know some of it’s due to neuro-muscular issues. But that’s all I know. There’s a plethora of neuro-muscular diseases, and then there are hundreds of variations of those diseases. So perhaps a little (or a lot) of patience is in order. And money. Except I’m finding that lucre really doesn’t grow on trees, so for now, I won’t seek anymore medical help unless it’s an emergency. My experience has been that you don’t receive a diagnosis until you’re nearly dead from whatever is ailing you. So, the good news is … I am not nearly dead? The bad news is that I must get closer to death and more wealthy before we solve this medical mystery. I mean, it could just be that seventeen years of eating a diet that would starve a pigeon might cause a human muscular/autonomic system to fail. There’s a concept.

And so on to more uplifting topics …

Or would you settle for bizarre?

2. I don’t like to use the word bizarre, unless whatever I’m speaking about is truly bizarre. But trust me, the haps outside my house are qualified to be pictured in Webster’s Dictionary as an example of bizarre (just like I could be pictured as an example of dramatic). Remember when I said I was afraid to step out on the street and get my mail? Four days later, yet another accident happened at the four way stop that’s relatively close to my mailbox. Just like the other wrecks that have happened since we moved in, we were sitting in the living room, windows open, enjoying a cool breeze, when we heard Scrrrrreeeeeeeech, honk, beep … CRASH!

And then one day later, another wreck! I was in a part of the house that prevented me from hearing the screeches, honks, beeps, and crashes. But when I made my way out to sweep off the deck, I heard a bunch of sirens. A bunch, I tell you. My town sends five police cars, two ambulances, and one or two fire trucks to every accident, no matter how big or small. I commend them though, because it generally only takes them three minutes to arrive. Anyway, as I was sweeping, the sirens got closer and closer, but I was still unaware of any accident, since I couldn’t see the four-way stop from my deck. The sirens blared louder and louder. Came closer and closer. Then it became obvious the fire truck was slowing to a stop.

Oh gosh. I hope my neighbor is okay, I thought, assuming the rescue team was pulling into her driveway. But they kept going until they reached the four way stop, the one (have I mentioned?) that’s not far from my mailbox. Two days in a row. The second accident being much more serious than the first. It is bizarre. I hope the authorities either start enforcing the stop signs and speed limits out there – or get a stop light. The two roads that intersect are busy, but they present like a down home country road. And if there’s anything I’ve learned about living in the country, it’s that when people think nobody is watching, they run stop signs. In some cases they’ll at least yield, but some fly by and never notice the sign. Or completely ignore the sign. There’s a motorcyclist who does it all the time, and I fear one day, I’ll be scraping his remains from my field.

I’ve considered calling the city and lobbying for a stoplight. Or running for mayor and insisting on a stoplight.

Yeah, that’s a good idea. Brenda Renee Coats for Mayor. Has a ring to it, no?

Okay, seriously. Time for a sweet story (of sorts).


3. I want a bunny. Maybe two bunnies. Or perhaps a couple of donkeys. Also, enough chickens to give me a fresh supply of eggs. A pair of baby goats. A garden. And a duck.

Two of this. Two of that. My abode is beginning to sound more like Noah’s Ark than Orchard House.

I also want some fruit trees. We planted berry bushes last year, and now we need an apple tree – or two – because they’ll need each other to … you know … mate, sort of. A peach tree. An apricot tree. And anything else that will make good pies and JAM. Not jelly. Very important to leave the seeds and other junky stuff in there so it gets sscthuck in yer theeth.

But back to the bunny or donkeys or goats. I need help deciding, so feel free to leave a comment and help me out (and also make me feel good about my writing). Truth is, I’m not a bushel full of energy, but I do much better at home, where I can be up for twenty minutes, down for a half hour, etc. It’s when I work consistently for long periods or go for long walks that I start performing (quite well) the fresh-out-of-water cod fish dance. So, perhaps I could handle a few pets? We either need to get a few pets, or grow a small garden, just to maintain our agricultural status. Truth is, I want to do it all. Other truth is that gardening, weeding especially, renders me nearly useless for two days. It is literally a pain in my neck. And back. And hips. And head. Perhaps our farm boy could work on the garden, and I could feed bunnies and goats or a few donkeys.

Problem with donkeys, see, is that they will outlive me and Shaun – unless by some miracle, we live past 80 and 85, and if you know us, well …. that’s a laughable prospect. Even more laughable is us at 80-something, traipsing out to the donkey shelter every morning to feed, water, and provide medical care in the snow before we even have time to pop in our false teeth. So bunnies would be good, as I could probably outlive them. And goats, too. Maybe. But donkeys? Yikes. What do you think, kids? Would you like to inherit some donkeys? When we are old and decrepit, you probably want to care for a few aaaas ….. errr, donkeys, right? Right? Right.

What’s that? Just get a duck?

I could. I’m reading a book though, entitled Enslaved by Ducks. I’m only twenty pages in, and so far, the author is talking about how a bunny named Binky, who lives in the house with him and his wife. So we’ll see how the duck thing goes. Right now, I’m still inclined toward the bunnies, but only if they live outside, because I am partial to my wooden furniture and electrical cords. And well, there’s got to be a reason the author titled the book Enslaved by DUCKS. Not bunnies. Not donkeys. Not goats. Still, it’d be sweet to have a Duck name Bill. Or Aflac. Or Goose.

That’s all, folks. My word count is up again. I have more stories. But next week, I’ll try to get back to being a real writer. This week, I was late getting my IV, and clearly have been operating with only half of a brain.

Until next week … toodle-oo. 

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