Lynn's blog

I'm sitting here at home, waiting for the all-clear from the novel coronavirus incursion, almost sheltering-in-place but not quite; the mayor and the governor haven't made that call yet. I don't know what's going to happen. If ever I wondered what it felt like when the Great Depression hit, I know now, because we are shearing suddenly down that path.

Friday was the fifth anniversary of the stroke that nearly killed me. I didn’t forget the day, I just ran out of time to write down my thoughts. I am wearing, for a couple of hours a day, a temporary prism on my right eye, an occlusion on my left, and no eye patch; they’ve set me back to where I was three years ago. I’m also using a keyboard, which used to be a part of my body and which hasn’t been touched in some months. Forgive me if I’m even more fragmented than usual.

Here is how it probably went between Stewart Dog, an extremely friendly little guy, and Blackberry Kitty, our very aloof cat:

HI MY NAME IS STEWART I AM A DOG I AM A GOOD DOG HELLO KITTY YOU MUST BE THE ONE THE BOSS CALLS BLACKBERRY OH HELP OH YOU HIT ME HOW COME OH HELP I WILL STAND WAY WAY OVER HERE OH DEAR

dont come anywhere near me unless i say its ok and im not saying anything in fact im pissed as hell wtf

I AM NOT LOOKING AT YOU I AM LOOKING OVER HERE INSTEAD OH DEAR

you damn straight youre not looking at me you damn dog

———————-

I've had difficulty walking since the stroke, unsurprisingly. (My gods, I'm happy to be walking at all.) When I walk, I walk lower to the ground on my right; it gives me a sort of rolling gait. It's bothered me for some time, but its cause seemed to be inherent to the stroke.

I was walking back from the credit union this morning when I made a realization: it's not that my leg is shorter, my hip is lower.

It's been three and a half years since the stroke. In that time, I have gone from lying prone unable even to pee by myself, to a wheelchair, to dragging myself along with a walker, to a four-pronged cane, finally to a single cane.

HI MY NAME IS OLAF I AM A DOG I WANT TO SIT ON THE LAP OF MY BOSS HOW DO I DO THAT

HI MY NAME IS STEWART I AM A DOG I AM A GOOD DOG I SIT ON THE LAP OF MY BOSS ALL THE TIME I DO NOT SIT ANYWHERE ELSE I GUESS WHERE DO YOU SIT I CANNOT IMAGINE SITTING ANYWHERE ELSE BUT THEN THE BOSS SAYS I DO NOT HAVE A GOOD IMAGINATION I DO NOT KNOW WHAT AN IMAGINATION IS OH WELL ANYWAY

I originally published this with my friend's identity clear. I had to substitute the name when a family member changed their mind and asked me to remove it. I stand by what I wrote, though. It is honestly how I felt about my friend. I miss her so very much.

One of my oldest and dearest friends died in October. I just found out from her dad, who found traces of me in her things.

I’m listening to Hrishikesh Hirway’s podcast Song Exploder. The song “Bike Dream” by Rostam is on; he dissects each part of the song as he writes it. It’s oddly moving. In it, Rostam describes an idyllic relationship; he doesn’t say so explicitly in the song, but he volunteers in this telling that he is gay.

I start thinking on sexuality, a familiar, intimate topic in any event, and one I revisit often. These days, it is closer to me than usual—since the stroke, and since menopause. I’m finally coming out of both of them, hampered in the first case with vertigo, and in the second with an aversion to sex. While I'm still dealing with the vertigo, I’m discovering my sexuality is reawakening post-menopause. And it’s a relief, this rediscovery of my body.

Why this body, though? Ah. Why.