Tag Archives: Lyme disease

FROM THE LANAI: The Dream with Six Pages



I turned 60 on a Tuesday. Who turns 60 on a Tuesday? I “celebrated” with Stouffer’s Macaroni & Cheese; consumed a quarter portion, then nibbled through a quarter more. It was my birthday, after all. I didn’t know I had a problem with gluten. I only knew I never felt quite right and my intestines never worked properly.

No, 60 was to my life what 40 was to my vision. One can deal with contacts and glasses; but 60 can throw you right off the rails.

I had already contracted Lyme disease at 52 … undiagnosed with that crushing illness for more than two years … and surprisingly managed to limp out the other side. Moving to Florida gave my bones the warmth I needed and fate (God) placed me squarely within bicycle distance of a true yoga studio. The kind that celebrates spirit along with motion, intent with alignment.

Yoga helped me rise physically, a phoenix from the ashes.

At 63, however, yoga is not an option; it is a necessity. Weeks away from it, you can nearly feel your body crumble. Last week my ankle gave out; it’s an old skiing injury, broken in 3 places in 1965. Thank you Cubco bindings. I nearly had to crawl up my stairs.

Which, of course, leads one to wonder how long one can live alone in a place with stairs.

My mother has no problem with stairs.

Two years ago she did start having problems with math, computers, cooking, cleaning … and me. In two short years they had to close their antique shop because she couldn’t manage the accounting, let alone the taxes – and my stepfather was in no mood to pick up the slack. He told her they had to sell out, auction off. She was enraged. She started throwing tantrums; some at him, and some on the phone to me.

I donned the bullseye when I expressed concern about her memory and pushed my stepfather to take her to a neurologist. They saw in the diagnosis what they wanted to see. “Some” decline. They did not use the term that actually appeared in her paperwork; “cognitive impairment.”

A doctor friend told me that is senile dementia.

We expect to lose our parents through death; not by circumstance.

I finally yelled back in January. Thank God she hasn’t called back. I’m alone but not lonely – strong, but incredibly fragile. She was dragging me into her darkness. I had offered to help, but she needs none. I had offered to find them a place near me for the winters … but no.

I now realize that accepting my offers would have been a confession of age and weakness. While I freely admit my own, they both chose to write me off, out of their lives. They’ve broken my heart; I am newly orphaned.

I have been praying more, I have been meditating. I actually bought a comfortable bamboo sofa for my lanai; it’s the perfect place to commune with nature and achieve peace; but it’s not working.

Freelance projects have been coming in, so I can afford to go back to yoga. My body is regaining strength and balance. During class the inner pain dissolves, but it returns in the morning.

Every night I pray for my parents, loved ones and those who need it.

Every morning I wake to near total despair.

This morning I woke urgently repeating “272 and 273.”

As if a guardian angel told me YOU MUST NOT FORGET! Somewhat unnerved, I groped around for a pen and wrote the numbers in my dream diary.

As I started to wake, I decided to write why I was so sad. The words poured out as I let the straining pain off the leash.

Sad over Mom & my stepdad. “How do you do that to someone?” How does a mother write off her only child?

Sad that one of my clients is hiring kids who drop the ball and waste my best efforts.

Sad that there is no man in my life – and that my most beloved female friend has surrendered to fear and paranoia.

Sad that at this age it takes so much effort to stay mentally and physically functional.

And I wrote “Sad that I don’t know how to get happy again. I feel like my mother is dead but it’s almost worse because it’s near-conscious rejection of the bastard she never wanted.”

Awakening the Buddha Within was next to my pillow. I opened to page 272. It was about practicing the six perfections – generosity, virtue, patience, effort, meditation and wisdom. Always a good reminder. Page 273 emphasized “Making the effort to meditate daily.”

I’ve been doing that and my dreams are becoming more profound; suddenly strong enough to wake me up urgently repeating page numbers.

The second book in my bedroom was The Dreamer’s Book of the Dead. I was intending to read it “one day.”

Page 272 was about the parallel lives … a concept I don’t yet comprehend. It said “The professor explained that he had been tracking the interplay between personalities who lived in different times but were all connected by a common intelligence, a central identity.” Further down the page, it reads “We might discover that in our Now time, from a place of vision and power that is opened through Active Dreaming, we can move to commune and communicate with our counterparts across time and space, to help (and when necessary, correct) each other, share gifts and knowledge, and change the workings of karma in more than one lifetime.”

Page 273 describes the author’s own dream where “I was hurled into scenes of a savage time, with Viking longboats nearing the shore of a Scottish or Irish village. I found myself in the body and mind of a tribal king with red-gold hair. I could feel the weight of his armor and the heavy band of metal around his brow. It was a very physical experience, as he drove his warhorse at a desperate gallop against his people’s enemies.”

Again, it registered. I have a profound connection with my ancestors; I have experienced “dream memories” where you know the weight of your apparel and feel of the soil beneath your feet. To know spirit is to know there is no death.

OK. I felt a little better. Stronger. A little more connected.

I went downstairs and made coffee; there was one last book waiting for me on the lanai. The Essential Rumi, Translations by Coleman Barks. Rumi was a 13th Century Sufi mystic and poet. His poetry is like dark chocolates, potent in tiny bites.

Page 272 made me gasp; I nearly burst out crying. (The spacing is authentic to the book … the bold is mine.)

Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round
in another form. The child weaned from mother’s milk
now drinks wine and honey mixed.”

And on page 273, I was filled with awe as the loving messages were brought full circle.


“For hundreds of thousands of years I have been dust grains
floating and flying in the will of the air,
often forgetting ever being
in that state, but in sleep
I migrate back. I spring loose
from the four-branched, time-and-space cross,
this waiting room.

I walk into a huge pasture.
I nurse the milk of millennia.

Everyone does this in different ways.
Knowing that conscious decisions
and personal memory
are much too small a place to live,
every human being streams at night
into the loving nowhere, or during the day,
in some absorbing work.”

I hope these messages bring you the deep, long, cosmic hug they’ve brought me. I have a sense these messages were meant to be shared.

May you stream at night …


Into the Chipper


This photo is Facebook code for “just got off the phone with my mom.”


She has always been controlling and a little paranoid. I was illegitimate; she married quickly in an attempt to cover her tracks. But, of course, people know. It’s a delicious piece of gossip and the truth comes out eventually.

I found out at 25. I don’t have hard feelings about past deceptions; somehow she does.

In hindsight I realize she softened greatly when she noticed she was having memory problems; but soon there was no hiding it and I was worried. When she chose to stop using her computer to place orders for much-needed supplies, I warned her she was “cutting off a lifeline.” She hung up on me.

She forgot how to cook and make coffee. She forgot how to clean. She used laundry detergent in the dishwasher.

When I encouraged her – and my stepfather – to see a neurologist, I became the enemy. I didn’t want to be right. I know the ropes. My beloved Gram had dementia. I saw her in the ward every Sunday. That place was an education in how mean mothers can be to their daughters – and which words soothe and which offend.

When I heard my stepdad was going out of town and leaving her alone for a few weeks last summer, I volunteered to drive (1800 miles to bfe) to “hang out with her.” They are in a remote area near Lake Superior. It’s full Fargo with bears, wolves and mountain lions.

I bought her a gun for her 60th birthday. She used to put it in her pocket when she walked in the woods.

Does she still do that? Where is it now?

I wanted to go up and make sure she’d be ok, but the stepdad said “naw, she’ll be fine.”

The first time he left her alone, one of the dogs knocked her off the porch and she nearly busted her head on the pavement. Her shoulder broke the fall; naturally that hasn’t healed properly.

So he left again. Sure enough, she had another dog-related accident and wound up in the hospital. I made panic calls and insisted on driving up since he was making no plans to return and care for her. He was spending time with my stepbrother.

He said the neighbor would check in on her. Since when are neighbors responsible for your spouse.

I didn’t let up. Someone had to be with her. I didn’t blurt out my true fears – she’s already going goofy after dark. When will she start wandering?

I pushed and pushed and finally he blurted out “your mother doesn’t want you here.”

“Here” as if he was home instead of somewhere else. Which was the point of it all. Not that I blamed him. He’s old and frail and denial is a nice warm place to hide. It shouldn’t be like this; you marry a younger woman expecting she’ll take care of you – not the other way around.

Her communications with me changed. No longer one-on-one, they were hearsay-based. She heard (or suspected) I wanted to do this or that and started calling in rages – always at night. She roars her accusations and hangs up on me.

Some of what she says has the power to send me spiraling into my own special darkness. I can’t allow it. I moved here alone for my health. I have no one to lean on.

Recently my stepbrother decided to play peacemaker. We never needed one before she started her descent. He has suggested I need to become a better daughter. He only knows what she tells him, and she plays the victim card. I asked him who insisted on going up while his father was visiting. He was IN THE ROOM when I was told “your mother doesn’t want you here.”

She hates Florida. I have scouted winter digs and sent them information to no avail.

OK, I get it. You want to stay in your home. I’d want that too. I assured him my plan was to drive up and be with her in her big house so little will change after his father passes. I can’t stay in winter because my Lyme is too severe; a real winter would cripple me. But we could find someone else for the worst months.

I am single; expendable.

So comforted, he called to comfort her. I imagine she called me as soon as they hung up. She RAGED that she heard I wanted to live in her big house and take her money. Note that I live in Florida. I’m a freelance writer, I have local clients. I live in flip-flops and can walk to the gulf while they are up to their asses in snow. 

I was shaking. For the first time in my life I yelled back. YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO TALK TO ME LIKE THAT!

As per usual, she hung up on me. This time I earned it.

I haven’t heard from her in more than a month.

Friends who have been through this say I dodged a bullet because she wants nothing to do with me. Well, I didn’t really dodge it; it’s lodged in my being and a source of pain if I allow myself to go there.