This Is It Then

I've dodged a couple of bullets over the past week.  The first one was my back.  Woke up one morning with it aching all down one side.  For no apparent reason.  Because I was keeping a low profile, remember?  Not doing anything during which I could hurt myself.  It wasn't until several days later when I threatened my back with a visit to the chiropractor that it stopped hurting.  Bullet #1.

Same day as the aching back I was convinced I had blown the rotator cuff in my left arm.  Having blown the one in my right arm, I knew what it felt like. Aching, throbbing pain.  Unable to life it to the side without the help of my other arm.  Lying in bed at night and not knowing where to put it.  Out came the bag of frozen peas and the exercise bands.  A week later it feels right as rain.  Whew!  Bullet #2.

Bullet #3 I wasn't even aware I was dodging.  I've spent the past week not knowing if I'm excited, nervous, hungry or sick.  Queasy stomach, light headed, massive heat waves -- not hot flashes...trust me, I know the difference.  Figured it was just nerves setting in.  But the thought of getting on a plane feeling like that was less than appealing.  Today, the day before lift-off, I feel fine.  Had it been nerves, I think today would be the worst.  So now I'm thinking I had a little touch of something which has miraculously disappeared.  Whew!

Final bullet -- the wart.  While I don't think the freezing has killed it, at least it doesn't hurt anymore.  Well not more than it did before the freezing anyway.

And so I'm ready to go.  Oh I'm not packed just yet, but hey, how long does it take to stuff a T-shirt and an extra pair of socks and underwear into a backpack.  The house is clean, the beds are changed, the towels are freshly laundered.  I've figured out why I clean before I travel -- burns off energy but doesn't require fine motor skills.  No way would I have been able to cut glass this week.

In reality my Camino starts with my first step out my door.  But before I take that first "official step" in France I will have traveled by car, boat, plane and train.  I've got Steven Martin and John Candy beat by one.  People ask why I'm doing this "pilgrimage."  I understand it's a major topic of conversation on the Camino itself.  Definitely not for religious reasons.  I think my standard answer will be, "Ask me when I'm done."  Because I don't really know why, other than I feel drawn to it.  I'm leaving behind reading material and my IPod because I want to be present and "in the moment."  So I'm just going to let the universe be my guide and "enlighten" me as to my purpose.

Maybe in the end it will just be a nice long walk.

Go Short Or Go Home

I have short hair.  Correction -- I HAD short hair.  Now I have really really really short hair.  The only time I've been shorter than this was during one of those head shave fund raisers for Cops for Cancer.  Went down to about a quarter inch all over.  And loved it.  Love love loved it.  Discovered that I have a good shaped head for the bald look.  With the exception of a huge scar on the back of my head that was the result of an ill thought out snowmobile misadventure.  Let me put it this way -- never ride sitting backwards on a snowmobile sans helmet whilst towing a toboggan across a frozen lake in the dark.  You don't realize you've hit an ice fishing hole until you've landed on your head.

So here is my new Camino "do."  The best parts of going this short?...

...save time getting ready
...shorter showers
...bye-bye hat head
...when it's hot, I'm cool
...eliminates the wind blown look
...the feel of rain on my scalp


But the very best part?  All of my hair care products fit into the palm of my hand.  And that, my friends, is worth its weight in gold.

'Cause you know on this trip, it's all about the weight.


Book Review:  Odd that the next book I read following the tale of Maud with Alzheimer's in Elizabeth is Missing is about Ben with Alzheimer's in Stars Go Blue.  Both authors captured the frustration of the afflicted and their caregivers alike and both had well crafted stories beyond the disease.  I preferred the first, perhaps for no other reason than it was the first of the two.

Pardon My Franish

Well I did it -- finished my Spanish language program.  I did each of the thirty lessons twice and I'm almost half way through reviewing them again.  The good thing is that the review lessons seem soooo easy now; the bad thing is that these thirty lessons are only Level I of IV.  But the library doesn't carry the more advanced CD's and I wasn't going to pay the big bucks to buy them.

So I would say I have a basic rudimentary start -- I can eat and drink, follow directions and greet someone morning, afternoon or night   I can tell time (in 15 minute increments) and count to 999.  I know the 5 W's, although in Spanish they are 3 Q's, 1 D and 1 P.  I can come and go, speak and tell, buy and pay, study and learn, wait, help, and live.  If something is excellent, interesting or too much, I can say that too.  And lots of stuff in between.

In Spanish, V's sound like B's, two LL's sound like Y, H makes no sound at all, and I still can't figure out what they hell they're doing with the letter G. Add an Ai, Ee, or O sound to the end of any word and you're pretty much guaranteed it will make some sort of sense.

And when all else fails, and I don't know the word, I throw in the French equivalent.  Sometimes I don't even remember if the word I'm using is Spanish or French.  I have a new found appreciation for anyone who can speak multiple languages.  How do they keep it all straight in their brain?

Bottom line?  I'm heading to Spain having made the effort to attempt to be able to communicate in the native language and I'm sure I'll pick up some more along the way.  And when that doesn't work?  The universality of smiling and hand gestures goes a long way.

But I will never ever ever simply resort to TALKING LOUDER.


Book Review:  Read this book and I'm pretty sure you will know what it feels like inside the brain of a person suffering Alzheimer's.  Told in first person by 82 year old Maud, the novel goes back and forth from the present as Maud struggles to figure out what happened to her friend, Elizabeth, to the distant past as Maud recollects the disappearance of her sister, Sukey.  Emma Healey paints the most thoroughly believable picture of this disease that I have ever read.  And it broke my heart.  Highly recommended.

This May Have Been A Mistake

I procrastinate, I admit it.  This time it may come back to bite me.  No, not in the ass.  In the foot.

Famous last words from my doctor -- "Shell, if something hurts for a month, get it looked at."  He uttered these words after I'd put up with years of pain from an injured rotator cuff.  So did I take his words to heart?  No, I did not.

Back in May I developed a sore spot on the bottom of my foot.  Attributed it to using the foot, clad in inappropriate-for-the-task footwear, to push the shovel into the ground while turning my veggie garden. Then the sore spot got hard and I figured it was a callus.  Several times over the summer I thought, "I really should get this looked at."  But did I?  No, I did not.  When I was at the doctor in July for a routine prescription refill I thought, "I really should ask about that sore spot on my foot."  But did I?  No, I did not. 'Cause it wasn't bothering me that day.

This past week it started getting really sore and it's right on a pressure point on the ball of my foot.  "Hmmm," I thought, "maybe I should get this looked at before I attempt to walk 800 km on it across varied terrain."  And I actually followed up on that thought.  Toodled off to see the doc and he confirmed what I'd been fearing all along -- wart.  Plantar wart.  Very hard to get rid, he says.  But as it's a virus it will go away on his own.  No time frame for that though.

But, if I wanted, he could freeze it with some liquid nitrogen, may help to kill the cells.  When he assured me it would leave no hole in my foot I decided to go for it.  I've had liquid nitrogen and it stings a bit towards the end of the treatment.  But, holy shit, the pain a few minutes afterwards is intense.  I was standing at the reception desk making an appointment for round two when the burning set in.  OMG!  This freakin' hurts.  With a sly smile the doctor tossed me a packet of Advil Liqui-Gels.  Gee, thanks.

And now it hurts more than ever to walk on.  Of course I did the research on cryotherapy for warts after the treatment.  Most require one to four treatments with one to three weeks in between.  I have time for two with three days in between.  The pain can last three days and healing takes seven to fourteen days.  I've got seven days after my second treatment. When I got to the part about blisters and pus and infection I stopped reading. Now only time will tell if my biggest mistake was waiting to have it treated.

Or that I opted to have it treated at all.

The Devil Is In The Details

It's harder than ya think, chucking your life aside for a couple of months. There are still things that have to be attended to even if you're not there to attend to them.  Requires lots of planning ahead and running around like the proverbial headless chicken.  So how can it be that I'm sitting here, feet up, enjoying a nice cervesa fria?  It's because I've drained my head of the copious amount of flotsam that has been floating about on my brain waves. Yup, I took some time today and made lists.

I've currently got four on the go, each one a living document that can be added to when things creep into my head space.  Better on the paper than risk loosing it in the nether regions of my brain.  Because I'm at that age where I forget shit really fast.  Until I close my eyes to go to sleep.  Then everything I've forgotten during the day is suddenly front and centre.  The two big lists are the Between Now and Then List and the Just Before I Leave List.  There's also the Stuff To Buy List and the Have To Do Out Of Town List.  

I'm fairly certain there's nothing left to do for the actual trip itself.  I've bought my travel insurance.  I have Euros.  I've checked ferry and bus schedules for getting to the airport (living on an island adds a whole other component to the travel experience.)  I've checked train schedules at the other end.  I've even done the advance research on how to get from Spain to Italy and back to France for my little side journey when I've finished my Camino.  The not knowing what travel dates I'll need to book on the other side makes that an exercise in extreme frustration.  But at least I have some idea which airlines fly where in Europe and some approximate dates.

So basically I could load up my pack and leave tomorrow.  Except for all the stuff on those four lists.  Stuff like buy dog food.  Pay all bills in advance. Clean the bird cage.  Mow the lawn.  Go over shit with the kid.  The kid...she's almost 20 but I seriously doubt she's ever turned on the dishwasher.  Or shoved a flea pill down the dog's throat, because she won't even take it in a piece of cheese -- the dog, not the kid.

And then there's the ever popular clean the house.  Why is it when we go away for any amount of time we feel compelled to clean the house?  The very same house that we don't feel compelled to clean when we're home and living in it?  One of life's great mysteries.  But I'll do it all the same.  And the satisfaction of crossing things off those lists?  Priceless.

Now I just have to keep an eye on that damned volcano.          

Keeping A Low Profile

Love the practice or hate it, I'm down to counting sleeps until the big day.  I was doing a little googling, trying to find the origin of counting sleeps but all that kept coming up was stuff about counting sheep.  Although I did happen onto one parental web site that had a long, long thread by people getting really pissed off with the whole notion of adults using the concept of counting sleeps.  Surely there are more important things in life to get pissed off about. How about war?  Genocide?  Ebola outbreaks?  No, for these folks it was the childless, immature act of using the number of sleeps to calculate the time until an event.  But if you really think about it, counting the number of times you will sleep before something happens is the most accurate way to do it.  If you count days, do you count the day you leave, or the day you're on when you start?  See what I'm saying...there are a couple of grey areas.  Counting sleeps is precise.  Except, I suppose, if you're an insomniac and can't sleep. Then you're really screwed on all counts and you're probably just going to be tired and bitchy by the time the big day arrives anyway.

All this to say -- THIRTEEN MORE SLEEPS!

And because I'm getting down to it, I've decided it's time to start keeping a low profile.  You know, so I don't do anything stupid that will prevent me from even starting out on this adventure.  For example...

The other day I was on the downhill portion of a hike with the kid and a rare for these parts thunder and lightning storm hit.  "Do you die if you get hit by lightning?" she wanted to know.  "Depends."  Good succinct answer, mom. "Probably mess you up for while," she surmised.  "Yeah, a good long while." Happy to report we made it down without getting hit by lightning.  I was more concerned with turning an ankle on the steeper, loose gravel portions. 'Cause that would be my luck.

Then there was that foray into the garden to pick some ripe tomatoes.  The fence around the garden is only knee high so it's an easy step up and over. Coming back out you have to step over and then down as the garden is raised.  And apparently flip flops are not appropriate footwear for this type of activity.  I caught the toe of one foot on the fence and did a twisting slow motion face plant to the ground.  My first thought was, "please don't let me have wrecked my flip flops."  Hey, I have my priorities -- they were the $80 pair of Vionics that I bought for the Camino after all.  My second thought was, "please don't let me have broken my toes."  Third, "or wrecked my back." Thankfully, nothing that a little ice for the swelling and bruising didn't cure. But close...oh, so close.

Until I walked full tilt face first into a cupboard door.  I've nearly done it a million times -- it's an upper cupboard door in the kitchen that is right beside the doorway into the hall.  If the cupboard door is open, it blocks part of the doorway.  I had taken something out of the cupboard and was going to put it right back so left the door open.  Then I got distracted and decided I needed something in another room and walked -- wham -- face first into it.  After staggering about until I regained my bearings I felt around to make sure that my glasses were intact and that they hadn't permanently embedded themselves into my face.  Lucky on both counts.

But by now I'm thinking my luck bank could be running low.  No more hikes for me, just incline treadmill workouts in the safety of my basement.  And I'm retiring the flip flops in favour of supportive, secure running shoes when doing all other things.  I'm looking both way before I cross the street, always on the green.  I no longer run with scissors or drink expired milk.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go put the finishing touches on my tin foil hat.


Book Review:  That Night is the story of two people imprisoned for a murder they claim they did not commit.  The narrative is very fluid going back and forth from the present when they are released to the events leading up to the murder and their time in jail.  Chevy Stevens nicely captures the nasty bullying milieu of teenage girls.  Probably the best of the four novels she's written.  But I wasn't overly jazzed by the ending.  Oh well.

My Biggest Fear

I live in a rural area.  Deer and racoons invade my garden and bird feeders on a nightly basis. There is an eagle that perches in a tree down the road at the dairy farm who dines regularly on unsuspecting kittens who have ventured too far from the barns.  I cut down my last remaining apple tree after the bears ripped it limb from limb.  A mama bear and two cubs have been spotted regularly in the trails where I hike.  There have been recent sightings of a cougar in the area as well.  One listens to the warnings and takes the requisite precautions.  I talk out loud when approaching blind corners in the bush; I turn around frequently to check for sneaky cats.  But afraid?  Nope, not the slightest. Okay, snakes...I don't like running into snakes.

But the the thing that makes me shudder, that makes me want to run screaming in the other direction doesn't slither like a snake.  It's smaller than a bear and stealthier than a cougar.  It has no fear and will bring all its friends when the attack begins.  I'm talking bedbugs.  I live in fear of getting infested when I'm on my Camino.  It's not so much the bites that I'm worried about, although they can look pretty hideous.  It's disinfecting all my gear.  I mean, once they're in a down sleeping bag how does one get rid of them? And once they're in one thing, they're in everything.  I picture myself sitting naked on a sunny hilltop with my pack and all its contents in a garbage bag trying to roast the things to death.

Being a conscientious pilgrim I decided I better do so some research into how to prevent an infestation.  Seems like prevention should be easier than elimination.  Apparently not.  The most common advice in the Camino forums was to pack a sheet that had previously been soaked in a chemical called permathrin and put this down on the mattress.  Don't know as I like the idea of sleeping every night in a chemical cocoon.  

So I've decided to approach this as I'm doing every other aspect of this trip -- I'm playing it by ear.  I know the signs to look for and if I get even a hint that bedbugs are lurking, I'll be hightailing it to another place to spend the night. And if that doesn't work?  

Well, look for me sitting naked on a sunny hilltop.

Book Review:  I was really looking forward to reading Bird Box, the debut novel by Josh Malerman.  It was being touted as the most horrifying novel to emerge in recent years.  Hmmm...horrifying?  Not so much.  I thought it was sort of a cross between Cormac McCarthy's The Road and Richard Matheson's I Am Legend.  Good read but depressing in that end of the world sort of way.  

Knocked off another early Michael Connelly novel.  The Last Coyote is #4 in the Harry Bosch series.  One of his better efforts, I think.  Good solid mystery.

Every now and then I like to read some non-fiction, mostly true crime (go figure).  But it has to be well written.  No Anne Rule for me.  Under the Bridge by Rebecca Godfrey is an account of the murder of Reena Virk in Victoria in 1997.  I found it particularly compelling given that it happened here on Vancouver Island and I've met and worked with some of the prosecutors and the pathologist.  But I wondered why some of the names of the guilty were changed, especially when they are readily available in any news account on the internet.