From Dawn to Dusk

Later this afternoon I have an appointment with a new Lyme specialist. Until a couple of days ago I wasn’t nervous. Maybe the last minute rush of the holidays distracted me. My daughter being with her dad and not under my feet, gossiping about her day also leaves a void into which these troubling thoughts creep.

Which is ridiculous; even the worst that could happen doesn’t bear that great a threat here. There’s no reason to be nervous. The task of bringing forth a complete and concise personal narrative including lists of symptoms, treatments, reactions and so forth is daunting, to be sure, but nothing fearful. I spent much of yesterday afternoon gathering notes and creating a timeline since I know I’ll forget nearly everything relevant the minute my bum hits the waiting room chair.

So at least I’m prepared for the practicalities of the grueling marathon crammed into the timeframe of a sprint that will comprise the initial intake appointment. As much as I can be I suppose. The appointment is late in the day, and about thirty miles away, which wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t in the direction all of the other commuting lemmings will be heading. But I’m fortunate enough to have a comfortable vehicle and I just got two new CDs. Plus, if I time it right (and if the doctor is running as late as I suspect she’ll be), most of the lemmings should be off the road by the time I’m done and I should be able to make it home just before I hit my wall.

Now that the day has arrived, I wish I’d waited for an appointment later this month but earlier in the day. Or had asked my wife to take the afternoon off to go with me, hold my hand, and give me a red sucker if I’m a good girl and don’t cry. Crap. I didn’t used to be like this. On mornings like these, when I can remember being different from how I am today, I sometimes sit and wonder at the damage the spriochetes are doing to my brain. I miss it.

Early this past spring, when the decline in my cognitive abilities was most noticeable, I began wondering if I would find an increase in other abilities. If I was suddenly struggling with language, for instance, a medium as comfortable to me as air, then would I finally find myself able to sketch the way my porch railings threw shadows onto the worn slats? (Alas, I tried and the answer is no.)

Instead, what I found is that I’d rather sit with the setting sun on my face, eyes closed, ears open to the sounds around me than sit trying to trace what I see. I’ve also found that timing really is everything. My days have fallen into a natural rhythm: chores and tasks requiring language or planning skills are best done before noon; errands are best run between the hours of ten and one; bed is the best place for me to be between one and three (for myself and everyone else); and anything most effectively accomplished with limited cognitive interference will bear the best results if tackled before dawn or after dusk, as my brain is more than happy to comply with any and all requests for non-interference at those times of day. And with that I should sign off, bundle up, and go back out to my porch to watch the sun rise before I begin over-analyzing everything I’ve written and end up posting nothing at all.