Wheelchairs at OK Corrral

(sorry to be so delayed. I’ll try to be once a week hereafter.)

Montreal is no longer on the bottom of my list of airports. Toronto is.
When I ordered wheelchairs at Montreal, we got them and wowwee! We had a ride through the whole airport at top speed.
In Toronto, one wheelchair showed up at the door to the airplane. So Bernie got in and I said, let’s go. (We had a plane to catch, after all.)
Bernie was wheeled into an open area with many others, mostly elderly Asians. More of every variety kept coming on the motorized buggies airports use. A very irritable man was in charge. He kept track of everyone and got them their wheelchairs.
But, poor creatures, they didn’t know much English, or French. One man kept waving his declaration–the one you need to get through customs–: are you carrying any handguns? fruit? hashish? And the irritable man kept saying, I can’t fill that out. You do.
We did get someone to push Bernie through baggage claim, get a trolley for same baggage, through customs, stop at the men’s room, get us into the one lane checking through inspection for all a huge terminal. Too excited, I forgot to pull out my computer and my bottle of water. Everything stopped. I cursed to myself and apologized. I think. Then to Gate 34.
Then I couldn’t find my ticket. Wait, said the agent. OK. Omygod. Nope, she just printed another one.
And then the rental car guy… Never mind. I don’t mind driving off in a car with no gas. Do you?


Sleeping Again

The process of remodeling my sleep has taken longer than I thought it would and with way too much work.
I didn’t understand what it meant, to be over-medicated. I didn’t know I was, although once both my sleep doctors said it and talked of the half-life of meds, I began to understand. Once you’ve taken a med, it works and then, after a time, sometimes a long time, it fades from your body.
It’s the “fading away” time they were concerned with. I was taking 250 mg. of Trazadone and it never faded away before I took my next dose. Without knowing it, I was walking around each day with who knows how much Trazadone in me.
Trazadone was designed to work as an anti-depressant. But a therapeutic, i.e. effective dose, was around 250 mg a day. Unfortunately, the patients fell asleep. As a low dose, it is very good for some people as an aid to sleeping through the night. Note that: sleep through the night, not fall asleep.
As time passed, I kept demanding higher and higher doses of Trazadone. At least that’s what I think I did. And still I had trouble falling asleep. Before my new sleep regime, I felt the effects of all that medication in my body, but I thought I was tired because I had fibromyalgia. All my dopiness was fibromyalgia. I was tired all the time. Fibromyalgia again. Some mornings, I couldn’t take a walk or go to yoga class.

And now……. (to be continued)


Do you like manicures, the ones you do at home for yourself? Do you take the time to do them right and pamper yourself?
Or do you look at your lenghthening nails and snarl at them? That’s me. Why do they have to keep growing? Now take winter, winter is a good time to stop growing and take a rest. You’d think they’d like that–just a little white half-moon showing.
Where are my white half-moons? There are none on my nails. And my nails–like a washboard. If I cover them with clear polish the washboard effect disappears. They look elegant.
But then I have to take the polish off.
I’ve been using Vitamin E cuticle oil on them and they like that. Maybe they’ll be so happy with that, they’ll take a break and stop growing.
Over my shoulder, I can hear you: Elinor, if they stop growing, you’re dead.
There is that problem. Unless…they don’t keep growing do they, in the coffin?
No–only to bad people.
Not me.


It’s hard to stay in a state of exhilaration for very long. Yesterday that was me. Everything was right: the sun was shining after days of gloom, the air was clean, I was well rested, I had my walk to look forward to. I felt good, at the very least, all day.
Now it’s Monday and the sun is shining again, but I just feel…normal. As a life-long depressive, sometimes when I fell normal, it feels down. So I say: Great! You’re fine, sun is out, you’re just being average and average is fine.
You know, don’t you, that everyone in the U.S. considers themselves above average? “How’s your driving?” “Good, yeah, ok.”
“Are you average, above average or below average?”
“Oh, above average. Better than that jerk, my brother-in-law.”
Come to think of it, average is probably un-American. I’d best throw this away.