Adjusting to "Normal"

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

Most of the snow is gone now, replaced by mud two to three inches deep. The water pools and puddles on the surface, nowhere to go.

Of course, they say we have an 80% of more on Friday, measured in inches. Hard to believe when it was 54 today and I was outside in a T-shirt in jeans.

The light lasts longer now, measurably so. Oddly, that doesn't feel like a good thing, since we should be getting January's weather instead of May's, but the calendar and the mercury don't seem to be on speaking terms anymore.

The dogs have been shedding their winter coats since Thanksgiving; the horses are following suit. The chickens are laying, on average, 6 or 7 eggs a day right now, despite their raggedy molt garb. Normally, we'd go four or five months without fresh eggs. Some of them are normal-sized, too, but at least a couple of the girls are dropping eggs of monstrous proportions; they won't even fit in the cartons. They're wonderful, but I have to wonder whether this is normal — or if, like me (and like the very climate itself), this is their "new normal." 

I have no "normal" anymore; I think I've finally surrendered to that realization. Part of it is the sure and certain knowledge that climate (and with it, weather) upheaval will only increase, and autoimmune diseases are notoriously weather-affected. Part of it is that it's clear that something is changing, fundamentally, and weather it shows up in bloodwork and whatever other tests modern medicine devises or not, it's there, and I have to find a way to adjust.

I haven't yet.  

One day, I feel almost like myself — I mean, the "new" me, the post-diagnosis me, which of course has been "me" for decades now. I suppose it's like looking in the mirror; no matter what the glass says, your brain insists on reading the image as yourself at 20.

Then there are the days like these, when I don't even recognize the person in the reflection. I've always known that AI disease is a constant stream of ups and downs, but the peaks and troughs used to be relatively predictable in appearance. These days, it's mostly one very long trough. It brings to mind grade-school geography and the Marianas Trench.

We're at 7,500 feet here, so that's a hell of a drop.

There's one other problem with the trough: It requires slogging through cubic feet of heavy water and mud. That slows me down. A lot. So posts will be late a lot. Responses will be late. I'll space things, because when I'm this deep in the trough, the brain fog isn't fog anymore; it's a form of mental drowning, and my memory of my to-do list is the first to get swamped. If I say I'll do something and forget, it's just that: I've forgotten. Not intentionally; it's just the way my brain is right now. 

So bear with me. We've all got a lot of adjusting ahead of us, some of us more than others. 

In the meantime, I'm swimming — or at least treading water — as fast as I can. 

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.