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The Short (ish), but Important Story of a Sauna Or: How an eclectically eccentric village* came together to raise (up), this broken child.

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Hot-Box

Background:

You may or may not know that my body has been invaded by the Triple B threat of Borrelia (1) Babesia (2) and Bartonella (3).  You may or may not care. You may or may not understand how insidious they are, the myriad myths (4) attached to them, the damages they cause, the havocs they wreak on every.single.living cell in the human body, every.single.life-sustaining.system and organ (5), or the dignity-affronting disdain, with which people like me, are (mis)treated.

People like me who were either mis- or un-diagnosed, or simply dis-regarded by so-called professionals in the sick-care system, and Joe and Jane ‘normal,’ alike. People like me for whom current mainstream and/or first lines of treatment are not only ineffective, but more often than not, make things worse, because the bugs are skilled adapters, persisters, and have the capacity to morph into different forms, to hide, in their ‘host,’ in this case, me. People like me who have concrete proof to present (e.g. MRI, ECG and other test results), but are repeatedly told that things like the lesions in our brains, the heart issues and so on and so on, are unrelated random, symptoms. People like me whose bodies are under siege by ever-growing armies of bacteria and/or malaria-like blood parasites. People like me who are categorically dismissed, left to our own devices, our own financial and other resources, with waning physical energies and often severely challenged cognitive capacities (because don’t forget, there is a bacterial and/or parasitic battle for territory, going on in our bodies/brains). People like me, are left to figure things out, or sadly, to just go away because even trying to talk about it anymore, with anyone, anyone at all, is a real and present trauma, and it becomes increasingly difficult ‘to deal,’ in all aspects of human functioning.

I should have pursued a PhD in tick-borne illnesses instead of Social Work and Counselling Psych., oh wait, I have! I just don’t get the piece of paper or letters behind my name for my time, money and troubles, but I digress, how odd… I may or may not care anymore about what anyone in the above noted groups think/believe/judge, about any of it. Stop, revise: I aspire, to get to the point when I am no longer vulnerable, susceptible to the derision noted previously, and the despondence it creates inside me, every.single.day.

What I do care about, is staying on my feet well enough to facilitate the continuing, perhaps lifelong battle, that this is; while maintaining some semblance of balance between sickness, and a desire for so much more out of the rest of my life, than that which is currently my reality.

Recent Developments:

The most recent manifestation and issue directly related to this scourge for me, is one not unknown in the Lyme & Co. trenches, and targets many whose bodies are developing (secondary to treatment), potentially life threatening filtration organ and detox (e.g. lymph drainage) system failures.

Reader’s Digest: We need to keep killing the bugs to stay alive because the havocs they wreak when left unchecked = extreme suffering and eventually a long and painful death, but; killing them creates endotoxin die-off which the body increasingly struggles to process, detox, eliminate. The kidneys, liver, lymph drainage and other filtration systems, already taxed to the max by the bugs, begin to malfunction and eventually fail.

This then, has been my predicament since November, when I had to stop all pharmaceutical, and most herbals that successfully kill the bugs, because all of my above noted drainage and filtration systems began to fail.

Being the proactive human I am, despite, stop; revise: because of my current and now prolonged battle, I have consulted with those in the know, done my research, and practice all manner of time-consuming, money-munching practices, protocols and procedures, in an effort to support my body eliminate the bad stuff; and all of that, with insultingly insufficient results. So in all my spare time, please read the intended sarcasm into that comment, I went back to my research drawing-board, consulted with previously mentioned ‘in the knows,’ and learned that many folks on this end of my precariously tilting ship, have had good success supporting the failing filtration and detox systems, with the use of Infrared Saunas.

Thus began a process of meticulous research, in all that spare time, into the finer points and distinguishing features of this wooden hot-box technology, which are better and why, and what to avoid at all costs, received the final seal of approval from my ‘in the know’ docs and proceeded with a methodical hunt for my very own box, used of course. Because that’s how I prefer to roll, even if I had all the money in the world, because there’s more than enough perfectly good pre-loved ‘stuff,’ in the world and the consumption of anything, is an ethical imperative. But again, I digress…

It was a with a heavy heart that I quickly gleaned that the reality of what I need, far superseded anything attainable, given what it costs me in pharma and naturopathics alike, to barely stay on my feet, because none of it is covered. So much for working in the sick-care system… but really, am I surprised, or naïve? Maybe…

And so with an equally heavy heart, I reached out to two online sellers of a hot-boxes that met all of the requirements for my needs, gave them a bit of background, and inquired as to whether or not they would be willing to support a payment plan. One responded with a resounding and owie-producing fuck you, and the other stated that she has many folks ahead of me in queue. My heart grew yet heavier as I reached out to you(s), my eclectically eccentric, further and nearer flung village and tribe, and you made it happen for me.

The woman with many in a queue reached back, took her price down by $100, and she and her husband delivered the hot-box to my patio. The Sailor helped me put it together, and as I write this, I weep tears of gratitude for all of you. I have been sweating regularly for a while now and my liver and kidney counts went back to almost normal just prior to the other big C-bug we are all dealing with, and my lymph nodes are less inflamed and painful, but I hope to brave a lab this week for more conclusive testing.

Testing which will determine whether or not I can re-start a heavy-hitter bug-killer. I cannot restart the NUKER until the C-word bug is done with all of us, because the levels of alcohol and other chemicals in everything we use to stay safe at work and that I need to use while out in the community could literally kill me in conjunction with said NUKER, it is a complex protocol and requires a vigilance in terms of food and topical products that is absolutely undoable in the current state of life and affairs. But, I consulted with one of my brilliant docs, and we are looking at a lesser-used anti-biotic that crosses the blood/brain barrier, in conjunction with a couple of other anti-microbials which target different bugs in different systems, in an effort to get a handle of theses beasts again. This particular anti-biotic (Minocycline), is known to cause massive die-off (good) toxicity (very bad), so it is risky relative to my very susceptible liver and kidneys, but I am going to give it a shot.

FFW to today:

I could not be in this position without your help, the sauna, and a number of other add-ons/protocols have made a difference, and coincidentally, the sauna is not a bad thing to have around to help my body with the big C-bug, should I become infected.

Blood sweat and tears has taken on new meaning, and I thank you, from the bottom of my tired and literally broken (by bugs) heart. You are the same handful of people who always suited and showed up when I fund-raised for others in the past, the people who have worked hardest/longest/trudged the most, to have what they have, which in some cases, is very little, I know this to be true. Nothing, but nothing, has ever come easily to any of you. I know this to be true. The same, staunch in their support of me handful of people, that have been there, for a very long time, some, my entire life.

It did indeed, take this village*, to raise (up) from the trenches, this hurting and battle-weary child, and the child is grateful to you, so very, deeply, grateful. You personify the best of humanity and I am privileged, so much richer, for your respective parts in my life. I will not let you down. I will continue to wage this war. How can I not believe in myself, when you so fervently continue to do so? With more love than the word will ever do justice to,

~Marcela.

April 05, 2020

*M.P., S.G., C.W., C.M-S., K & K, J.R., J.M., R.W., P.C.Y.

1 https://parasitesandvectors.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/s13071-019-3495-7

2 https://ann-clinmicrob.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/s12941-017-0198-9

3 https://parasitesandvectors.biomedcentral.com/articles/10.1186/1756-3305-7-S1-O4

4 https://canlyme.com/lyme-basics/lyme-myths/

5 https://canlyme.com/lyme-basics/symptoms/

 

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Let’s NOT Make a Deal

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A book of Mormon
or a lion’s head bowl
your dirty old sneakers
and a used camisole

A camping potty
and a broken TV
world’s ugliest chair contest-winner
and its mate, the settee

A tall concrete tiki set
or a big rusty clock
and bald vroom-vroom tires
for the wannabe jock

A Loong Foong vintage cookie tin
and a scuzzy old toilet
or a decrepit old rocker
but don’t sit lest you spoil it

A pair of leather-like boots
or a real-plastic dresser
and some moldy old books
from a dusty professor

An inflatable hot tub 
and fake-rattan patio chairs
or some lightly used razors
includes gross chinny-chin-chin hairs

Some creepy old doll parts
or a bagful of ‘hemp’ seeds all ready to sow
and 2 dozen duck eggs
though not in a row

A box of A & W Mugs
and ‘a fake owl to scare birds’
or a disgusting old hamster cage
opportunely pre-soiled, comes with used turds

An ‘Old-antique’ horse lamp
and a ‘dead’ cow rug
or some grossly stained mattresses
replete with bed bugs

A giant Yahtzze set
and miniature chairs made of wicker
or a pre-cracked ‘antique’ mirror
prices are firm, please do not dicker

Cement garden pigeons
and barbicide for dog groomers
or 4 and 6 inch flex hoses
for all the DIY boomers

These are but some of the ‘treasures’
You want me to buy
Steals of a Deal
And (crap)Pies in the Sky

Thank you but no deal,
at the best of times I would pass,
but now during COVID
I’d like to kick your sad ass.

So Fuck-the-Fuck-Off, which means stay-the-fuck-home
re-use and re-cycle up-cycle that thing
please stop being a chump
or WHEN COVID is done with us
take your shit to the dump!

 With all the love I have, 
~Marcela: Asking, begging FB Marketplace and local buy/sell/trade groups 
everywhere, to take the example of Ladysmith BC, and PLEASE shut.it.down,
for the duration! These are NOT essential services, but they ARE actively 
contributing to the problem! No amount of legal-ass-covering-guidelines 
are going to change the thoughtless actions of STUPID; 
the OTHER pandemic. 
April 04, 2020

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Of a sudden…

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As I rummage and ruminate,  
categorize and discard,
too many items,
and thoughts,
long of little utility, 
to you or I,
though stubbornly occupying space,
in my physical and internal environments,

I am thunderstruck!

…with that which we pay lip-service to;
as a matter of course,
in our excessive,
daily rabblings and babblings;
but rarely to never,
truly abide by… .

And of a sudden,
nothing matters!

Nothing;
…with the exception,
of how we choose to utilize,
This Moment.

And of a sudden,
in this temporarily,
to the outside world obligation-less life,

I find freedom. 
________________________________________________________ 
With boundless love,
~Marcela: choosing to live well, in the midst of my own, 
and our collective, uncertainty.  
March 24, 2020.

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Open Letter to My Child: Gifts and an Advanced Directive – March 22, 2020

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Dearest Young’en (it’s a new one, aren’t you excited?):

But I digress, how odd…

Dear Thomas George Raphael Turjančík (see, I remember your real name!): this day, at 13:29 Central European Standard Time, in the year 1991 (I did not have to look at the tattoo on my left forearm to remember), I met you.

You were as calm about it as you often are today, outwardly anyway, though we both know it’s different on the inside, I and your father on the other hand, wore our stuff, loudly on our sleeves.

We were happy, so very very happy, and excited beyond measure, and not a bit frightened, a great many bits frightened, each for our own reasons. The inner demons we had yet to quell, respectively and as a couple, had not yet been fully outed, never mind sorted.

But this event, your homecoming, changed us, at least for a short while, for the better, so much better. For you took us out of ourselves and into a frontier that your father had traveled to previously with your brothers, but one that I, had not yet ventured into; a world in which someone else is 100% reliant upon my reliability; a universe in which by default, I became the center of your universe. I was not ready for that, and I had so much to learn.

We know that there was a time I failed you, failed us, and we have jumped and tripped over many hurdles, vaulted over seemingly unreachable bars, and spent time in a deep, dark, abyss, individually and together; but we have both made it here. And you, the perfectly-imperfect child you have been, continue to be for me, have found to yourself, in a way that inspires awe in everyone you meet, and inspires awe in me, every.single.day.

And while I like to believe that my particular brand of parenting, what I stand for, has had a positive influence on who you are, how beautifully you function in the astonishingly complex world we occupy, that is; with a critically thinking intelligence, with grace, insight, with compassion, and kindness, all of this and more, is yours, yours alone, to own and take credit for.

It is the fruit of your labour, Thomas, of the hard, often painful personal work I have watched you wrestle with these past few years, supported when asked, but viewed from a distance that was often excruciating for me to keep. Know, as I believe you do, that I was (am) always ready and waiting with a life-ring when needed.

I cannot ask for a better gift on this day, the day I met you 29 years ago, than knowing, trusting, that when life offers up her lifey-life bitch-slaps, or we walk willingly, stupidly into them with eyes wide shut, for to believe that we do not, is to lie to self first and foremost, you will eventually find your way back out, and with a newly forged, temporarily, until next time, sense of self.

It is a gift for me to believe that you understand the importance of introspection, and personal revision, the critical role of, and need for personal evaluation and re-evaluation, the imperative of personal evolution as a constant, not as an event, and I thank my F.U.Gs that I can believe you are aware of this, central tidbit: every response or reaction you choose, to anything or anyone else, that while fueled by those outward influences, is a thing generated internally, by self, and self-alone, it is a choice.

This is important, for to believe otherwise cloaks us in a coat of personal powerlessness, a coat I could not bear to watch you wear, the coat of blame and perpetual victim-hood. I have worn it; it is an outdated, heavy, ugly garment, best recycled into something more useful, like a pair of really great shoes, or better yet, an I-love-me/you-jacket.

And so this, my child, the child I would have chosen had I been given a choice of who I want you to be, is my Advanced Directive: do not wait for lifey-life to get back to ‘normal,’ ever. Live it as best you can, in the moment, right-the-fuck-now, under the current circumstance, and/or restriction. Live it with purpose, and accomplish, take a single step toward something you yearn, burn to do, every.single.day.

Take my advice, for I was not using it. I have wasted too many of my days on irrelevant (to me) endeavors, in the name of others, their beliefs, their needs, their power, their ill or well intentions toward me… bla bla fucking bla…. Do NOT, I beseech you, under any circumstances, follow my ill-fated lead in this regard.

I love you more than any word will ever do justice to, and I thank my F.U.Gs for you, every.single.day, for 10,593 days, and counting.

All my love,

~Mama.

March 22, 2020

 

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The Bright Red Freighter  

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There have been others since I came to live here, but you commanded and kept my attention, from the first time ever, that I saw your extraordinarily bright, red paint.

And since that moment, when you dwarfed everything around you and obligated me to see you, I have wanted to get closer, wanted to get a better view, and always wanted, always yearned, to see you again.

I needed to experience your power, relentlessly, and with great fervor. And for weeks now, I have been captivated by you, visually, psychologically, emotionally, and with irrevocable commitment.

And I have compulsively sought you out, with the diligence and precision of a skilled stalker, from every vantage point, in this hilly town.

For weeks now, each and every morning, I have clambered groggily up to the step-stool view in my sleeping chamber, because knowing you were there allowed me to face another day, and I have been awed by the turmoil you create, deep, so deep inside me.

For weeks now, each and every evening, no matter how fatigued, I bid you good night, because you give me some measure of consolation, succour, in my solace-less world.

You have represented all that is true about me, the contradictions, and I am as contentiously conflicted about you, as I am about most things.

Your intensity screamed to my own; and like the others in the bay, like me, you are a political and personal hot-potato, and I love you-I hate you, come here-go away, fuck-off, no! fuck-on!

And you present me with a familiar quandary: what is right for the world around me versus what I get, what I need, from you, from the world around me.

And so by direct extension, you have been a secret, conflicted indulgence, analogous for me, to beautiful footwear, but made in China by slaves and their enslaved children.

And I have viewed you with my naked eyes, and through binoculars, and I have captured you with my camera over and over again, from my step-stool view, from the highway coming home, from my excursions on the hilly trails, and from my perambulations about the town.

And this morning, when I opened the curtain to greet you, you knocked the breath right out of me, for the light had you glowing in shades of gold and pewter, and I was mesmerized, shaken to the core, by the beauty of you, and the light, the indescribable, iridescent light, and the way you played together, with, and in the sea.

And I remembered Barrett-Browning, and knew I will do well to concern myself with, fly toward the light, despite additional bruising of my oh-so broken wings.[1]

And my despair collided head-on inside me with the memory of who I am, the shine and vibrancy used to describe me for decades by others, now hoarded away far too long, by me, recently, because: pain.

And I wonder; if like me, despite meticulous maintenance of mechanical parts and attention to aesthetic details, you may meet an undignified, rusted out, abandoned, demise?

But your light rouses me from the melancholy of this early morning reverie and while you are neither Sunflower[2] nor Water Lily[3] on a A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte[4], van Gogh, Monet, Seurat alike[5], would have been as awestruck by that light show, by your radiance, as I.

So it is little wonder that this evening, upon reaching the place on the highway, the place where I always spy you first, returning from my hated-reality, hot tears burned my cheeks with a vengeance that took me by surprise, but at the same time, not at all.

For I realized that you had left me, as I knew you would; suspected this very morning, that today might be that day, the day I find you gone.

And all that, in a painful morning stupor, while bedazzled, so very smitten, by your glow, your nod to me, to heed Browning’s wise words, to keep fluttering my wings, toward the light, toward my light.

And I am so very grateful, to me, for all the times I hunted you down, from yet another place and angle. I am richer for having enjoyed you, and you fueled, no, you ignited, new fantasies of leaving, to live my art, whenever my eyes, my heart, the core of me, met your steel girth, your vibrant and vivacious red coat.

And I never coveted you more than this morning, never appreciated you more, than in those parting moments, when you willfully, boastfully even, occupied that space, your space in the vast vast sea, wearing the gold,

of the Queen you are.

~Marcela: one skin, 58.7 years, life/version 19.9, and counting.

March 04, 2020

[1] https://www.brainpickings.org/2018/03/05/elizabeth-barrett-browning-happiness/

[2] https://www.vincentvangogh.org/sunflowers.jsp

[3] https://www.claude-monet.com/waterlilies.jsp

[4] https://mymodernmet.com/georges-seurat-a-sunday-afternoon-on-the-island-of-la-grande-jatte/

[5] https://www.oxfordartonline.com/page/impressionism-and-post-impressionism/impressionism-and-postimpressionism

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Frida and Minju, and me…

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The stunningly beautiful, awe inspiringly humble, and magically talented 
Minju Kim, on Next in Fashion: 

"...my collection is inspired by Frida Kahlo, ...she never gave up."

I must remember that for a thousand and one reasons, and for decades 
now, I too, am inspired by Frida Kahlo... and while that which ails me 
physically, is vastly polar in nature and circumstance, its
ramifications, share everything in common, with that which ailed her... 

...and I remember what she accomplished, who she was, not despite, 
but because of it.

Just for this moment, I will channel Frida, and Minju.

~Marcela: Hanging on by Minju's thread.

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A bark with bite…

“True adulthood… is a difficult beauty, an intensely hard won glory, which commercial forces and cultural vapidity should not be permitted to deprive you of.”
 
-Toni Morrison
 
A culture that ‘fetishizes youth’ is exactly the one we live in… the older and wiser, the more knowledgeable I become, about self and the world, the more valuable I am to others… but: this is precisely when they begin to devalue much of what I have to say… …interesting, that when a great deal of what I had to give was simply loud bark without substance, no bite, they all paid attention… it is little wonder that the Hitlers of the world, like what’s his fuck in the USA, get where they do…we exclude the input of those who know in the decision making.
~Marcela: thinking out loud on real and present adulthood. 

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Parker’n me II – The Culvert

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The roar of the culvert
spewing forth the runoff,
raging like the internal and external storms
of the night previous,
temporarily assuages my tinnitus and pressure addled brain,
with this other,
din.

I walk on
leaving the culvert behind, and,
with the relentless vengeance of the intruders in my body,
they cut anew; the razor-sharp edges of my current reality
and I wonder:
why I still choose to live this wounded and broken,
life(?).

Parker, Dorothy that is, in all her glory and folly
calls on me, again, to live another day
for while increasingly troublesome,
my vision endeavors to see, that “cherry bough gone white with Spring,”
and so I walk on, desperately seeking;
the next “prettiest, thing.”

~Marcela: not done yet, according to Parker anyway.
02, 02, 2020

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Love is Not About Ownership

One of the greatest things I have learned in the course of my entanglement with the Sailor, is that true intimacy, and anything even resembling love, of any quality or depth, in any kind of relationship, cannot, absolutely cannot, be about ownership, or the expectation of filling other’s voids, needs, even.
~Marcela.

His language is a little more flowery than I am generally fond of, but he was a very, very wise man, I’ve been reading him since I was a kid, but only relatively recently, come to appreciate, understand, his teachings:

“Let there be spaces in your togetherness, and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond[age] of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.”
-Khalil Gibran

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The Twelve Days of Crass-mess (11)

11- 11 x 6 million sheople following 1 orange piper

On the 11th day of Crass-mess my true love sent to me
11 x 6000000 sheople following an orange pied piper
10 Leaping Chippendales
9 bombshells dancing
8 old-maid starter seeds
7 plastic seas a floating
6 geezers laying (down)
5 golden thongs
4 cat-calls
3 French fry gift cards
2 xmas turtle pics
And a voice-mail xmas grting (press 1) on my automated phone tree

~Marcela: checking (y)our cultural realities
December 23, 2019


Photo Credit (edited-M.Y.M.): 
https://2big2fall.wordpress.com/trump-sheep-one-e/