Demon Week

 

Everyone should have some Dragons on hand

We had a week-long adventure, here in ChemoLand, two weeks ago: The Husband tanked out his white blood cells and a demon entered his body and could only speak in a harsh, spasmodic, not-to-be-heard-on-this-plane barking, violent cough; and then soon after spiked a fever of 104, briefly. The ER docs were excited, they got to take many vials of blood and transfuse many kinds of demon-chaser. They managed to cool the demon down sufficiently that what is left of The Husband’s brain didn’t melt, but the demon still continued to try to communicate with us, so first they popped The Husband and his demon into ICU for a couple of days, and then moved him out to a regular bed for another 3 days, while they tried, over and over, to identify the demon so they could remove it.

In the meantime, between attempted communications from  the demon, after he could catch his breath, The Husband was very happy to discover he had a captive audience for his stories, recitations, drama, exaggerations, and so on, and so he had a lovely time. Except at night, when the demon partly took over and wouldn’t let him sleep, but did give him hallucinations.

Unknown pink flower: looks like rare pink Meadowsweet; but how did it get into my garden?

 After 5 days, when they couldn’t figure out what demon it was, but the cool-down remained intact, they kicked him out of the hospital because he was having too much fun. They did first discover that the demon – or maybe they – had caused a small blood clot to reside on the corner of The Husband’s chemo port, so they put him on a blood thinner, and also put him on a couple of antibiotics as a last-gasp attempt to rid The Husband of the demon. The antibiotics didn’t work, but the demon liked one and used it to give The Husband an interesting set of hives; and in a demon-like fashion, the hives would come and go – going, as a rule, within a few minutes of us trying to show them to a doctor, and returning soon after we went home again. Demons are tricky like that.

And the demon continued to attempt to communicate, causing all sorts of trouble to The Husband, who couldn’t breathe when the demon was trying to communicate – and the demon, of course, also figured out that the nasty ER docs, who we went to see again, would attempt to identify him and  try to kill him when The Husband arrived – this was not a stupid demon - so when docs were around, it stopped trying to communicate. And The Husband could sleep in the ER. This was a very tricksy demon.

What the demon didn’t realize is that I’m a Chinese medicine practitioner, which is an ancient type of medicine that is, as we all know, mysterious and comes from The Time When Demons Walked The Earth…or was that Dragons? Anyway, I finally got sick of it and gave The Husband  Dragon Pearls, which eliminates the fire, and The Demon stopped trying to communicate and left  The Husband’s body, because a demon and a dragon can’t co-exist and a demon without fire can’t communicate. The Husband’s ugly yellow-coated tongue turned into a normal tongue and he could breathe again. No more hives, no more fungus, but he still can’t sleep, because that’s what The Husband does, anyway.. 

This is a carrot flower; they're biennials and a few didn't get picked last year. This is what happens...

 He can , however play tennis and go for short bike rides, so I have decreed that The Time of Not Washing Dishes is over for him, because, really! My foot hurts, and he only had a demon stuck in him briefly, part of which time was highly entertaining, and maybe medically useful, so I feel sorrier for myself than for him, again.

He’ll be back on the dread chemo again after the Craftsmen’s Fair, because he takes photos of all the non-demon’s and possible-we’re-not-sure artistic demon’s stuff that they sell to humans (and possibly the kind of demons that look like humans and still Walk The Earth), and this time Dr. Chemo has decreed that The Husband will receive the Shot That Makes The Body Produce White Blood Cells, so demon’s shouldn’t have a way in, again.

Maybe. I’m ordering more Dragon Pearls, just in case.

 

For the blog, 23 July 2024. All photos Deb Marshall

 

This is last year's strange plant, come to live in my garden again. Note the stem grows through the leaves...

Blue is a lovely, airy color.

 

As It Goes...

 

Hangin' Out

 This is the season of stiff cloth: towels and pillowcases, undies and sheets; socks and face cloths. On sunny days, windy days, warm days, we hang the laundry on the clothesline; one sharp snap as one takes the dry items off the line will loosen and soften some of the pieces – and this is an important action because it removes stray bugs that have landed on the hanging clothes – but it won’t soten up facecloths, for example, and we’ll wash our faces with  extra-rough cloths all summer and fall.

It’s also the season of damp pants pockets, because one inevitably forgets to turn the pockets inside out when hanging them on the line. No problem ; they’ll air dry or body dry in half an hour.

Do, however, be sure to check that the hummingbirds didn’t poop on your pillowcases on their way to their feeder. They do often use the empty line to perch and sing, after all.

This is a perennial I planted last year and lost the tag; does anyone know what it is? It's about 5 feet tall now and going wild...out of control like everything in my life at the moment!

 

This is also the season of critter experiences. There has been a fox or two regularly hanging out in our yard; sometimes near the wood stacks and last night, we watched one greedily chomping down the unripe small peaches the Husband has been dropping on the ground when he thins them from the still-young trees. This spring, apparently, produced an amazing number of peach blooms, which makes up for last year when there was late frost killing them all. My trees, however, are still only a few years old and small; they won’t be able to hold up so many large ripening peaches, so the peaches must be thinned or we risk broken branches later in the summer.

I can’t imagine what flavor or nutritious interest hard green peaches provide, but I’m not a fox. Maybe they gave it a sick tummy; around midnight  what I assume was the fox was racing about our house, especially in the heather in the front, then to the back, then towards the marsh across the street, back to our house, front and back and then, rapidly, away in the back woods, heading towards Eddie Bear’s house and towards the house of the Polish Poet Witch on the Hill. My cats were very agitated, racing from window to window to get a look.

I peered out and couldn’t see; putting the front door light on didn’t help, alas. The night before, I heard the hoo-hoo  hoo hoo hoo of the barred owls that live somewhere nearby; and I’m pretty sure I’ve also heard the screech of the rehabilitated barn owls that were released in our back yard a few weeks ago. Our back yard is actually one end of the old cow pasture our house sits in the middle of, with a dirt road and many acres of lightly housed woods behind.

Born wild -- Lynxie Bob

 

Today is July 4; I was surprised, last night, not to be serenaded by firecrackers or small fireworks, which usually light up the night in my small village; but no neighbors were celebrating early this year, apparently. Tonight we’ll likely be able to glimpse the display put on by the next town over, if we stand outside and peer above the trees.

This summer, like last, my orchids are having a vacation out on the porch, all but the one that’s currently in bloom – the wind has been to brisk, too often, to risk losing those lovely  and rare flowers to the weather’s strange vagaries.This summer, because my injured foot and leg (6 months now, and counting, and only seemingly getting worse) won’t allow me to plant the big vegetable garden I usually plant,  the major part of the garden is going wild: it’s a jungle of daisies and California poppies and milkweed and strange weeds I don’t know, and large weeds I do know; it’s rather lovely in an irritating way. 

Gone Wild

 

Before my injury got too bad, I managed to plant the two raised beds just behind the house with leeks, onions, shallots, beets, parsnips and a row each of peas and fava beans, all of which are being challenged by self-seeded calendula, mats of purslane, yellow-flowered wood sorrel, and other weeds. I can’t easily weed things out – it hurts to stand out there and I’m putting my weight mostly on my left  side, so when I bend over to pull weeds and reach too far, I often lose my balance; twice I’ve fallen into the potato-growing bags, once in  a way I had to shout for The Husband to come help me get up.

Garden behind the house

The Tall Man has planted some beds behind the garage and near the apple tree for me – I have to visit those by driving the car through the field because I can’t walk that far without great pain. The Husband put in a bed of sweet peppers, and a small bed of green beans. I’ve put basil, and  the gladiola bulbs, in pots near the porch stairs; ‘twill be pretty if all grows.  The Tall Man is watering the garden for me. If the garden gremlin/gnome leaves things alone, I’ll have some vegetables this summer, but  I won’t be able to fill the freezers as well as I do most summers.   

The Husband is having a CT scan tomorrow to see what his first 3 chemo sessions (and the Japanese tumor-reducing tinctures made of various mushrooms I prescribed) have accomplished; he’s a third of the way through chemo, which will be followed by one or more operations to remove tumors. He’s doing well, strong and busy, with some weird side-effects – things don’t taste like they should, touching cold things hurt – and sometimes he doesn’t sleep well, but he’s a famous insomniac so who knows if it’s chemo or just him.

 I’m almost embarrassed to say I feel sorrier for me, at this point, than for him: he can walk comfortably, he doesn’t lie awake night after night in great pain, he doesn’t topple over or lose his balance every few steps, and he can drive without his foot shrieking at him continually.  And he’s never had to have a foot wound debrided -  I held my foot up, I didn’t flinch, I didn’t ask for a break, I only shouted FUCK FUCK FUCK three times (I sound like the pet duck in Louise Penny’s books about Inspector Gamache a lot lately – the duck is carried around by the semi-insane old poet who lives in Three Pines, and says fuckfuckfuckfuck) because I’m a Warrior. And then I had excruciating pain for the next three hours. I’ll feel sorry for The Husband later.

Garden Guards

And so the summer goes. We’re surrounded by piles of leftovers from our yard sale, that go here and there slowly. I make endless lists and schedules, and then make them  all over again as schedules change and we juggle having only one car because the other’s still dead; and we build up gratefulness for friends who have been helping above and beyond.

And it’s summer; and Buzzy Boy, who must be a very old hummer, is back; and he still chases me out of the garden beds I can reach if I venture out  in the late part of the day.

The whole world feels like it’s coming apart at the seams; our personal world is barely hanging on. And yet there are owls, and foxes, and loving cats, and Buzzy Boy and his harem. And understanding patients; and generous friends.

The world goes on…      

 

For the blog:  herondragonwrites.blogspot.com     July 4, 2024

All photos Debra Marshall

Happy Roses

 

                         

Green Man overlooks the garden; looks a lot like The Tall Man