Keeping My Chin Up (the MCS files)*

And so I went to get the verdict.  On the ailing shoulder.  I didn't want to go.  This reluctance made no sense to me, because I really did like the doctor.  

I got lost twice on the way then entered the wrong building, whose hallways smelled like an overdose of disinfectant.  A counselor in one of its offices told me that the doctor had probably moved laterally to the next building over, but now I felt like staying right where I was . . . the counselor was so nice, so forgiving -- we can never have too much forgiveness . . . . .

I wanted to go home, but I didn't go.  I tried the next building.  It didn't smell, but the elevator squealed and heaved and the stairwell was dark and desolate, with ominous splotches on the cement.  With the elevator out of the question and the stairwell looking menacing, that was it.  What if the entry and exit doors locked me in?  I was going home.

I started to go.

Nearly to the front door, I pondered the shame of it all.  A 49-year-old woman afraid of a stairwell.  I imagined myself hunched over, some 10 years later, with an immobilized shoulder; a gnarled, useless hand;  back bent, neck twisted from all the compensating contortions I would have had to assume, having chosen to avoid the stairwell that could have led to my deliverance.

I turned back, acted purposeful (there was now a lady in the hallway), and jammed myself into the stairwell, racing up the stairs with my eyes nearly shut.  The doors did not lock me in at top or bottom.  This was fortunate.  Having reached my destination, I met the lady from the downstairs hallway now exiting the elevator.  It apparently had not trapped her or sucked all the air out of her lungs.  Things were looking up.

Colognes wafted through the waiting room . . . but even this was better than the dank, stained stairwell, so I sat and inhaled.  Ushered finally into the doctor's office, a sense of relief came over me.  Now I felt like crying.  In my mind's eye, I pictured my tears drenching the room, dripping off the examining table, pouring over the countertops, causing the chair to float.  Salt water pooled in my eyes.  I wiped it away.  What on earth.  This was an orthopedist.

The shoulder was fine, fine -- just rotator-cuff tendonitis, solved easily with the equivalent of a buffalo-sized dose of anti-inflammatories twice per day for two weeks.  I already knew this wasn't going to happen -- I can't take most prescription medications -- but I stayed agreeable because, as doctors go, this one was a patient's dream.  Prompt, calm, cheerful, uncomplicated.  (He told me I could keep the paper gown -- said it looked good on me.  This brought forth a giggle.) 

Now I just have to hunt down the natural ("alternative") equivalent of 16 (yes, sixteen!) 200-mg ibuprofen tablets per day.  This shouldn't be hard . . . . . 

Upon exiting the building, the source of my mad apprehension was realized in full.  The surrounding air and lawn, which had previously smelled like air and lawn, were now overtaken by something I would have to call at least the equivalent of dry-cleaning fluid.  It was just everywhere.  To myself, I called it, "Perflourocholoromanganate," because that's exactly what it smelled like.   

To my horror, small children were outside next door playing under the watch of their day-care teachers -- with the air smelling as though the little town had just been the victim of chemical warfare.  

The headache is coming now, and I'm getting ready to meet it.

                                                                     *MCS = Multiple Chemical Sensitivity 

Iron

In migraine's grip of iron,

each eyebrow cemented in place,

my head is bowed, my vision bent

to the floor rather than up at a face.

Snap to!  I say.  There's a luncheon to do!

Hurry now, banish the pain!

But drugged feeling persists --

swollen nose, swollen eyes,

and feverishly pulsing brain.

I know not what's to become of me

or the work that is mine to do

when I must succumb every other day

to a cerebral storm anew.

Book Troubles (or Strong Scents Clinging to Paper - The MCS Files)

I'm reading a story about a girl whose boyfriend broke up with her because she was reading a book at a funeral.  Prior to that, she'd walked into a lamppost while reading.  Reading while cooking, she'd accidentally started a kitchen fire.

As for myself, I was caught sniffing a book Saturday at the library, checking for absorbed scents too strong to bring home.  The pretty, petite librarian clicked by happily in her high heels when I heard -- and saw, out of the corner of my eye -- the sudden catch in her step.  It was then that I realized the book in my hand was still held up to my nose.

She picked up speed again, thankfully . . . . .

I Worry

Organs ailing within and I worry,

worry about what it all might mean.

Doctor's office makes me sick

between disinfectant and candlewick,

but the pain remains constant and keen.

Injustice Severe

Out of sync,

raw nerves triggered

by a blast of unknown scent

inhuman, unfriendly, unbearable,

wafting through the trees,

tainting the sweet forest

then gone, gone . . . 

except for what is left

in me,

pulsing through my head

unnaturally,

pounding for over a day,

stealing my time, my life,

belittling intentions,

erasing plans,

mocking the calendar,

setting obscure nerves into

frightening seizures of motion,

and tilting my world

beyond my reach.

This, the destruction wreaked 

by harsh and unforgiving

molecules

thus rearranged and approved by man

then borne away with the wind

to no account.

Learning to Read

Through the strange gymnastics of life, by the propulsion of seemingly random somersaults and flips, I landed without fanfare -- nay, without any applause at all -- on a mountaintop in a rugged abode, feeling strongly that this sudden and unusual placement was nothing short of a great mistake.

Anyone looking at me, after all, could see the magnitude of the error.  If they couldn't, I worked hard to ensure that they did.  I polished and buffed the gleaming marble chip on my shoulder, that sure sign of privilege (whereby dirt is outlawed); that reliable reminder of old honors, craved approval, and now, odious misunderstanding.

"Thou, Turquoise, of all beings," discriminating eyes would question, "how comest thou to live amongst mice, moles, snakes, and -- bears?  Why didst thou leave the trusted conglomerations of dryer vents, those picturesque, tidy arrangements of homes and lawns exuding fabric softener, pesticides, and all the fragrant toxins that make life hospital-sweet?"

"Perhaps," I would stammer, "because they give me -- migraines?"

Not good enough. This was not poetic.  This was not even prose.  This was so far beyond the pale, it failed to qualify even as "nonfiction."  The crowds were displeased.  No awards would be forthcoming.  One vocal objector even went so far as to declare, "The old Turquoise has died."

Indeed.  ("Felled by detergents and deodorizers.") 

My objectors having lost all interest in me, my fading suburban self was left to ponder, dumbly, the clicking of crickets, the chanting of cicadas, the grazing of deer, the shadows of flying hawks, the lumbering of bears, and the silence of the trees.

Each new morning, I'd rub my head and wonder, anew, exactly how and why I'd arrived here (something about not having been able to breathe properly -- having had to run, literally, out of our more suburbanized house to gasp some inhalable air -- but why, why, why?).  I rubbed my head in perplexity each new morning for almost five years straight.  Until . . .

One tender Spring day, the sun beaming on my face (as it had so often done "in the old days") allowed me to remember how it used to be.  Suddenly, I was "back there."  Time stopped for me, and a few moments of Eternity seeped in:

I remembered frolicking in the woods as a child, hunting for new and uncharted paths, digging for colonial treasures, scavenging for Indian arrowheads, devouring the history of the Lenni Lenape in the public library, feeling at one with the sun and the earth and the trees  . . .  and never, ever feeling afraid.

So confident was I of God's love and the possibility of miracles, I once took my cat into the woods, perched the two of us on my favorite fallen tree, and tried to make her talk.  If God could make this breathtaking forest, this wondrous day shimmering in green and gold, surely He could make my cat talk.  The question was, would He?

In His Wisdom, God chose to let my cat remain silent that day.  In that correspondingly docile wisdom peculiar to children, I understood.  Perhaps I wasn't worthy of this favor, perhaps my cat had nothing to say.  Or perhaps God preferred to keep my golden tabby cloaked in feline mystery.  I would continue to love this furry creature and to wonder what she thought, and the world would continue to be a resplendent garden made for a child.

My adult self breathed deeply as Eternity faded into the present.  Blanketed in peace, I listened to the the birds, felt the warmth of the sun on my arms.

Once again, it was all so . . . good.

Like Helen Keller, who in a burst of inner light, suddenly realized that meaning was being conveyed to her, that there was a message in her hand to be deciphered, so did I begin to realize that God has a message for me -- right here.

Now, when I awaken to the splendor of that orange fireball rising over the hills, I no longer rub my head in confusion.  My mind, instead, rushes to grasp what God has written to me today, this very morning, on this blessed mountain -- with trees, hawks, bears, and sky.

Under the Cloud: The Hidden Toll of Multiple Chemical Sensitivity (MCS)

An unspoken -- often unrecognized -- and painful aspect of MCS:

I've found that, within the 24-to-72-hour window after a significant chemical exposure, emotions can loom larger than usual.  The chemicals seem to act directly on the brain.

I had three back-to-back, strong chemical exposures last week, paving the way for an unexpected, unnecessarily heightened sensitivity to something a friend had said.

When I began to detoxify, the matter looked and felt so small and manageable, even negligible.  Before I'd begun to detoxify, however, I'd nearly wrecked a beautiful friendship by speaking my mind while "under the chemical cloud."

This pattern has occurred before.  I realize now that I must postpone airing my thoughts on "emotionally noteworthy" matters until I've at least begun to detoxify from a strong chemical exposure.  (At which point there may be nothing "emotionally noteworthy" to discuss.)

My friend responded forgivingly to my verbal mishap.  This really made me cry.  What a mess I'd made.  My lovely friendship now has a scar which needs to heal, caused by my speaking out in haste, and definitely at the worst time.

To all those equally ravaged by MCS:  Hang in there until the emotional "cloud" of the last chemical exposure passes.   And feel better -- soon.

The Impending Purification

I envision, at some unnamed date in the future, a "detergent-and-fabric-softener, et al." environmental cleanup that would rival those mandated for asbestos and Chinese drywall.

When they realize the incredible particulate damage to human health wrought by the pungent, peppery, acerbic, neurotoxic synthetic fragrances that define most laundry, cleaning, hygiene, and deodorizing products in America, people will be rushing to throw out entire wardrobes, bed linens, curtains, carpets, and all upholstered items in their homes.  The invisible particulate of these neurotoxic fragrances clings, cloyingly, to all absorbent surfaces it touches.  Library books, milk and juice cartons, paper supplies, and plastic-wrapped foods are not spared.