Amy Eldridge is my nurse practitioner, and if we have not precisely become social friends, we have indeed become friends. I am always happy to see and talk to her; she is the initial inspiration for my turn towards taking my health more seriously.

She is honest and caring, and knowledgeable.

She did change my life, and I am grateful for that.

Maria and I got up before the sun so that I could be her first patient of the day, and what a day it was. I called it “Doctor’s Day” because I knew I would see more than one before the day was out and learn more about what was happening to me.

When Amy came into the room, Maria and I were having laughing fits with the nurses who were checking me in and recording my vital signs.

“I knew you were here,” said, “I could hear all the laughing down the hall.”

I felt good when I heard that. These poor people have taken awful abuse since the pandemic.

She explained that my body was fighting back against a vicious attack, and there were casualties.

(Maria in the ultrasound lab, watching me.)

“You’ve been ill,” a health care friend told me, and this shocked me, as I never saw it that way. This very kind of myopia got me into trouble in the first place.

I was taken aback to hear those words. I can think of many more terrible illnesses than mine. Yet I know what she means. There are awful moments.

The pain is more profound than anything I’ve experienced, my stomach is swollen and extended, and my legs are weak. I won’t even talk about my bowels. Every trip outside of the farm is an adventure. Falling down the stairs seem to greatly complicate things.

My therapist and I are talking tomorrow afternoon. I want to make sure my emotional base is solid.

And I’m cranking up the old Recovery Journal tag I used after my open-heart surgery. I am shocked that this illness is much worse for me than the open-heart surgery.

And I am surprised to say that.

Friends keep telling me I will pull through, it will get better, and I try to persuade them that I know that, I know I will get well, and it will get better. I don’t doubt that for a second. I have no fear about whether I will heal, just as I had no fear about my open heart surgery.

It’s a process, and I’m in it. And that is a little scary.

I have to think more about how that will happen and what it will mean to my life and work. I need a new process, and I never missed a day blogging, so I’m not worried about that, and I never missed a day taking photos, so I’m not concerned about that.

I will not miss a day of writing, taking photos, or blogging.

The challenge is emotional, and I think I know how to do that by facing up to myself, telling the truth, sharing my vulnerability, being careful, to be honest, and having a firm idea of dealing with the trolls, nitpickers, and peckerheads that haunt social media like pests in the subway and swarm to trouble.

That will make me stronger and help me to heal.

My blog is my anchor, my work is my foundation, and my wife is my inspiration and comfort.

The medical news is mixed. Amy is pretty sure I have some tick-borne disease, many nasty, debilitating, and long-lasting. Sometimes it goes on for weeks, sometimes much longer.

The blood test won’t return for a while, but she put me on antibiotics anyway.

She examined me and said a real bacterial fight was raging in my body; that was why my immune system was trying to force my insides out and clean house.

So far, she said, my body was winning the fight.  The assault last week was brutal. I know you don’t feel like it, she said, but it is going well.

She said my painful side injury was about bruised muscles, not bones or kidneys. It would just take time to get better.

Patience, quiet, faith. I need quiet and rest, but I also must be creative and active.

 

(Strong women lift my heart. I feel safe when they talk.)

Maria is not as fuzzy as I am now; I gave Amy a detailed account of a bite I got on my ankle, of my illness a few days later, of the sequence of events that led to my being so sick, feverish, and unable to eat or keep any food in my body.

Maria reminded Amy and me that I had somewhat painful swelling of my right leg just below the knee.  I had forgotten about it. Amy took one look, poked it a bit, and said she thought I might have a blood clot; she wanted me to have an ultrasound immediately.

I had to go to a Saratoga Hospital Facility for blood to be drawn. The local urgent care facility was booked solid.

Before we left, Amy sat down with Maria and reviewed some recipes she thought might be helpful. Some things that would make me more comfortable.

She told Maria she knew me well. One recipe she gave us is cooking on the stove even now.

Amy talked to me about the impact antibiotics would have on my intestinal troubles, namely that it would make them worse.

I got it; this will turn out well, I know it, but it is a long haul, not the short one I was putting together in my head. Amy knows how to talk to me, and I know how to listen to her.

Maria and I drove down the interstate to Malta – they have walk-in blood screening and ultrasound; we would be there a while, but we could get it done.

Maria is a champ on these treks, always cheerful, upbeat, and caring.

She’d brought a book,  food, water, and medicine; I forgot about them. We waited an hour for the blood drawing and another half hour for the ultrasound. That took nearly 40 minutes.

I knew something was wrong as the ultrasound nurse repeatedly went over and over the same ground. She had been lighthearted but was now serious. As I dressed, she asked us to wait outside; she had to call  Amy. Amy was out to lunch; we were told to head for home, and Amy would call.

I was worried. She told us she had found a clot in a few minutes, and Amy would talk to us about it. She looked earnest.

We stopped at a favorite cafe in Greenwich near Cambridge and had lunch. My stomach started making noises, and I knew we had to get home. Amy called as we were leaving. The clot was small and not in a major artery, she said. The illness almost certainly caused it; my heart and signs are firm.

She said it didn’t need treatment or medication; it would go away. It was nothing to worry about, she said. We were relieved. We stopped at the pharmacy to get the anti-biotics and went home.

We were surprised and relieved to see that  Mike Conklin had come to clean up the mass made by the huge limb that fell off one of our maple trees a few feet from Maria’s studio.

This was a crisis we could handle.  He took a big worry off of our shoulders. Nothing is more terrifying on a farm like ours than when fences get mangled.

So is my illness something we can and must handle.

It was an important day in my recovery. A respected massage therapist and I are talking about energy work, distance meditation, and healing.

Maria and I must work out a schedule where she can devote adequate time to her art. Otherwise, there will be no peace or quiet for either of us. I don’t want my wife to be a caretaker, she is an artist, and her work must be protected.

We know how to do that; we just need to sit down and talk about it.

She did this for herself and me when I had my open heart surgery, which had a powerful and positive effect on me. She kept on making her art.

I’ll begin every day with 30 minutes of meditating.

I’ll go to the Bishop Maginn prom on Friday. I’ll continue my prayer and meditation meetings at the Mansion, perhaps conducting them outside or on the porch.

I’m marshaling my forces, not to fight but to heal. So much to do, so much to learn. I know how this works, I think. It never stops; it is the nature and hallmark of true life.