Yesterday I took my usual day-off seawall walk, bareheaded and brisk heading out in the brilliant chilly sunshine towards 2nd Beach, my exercise touchstone!
It was so great to see the other walkers/joggers out there too enjoying the sun after a long bout of cold rain.
I could not help but notice some slender daffodils and lavender crocus patches standing in prompt new praise of the sun. A glimpse of these put a lift in my step.
As I rounded the seawall corner by The Engagement Rings (one of a series minimalist steel sculptures erected last year) I could hear a furious beat box rhythm emerging from somewhere in a treed area up on the rise close by. Others ahead of me were looking too. It sounded a bit like a drummer with a full kit, practicing.
On the hill just opposite the Parks Board office, the drummer finally came into view.
He was seated on a park bench, dressed in the ragged garb of a street person, and was drumming on an upturned 5-gallon plastic bucket, the kind used in the food industry. He was using something for drumsticks but I couldn’t see what these were. The rhythms were erratic and somewhat uneven but I could hear the intensity of the effort to make them smooth and celebratory and could plainly see the capped head bent to the task, looking downward toward the drum and ignoring the watchers passing below.
These beats were definitely healing ones!
Further along as I rounded the pool at 2nd Beach, a family of three came towards me. The father had turned and was watching his young daughter about to race along with her mom. They poised and the mom shouted, “Ready, settee…GO!”
This phrase immediately bought back a whole slough of childhood memories. It was and is the strange, magical, ancient and so familiar language of my own childhood.
Almost in the same moment, as they sprang into a run, the little girl, her light blond curls windblown, gleefully cried out, “Yes, settee, mommy, settee, settee, settee…”
The peals of her delicate laughter were ringing in my ears as I walked away.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
St. James Infirmary Blues
Yesterday morning I turned on CBC radio’s The Vinyl Café and there was a short piece on the unknown history of the song St. James Infirmary Blues.
It turned my memory back to Toronto’s Yorkville Village in the late 60’s where I first heard the song in a little café called The Mousehole, which was owned/managed by Bernie and Patti Fiedler, the owners of The Riverboat.
Although I had played in bands for quite a few years I had a strong yen to become a solo performer. I used to go there to listen to the singers and learn their songs and imagine that it was me up on the stage entertaining. Most of the singers I saw there played traditional folk & blues so it was a great classroom for a budding troubadour.
St. James Infirmary was being played by a great local singer named Al Cromwell (thanks David) and I remember staying afterwards and asking him to show me the chords. He very generously sat me down and walked me through all the parts, including the very bluesy riff he played separating verses, and I think he also wrote down the words for me. (And this after a two-hour set of songs.)
There is a great Wikipedia article on the history of the song at:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._James_Infirmary_Blues
I remember going back to my little rooming house, picking up my guitar and practicing the song until the chords settled into my memory and sore fingertips. It became an integral part of my early repertoire.
These are the lyrics he taught me (as closely as I can remember):
I went down to old Joe's bar room,
on the corner by the square
Well, the drinks were bein' served as usual,
and all the usual crowd was there
When in walked Big Joe McKennedy,
and his eyes were bloodshot red
He said boys I'm gonna tell you a story,
and this is what he said:
It turned my memory back to Toronto’s Yorkville Village in the late 60’s where I first heard the song in a little café called The Mousehole, which was owned/managed by Bernie and Patti Fiedler, the owners of The Riverboat.
Although I had played in bands for quite a few years I had a strong yen to become a solo performer. I used to go there to listen to the singers and learn their songs and imagine that it was me up on the stage entertaining. Most of the singers I saw there played traditional folk & blues so it was a great classroom for a budding troubadour.
St. James Infirmary was being played by a great local singer named Al Cromwell (thanks David) and I remember staying afterwards and asking him to show me the chords. He very generously sat me down and walked me through all the parts, including the very bluesy riff he played separating verses, and I think he also wrote down the words for me. (And this after a two-hour set of songs.)
There is a great Wikipedia article on the history of the song at:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._James_Infirmary_Blues
I remember going back to my little rooming house, picking up my guitar and practicing the song until the chords settled into my memory and sore fingertips. It became an integral part of my early repertoire.
These are the lyrics he taught me (as closely as I can remember):
I went down to old Joe's bar room,
on the corner by the square
Well, the drinks were bein' served as usual,
and all the usual crowd was there
When in walked Big Joe McKennedy,
and his eyes were bloodshot red
He said boys I'm gonna tell you a story,
and this is what he said:
I went down to the St. James infirmary,
and I saw my sweet baby there
She was stretched out on a long white table,
so naked, so cold, and so bare.
Let her go, let her go, God bless her, wherever she may be
She can search this wide world over,
and she'll never find a man like me
When I die Oh lord please bury me
In a milk white stetson hat
Put a 20 dollar gold piece on my watch chain
So the boys will know I died standing pat
Sixteen coal black horses, hitched to a rubber-tired hack
Took thirteen down to the graveyard
Only twelve of them are coming back
Well, now that you've heard my story,
boys, have another round of booze
And if anyone should ever happen to ask you,
tell them...
I've got the St. James...
infirmary...
blues!
This is one of the first songs I remember playing well enough to perform on guitar along with Ewan MacColl’s The First Time (from the recording by Roberta Flack), Everybody’s Talking (by Harry Nilsson, The Theme to the film Midnight Cowboy) and The Mommas & Poppas California Dreamin’.
It is all just yesterday!
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Rite of Passage
Yesterday, when I wrapped all my chores and bought home my groceries I got a voice message from son Ky, suggesting that we meet for dinner (although we had originally planned for today) as he got off work an hour earlier than usual.
This plan suited me fine, as I don’t like to eat late and so he called me when the bus from Park Royal Mall in West Vancouver was merging onto the Lions Gate Bridge and I walked downtown to meet him, at the corner of Thurlow and Robson.
By the time I got there, he was waiting and had been there nearly 10 minutes, the bus trip through the park being faster than either of us anticipated. Although chilly, there was no rain and we agreed to eat at Earl’s as Ky had a gift card that he had been holding onto since Christmas.
We climbed the steep flight of metal stairs leading up to Earl’s at Robson and Bute and entered into the crowded and animated ambience of the restaurant, which was in full supper hour swing!
I had been there maybe 10 years ago and the first thing I noticed was dozens of flat screen TV’s positioned at every conceivable angle so that wherever a guest sat, they could view one. The hostess asked us where we would like to sit.
To my surprise, Ky answered “The Lounge”, without hesitation. And then the penny dropped, as this was the night of the Canucks/Ducks game. We found one of those little tall lounge tables and studied the menu, and then ordered.
While we waited, we talked of work, both his and mine, and shared details about family and friends. It had been about a month since we last saw each other and there was a fair bit of ground to cover.
Ky at 19 is well over 6 feet tall, slender like dad but now entering into the first flower of his young manhood. There was a palpable look of contentment on his face, as he talked of his duties as a Barista in West Vancouver. He explained that he really enjoyed talking to people and that even working six days, the split shifts between Safeway and the coffee shop made his week go swiftly and easily.
The meal arrived and the game started, and so the talk diminished, and there followed the pleasing satisfaction of the taste of good food and the action up on the screen.
We had both been drinking water as Ky is not big on ordering drinks with a meal, but once we finished and decided to pass on desert, and as the second period of the game had started and the waitresses were hefting huge pitchers of beer onto the tables surrounding us we both agreed to a glass of beer each.
It took some time for the beer to arrive but when it did, and we clinked glasses, I realized that my son and I had never had a beer together before and that this was a rite of passage that I had long dreamed about and it was suddenly upon us.
I had never drunk beer with my dad as he had severe problems with alcohol and I was too young to drink when I left home anyway. But ever since my first son was born, I imagined that some day he would be old enough to drink and that in a very civilized way, and sharing the love of father and son between us, we might share a drink and a talk between two equals.
We only shared a beer together, yet to me it was a blessing.
This plan suited me fine, as I don’t like to eat late and so he called me when the bus from Park Royal Mall in West Vancouver was merging onto the Lions Gate Bridge and I walked downtown to meet him, at the corner of Thurlow and Robson.
By the time I got there, he was waiting and had been there nearly 10 minutes, the bus trip through the park being faster than either of us anticipated. Although chilly, there was no rain and we agreed to eat at Earl’s as Ky had a gift card that he had been holding onto since Christmas.
We climbed the steep flight of metal stairs leading up to Earl’s at Robson and Bute and entered into the crowded and animated ambience of the restaurant, which was in full supper hour swing!
I had been there maybe 10 years ago and the first thing I noticed was dozens of flat screen TV’s positioned at every conceivable angle so that wherever a guest sat, they could view one. The hostess asked us where we would like to sit.
To my surprise, Ky answered “The Lounge”, without hesitation. And then the penny dropped, as this was the night of the Canucks/Ducks game. We found one of those little tall lounge tables and studied the menu, and then ordered.
While we waited, we talked of work, both his and mine, and shared details about family and friends. It had been about a month since we last saw each other and there was a fair bit of ground to cover.
Ky at 19 is well over 6 feet tall, slender like dad but now entering into the first flower of his young manhood. There was a palpable look of contentment on his face, as he talked of his duties as a Barista in West Vancouver. He explained that he really enjoyed talking to people and that even working six days, the split shifts between Safeway and the coffee shop made his week go swiftly and easily.
The meal arrived and the game started, and so the talk diminished, and there followed the pleasing satisfaction of the taste of good food and the action up on the screen.
We had both been drinking water as Ky is not big on ordering drinks with a meal, but once we finished and decided to pass on desert, and as the second period of the game had started and the waitresses were hefting huge pitchers of beer onto the tables surrounding us we both agreed to a glass of beer each.
It took some time for the beer to arrive but when it did, and we clinked glasses, I realized that my son and I had never had a beer together before and that this was a rite of passage that I had long dreamed about and it was suddenly upon us.
I had never drunk beer with my dad as he had severe problems with alcohol and I was too young to drink when I left home anyway. But ever since my first son was born, I imagined that some day he would be old enough to drink and that in a very civilized way, and sharing the love of father and son between us, we might share a drink and a talk between two equals.
We only shared a beer together, yet to me it was a blessing.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
A CBC Hungarian Music Morning
This Sunday morning as I prepare for work, I am listening to piano Concerto Number 3 by Bela Bartok on CBC radio, the last piece he wrote before dying of leukemia, and the last 17 bars of which he was unable to finish.
It is said he wrote it to provide his widow with an income. It is unusually melodic, introspective and sometimes playful with none of the percussive fireworks of some of his other pieces.
The performer is pianist Janina Fialkowska who lost the use of her left arm because of cancer, and played for two years with only one hand while she underwent surgery and therapy to regain the use of the other arm. This recording was her first performance with both hands after recovering.
This music puts things in perspective for me, and as I listen to it I get a chill running up and down my spine at the glimpse of the creative power of the human spirit.
It didn’t occur to me until I pulled up her website that I have seen her play before, and it was on September 20th last year (see my blog of the same date) at the Orpheum Theatre, in the company of my daughter Chaya who had comp tickets.
No wonder I got a chill listening to this piece, a lovely little sensation of déjà vu!
It is said he wrote it to provide his widow with an income. It is unusually melodic, introspective and sometimes playful with none of the percussive fireworks of some of his other pieces.
The performer is pianist Janina Fialkowska who lost the use of her left arm because of cancer, and played for two years with only one hand while she underwent surgery and therapy to regain the use of the other arm. This recording was her first performance with both hands after recovering.
This music puts things in perspective for me, and as I listen to it I get a chill running up and down my spine at the glimpse of the creative power of the human spirit.
It didn’t occur to me until I pulled up her website that I have seen her play before, and it was on September 20th last year (see my blog of the same date) at the Orpheum Theatre, in the company of my daughter Chaya who had comp tickets.
No wonder I got a chill listening to this piece, a lovely little sensation of déjà vu!
Monday, February 12, 2007
Lunch With A Total Stranger
My lunch yesterday consisted of a 6-inch Subway meatball sandwich on Parmesan Oregano bread. I was scarfing that down on one of those little schooldesk fast food tables when a tall young Greek-looking girl came in to wait in the lineup.
She may have been about 19 or 20 years old, dark hair and features reminiscent of the lovely actress Mary Steenbergen who was discovered by Jack Nicholson working in a diner somewhere down south.
Anyway, I noticed her standing there and looking hungrily down the line and I was reminded of a teenage boy who has just emerged from gym class and who is starving. She had that hungry wolf look on her face like “Food, now and don’t mess around!”
I was about half way through my meal when to my surprise she appeared beside the table opposite me. She could have faced with her back to me, but no, she looked right at me as she sat down and removed her coat, revealing a milk white and pure virginal décolletage as she began unwrapping her sandwich.
She looked almost haloed and I seemed to be looking at her through a mistly lens, like in an old romantic movie as she dove into her sandwich and then glanced up at me again momentarily.
I quickly became very self concious as I clumsily tried to keep my own sandwich remnants from spilling out of the wrap onto my coat as I nibbled and now tried to eat with as much decorum as I could muster, given the dripping mustard and lettuce bits hanging from my mouth.
There was something incredibly sweet and civilized too about how rather than turn away from me and eat facing the street, she would share this moment with a total stranger a table away, and for a few moments we did share a meal together. Neither of us smiled but I wonder if she realized how much her presence touched me?
I suddenly felt terribly old and uncomfortable, and all I could think of was how quickly I could finish my sandwich and be spared the sweet agony of facing her head on for one more moment.
I cleaned up my crumpled and soiled wrappings, deposited them in the garbage and sailed out into the chilly evening street, circling back around by the Paramount Theatre and past the old fashioned barber shop opposite it on Smithe, for a leisurely walk back to the office.
Although neither of us had smiled, I now had a big smile on my face.
She may have been about 19 or 20 years old, dark hair and features reminiscent of the lovely actress Mary Steenbergen who was discovered by Jack Nicholson working in a diner somewhere down south.
Anyway, I noticed her standing there and looking hungrily down the line and I was reminded of a teenage boy who has just emerged from gym class and who is starving. She had that hungry wolf look on her face like “Food, now and don’t mess around!”
I was about half way through my meal when to my surprise she appeared beside the table opposite me. She could have faced with her back to me, but no, she looked right at me as she sat down and removed her coat, revealing a milk white and pure virginal décolletage as she began unwrapping her sandwich.
She looked almost haloed and I seemed to be looking at her through a mistly lens, like in an old romantic movie as she dove into her sandwich and then glanced up at me again momentarily.
I quickly became very self concious as I clumsily tried to keep my own sandwich remnants from spilling out of the wrap onto my coat as I nibbled and now tried to eat with as much decorum as I could muster, given the dripping mustard and lettuce bits hanging from my mouth.
There was something incredibly sweet and civilized too about how rather than turn away from me and eat facing the street, she would share this moment with a total stranger a table away, and for a few moments we did share a meal together. Neither of us smiled but I wonder if she realized how much her presence touched me?
I suddenly felt terribly old and uncomfortable, and all I could think of was how quickly I could finish my sandwich and be spared the sweet agony of facing her head on for one more moment.
I cleaned up my crumpled and soiled wrappings, deposited them in the garbage and sailed out into the chilly evening street, circling back around by the Paramount Theatre and past the old fashioned barber shop opposite it on Smithe, for a leisurely walk back to the office.
Although neither of us had smiled, I now had a big smile on my face.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Beautiful...Even In The Rain
Yesterday, despite the monotonous rain, I hiked down the seawall to 2nd Beach, wearing my hood up over my watch cap to keep dry. It was a slow walk, and there were very few pedestrians.
Like sentries keeping watch along the shoreline at widely spaced intervals, the blue herons stood at attention, wispy feathers moving slightly in the breeze, their determined masked faces set over the water. A flock of young, smaller gulls swooped and cavorted at English Bay, like a newly arrived busload of school children awaiting further instructions.
When it is wet and muggy like this, when you walk along you tend to go inward, as the gaze is not automatically drawn out into the elements. And I was deep in my thoughts as I trudged, head down, around the pool at 2nd Beach.
It was also one of those days where I was experiencing that curious emptiness and aloneness, an experience that is not always pleasant.
I could hear footsteps coming up on my left and a cheery voice spoke to me. “It’s a beautiful city…even in the rain!”
“A New York accent?” I wondered.
A tall, middle aged man wearing a toque and pea jacket passed me and almost as an afterthought, turned and said, “I live in Chicago! I don’t get up here very often.” And then he was on his way.
I imagined the snowy ambience of State Street and the frigid mid-west winter temperatures; frost on the breath and traffic pulsing at the stoplights.
Yes, Vancouver is beautiful, even in the rain and it took a stranger from many miles away to remind me!
Like sentries keeping watch along the shoreline at widely spaced intervals, the blue herons stood at attention, wispy feathers moving slightly in the breeze, their determined masked faces set over the water. A flock of young, smaller gulls swooped and cavorted at English Bay, like a newly arrived busload of school children awaiting further instructions.
When it is wet and muggy like this, when you walk along you tend to go inward, as the gaze is not automatically drawn out into the elements. And I was deep in my thoughts as I trudged, head down, around the pool at 2nd Beach.
It was also one of those days where I was experiencing that curious emptiness and aloneness, an experience that is not always pleasant.
I could hear footsteps coming up on my left and a cheery voice spoke to me. “It’s a beautiful city…even in the rain!”
“A New York accent?” I wondered.
A tall, middle aged man wearing a toque and pea jacket passed me and almost as an afterthought, turned and said, “I live in Chicago! I don’t get up here very often.” And then he was on his way.
I imagined the snowy ambience of State Street and the frigid mid-west winter temperatures; frost on the breath and traffic pulsing at the stoplights.
Yes, Vancouver is beautiful, even in the rain and it took a stranger from many miles away to remind me!
Monday, February 05, 2007
A Caveat
I received a long email from my friend A this morning commending me for my blogged fever-battle, but indicating that she never advised me not to take anything and pointing out that a fever over 104 can kill you.
I thought it my be wise to point this out, in case an avid blog reader might take my word and try to tough out a really high fever.
By the way, two days after the last blog, I checked my blood pressure and it had popped back cork-like into the same high condition it was previous to my fever. So it was no doubt not only the fever, but 5 days in bed and the rest I took that bought everything back to normal.
I have taken another tack in the past few days.
I am trying to go to bed on an empty stomach, rather than have my body working at digestion during sleep hours. The last two nights I have slept much better because of this, and I feel much better the next morning!
This is an old rule of thumb that I have long been ignoring just because I like to eat something at home after a long day of work. But no more!
I thought it my be wise to point this out, in case an avid blog reader might take my word and try to tough out a really high fever.
By the way, two days after the last blog, I checked my blood pressure and it had popped back cork-like into the same high condition it was previous to my fever. So it was no doubt not only the fever, but 5 days in bed and the rest I took that bought everything back to normal.
I have taken another tack in the past few days.
I am trying to go to bed on an empty stomach, rather than have my body working at digestion during sleep hours. The last two nights I have slept much better because of this, and I feel much better the next morning!
This is an old rule of thumb that I have long been ignoring just because I like to eat something at home after a long day of work. But no more!
Friday, February 02, 2007
A Fever Miracle
This is my first entry of the month, and the first morning that I feel almost back to my usual self…with one important shift. My blood pressure returned to normal yesterday for the first time in over 6 months.
I have been sick with a vicious flu the past week, which struck me Saturday and caused me to lose my voice on my evening shift.
I didn’t want to have to call in sick Sunday, but I knew I had no choice, although I still gave my supervisor the option of my coming in if they really needed me. Thank God she didn’t take me up on that. I thought it would be only a day off, but she cautioned me to take the Monday too if I really needed it.
I thought I would all be over by Tuesday and I could to enjoy a little down time, but no! By Tuesday my mind was playing tricks on me, and I felt I had to reach out to someone and let them know how sick I was, in case anything happened.
I called Chaya to let Kadir know that he should not come this week, and to my surprise, she told me that Kadir had taken sick the same weekend, and it occurred to me that we might have picked something up at the Granville Cinema when we went to see Babel on Wednesday, as our symptoms were similar. Could it have been a virus from Morocco?
I didn’t want my family members or anyone coming over to take care of me, and so I didn’t call anyone else, but short of going to the doctor I needed to talk to someone, and so emailed my friend A in Santa Cruz.
I had been struggling to sweat out the fever, but resorted to Tylenol on Sunday night. I explained everything to her. She suggested I “embrace the fever” and explained it thus:
The good news is, a fever is a very good thing. Kicks the doors of
your immune system wide open, stimulated cortico-steroid production,
and basically is your own built-in radiation treatment, inasmuch as it
"cooks" the sickest cells/foreign invaders.
My son was terrible sick with asthma as a tyke (from about 18 months to
8yrs old), so much so that we had to buy a machine to help him breathe
during crises and often feared for his life. Quel ordeal, I tell you.
Anyway, the point--and I do have one--is, his asthma "trigger" was
viral colds. Not animals or exercise or any of the other usual
suspects (except prawns, which by the way you should NEVER eat because
shrimp are bottom-feeders---terrible toxic allergens), but at the end
of an cold, he'd go into bronchial distress. EXCEPT when the cold came
with a fever.
Colds with fever, it seemed, were sufficient to trigger his own adrenal
glands to make whatever auto-immune substances worked to keep his
bronchioles functioning properly.
So, embrace your fever. Even now your body is making WONDERFUL cells
and antibodies---just what the heavenly doctor ordered.
Okay, this advice was great in a New Agey abstract sort of way…but the ordeal of doing it was far from easy.
By day 2, I realized I was going into a full detox.
I slept in half hour stretches, during which time my brain was trying to solve some abstract puzzle related to work that it could not/would not complete and so kept recycling through the same attempts, hour after hour after hour.
During the night I would fall asleep and wake thinking two or three hours had passed, but no…only 20 minutes had passed and I had to get up and pace and then go through the whole thing again. I was reminded of old films I had seen of someone “Kicking the habit” and going through the DT’s. I felt my body was going to snap, my mind explode.
In the first nations tradition you do this kind of thing in a sweat lodge, with full knowledge that it is a battle with demons. But I was like 5 years old again and in fetal position, and if my mother was still alive, I am sure I would have called her!
After the first night of this, I thought I had broken through, but no, the second night was even worse. I kept thinking of my bottle of Tylenol and whenever the thought of that came up the thought, “Embrace your fever” popped up and counter balanced it. The two are not compatible, and I knew in my heart of hearts that I had to sweat this one out med-free.
I had eaten nothing all this time, and drank only purified water, sometimes mixed with orange juice and by Wednesday evening realized I was still not ready to return to work on Thursday. I hated to tell my supervisor, but had no choice.
I thought, “What I need is two weeks of solid fasting until my appetite returns naturally” but I knew I had to return to work by Friday, and so Thursday morning, I woke up sweat soaked, showered, and headed down to a lovely little cheap all day breakfast place on Denman where I broke my fast with poached eggs, fresh fruit and whole wheat toast…I could only manage a sip of black coffee.
My knees were shaking all the way there, and I felt completely drained of energy, and in fact didn’t think my bowels were going to hold until I returned home. I stopped at Safeway on the return to refill my water jug, and then like a weightless wraith on stilts, feeling very out of this world, slowly, slowly paced home.
After resting an hour at home, it occurred to me that now would be a perfect time to check my blood pressure, and so I bundled up and walked ever so slowly to the Burrard Street Clinic Pharmacy across from St. Paul’s.
For the past 6 months, I have been dismayed to see continued way over the top blood pressure readings, and my hematologist has advised me of this on every visit. She cautioned me to see my doctor, but I knew I would have to go through the high cholesterol blood tests and that this was not the problem, as my diet is very good these days.
I braced myself as I inserted my arm into the device and let the reading take its course.
I could barely believe my eyes, when I saw the readings.
My blood pressure had finally dropped to normal.
I have been sick with a vicious flu the past week, which struck me Saturday and caused me to lose my voice on my evening shift.
I didn’t want to have to call in sick Sunday, but I knew I had no choice, although I still gave my supervisor the option of my coming in if they really needed me. Thank God she didn’t take me up on that. I thought it would be only a day off, but she cautioned me to take the Monday too if I really needed it.
I thought I would all be over by Tuesday and I could to enjoy a little down time, but no! By Tuesday my mind was playing tricks on me, and I felt I had to reach out to someone and let them know how sick I was, in case anything happened.
I called Chaya to let Kadir know that he should not come this week, and to my surprise, she told me that Kadir had taken sick the same weekend, and it occurred to me that we might have picked something up at the Granville Cinema when we went to see Babel on Wednesday, as our symptoms were similar. Could it have been a virus from Morocco?
I didn’t want my family members or anyone coming over to take care of me, and so I didn’t call anyone else, but short of going to the doctor I needed to talk to someone, and so emailed my friend A in Santa Cruz.
I had been struggling to sweat out the fever, but resorted to Tylenol on Sunday night. I explained everything to her. She suggested I “embrace the fever” and explained it thus:
The good news is, a fever is a very good thing. Kicks the doors of
your immune system wide open, stimulated cortico-steroid production,
and basically is your own built-in radiation treatment, inasmuch as it
"cooks" the sickest cells/foreign invaders.
My son was terrible sick with asthma as a tyke (from about 18 months to
8yrs old), so much so that we had to buy a machine to help him breathe
during crises and often feared for his life. Quel ordeal, I tell you.
Anyway, the point--and I do have one--is, his asthma "trigger" was
viral colds. Not animals or exercise or any of the other usual
suspects (except prawns, which by the way you should NEVER eat because
shrimp are bottom-feeders---terrible toxic allergens), but at the end
of an cold, he'd go into bronchial distress. EXCEPT when the cold came
with a fever.
Colds with fever, it seemed, were sufficient to trigger his own adrenal
glands to make whatever auto-immune substances worked to keep his
bronchioles functioning properly.
So, embrace your fever. Even now your body is making WONDERFUL cells
and antibodies---just what the heavenly doctor ordered.
Okay, this advice was great in a New Agey abstract sort of way…but the ordeal of doing it was far from easy.
By day 2, I realized I was going into a full detox.
I slept in half hour stretches, during which time my brain was trying to solve some abstract puzzle related to work that it could not/would not complete and so kept recycling through the same attempts, hour after hour after hour.
During the night I would fall asleep and wake thinking two or three hours had passed, but no…only 20 minutes had passed and I had to get up and pace and then go through the whole thing again. I was reminded of old films I had seen of someone “Kicking the habit” and going through the DT’s. I felt my body was going to snap, my mind explode.
In the first nations tradition you do this kind of thing in a sweat lodge, with full knowledge that it is a battle with demons. But I was like 5 years old again and in fetal position, and if my mother was still alive, I am sure I would have called her!
After the first night of this, I thought I had broken through, but no, the second night was even worse. I kept thinking of my bottle of Tylenol and whenever the thought of that came up the thought, “Embrace your fever” popped up and counter balanced it. The two are not compatible, and I knew in my heart of hearts that I had to sweat this one out med-free.
I had eaten nothing all this time, and drank only purified water, sometimes mixed with orange juice and by Wednesday evening realized I was still not ready to return to work on Thursday. I hated to tell my supervisor, but had no choice.
I thought, “What I need is two weeks of solid fasting until my appetite returns naturally” but I knew I had to return to work by Friday, and so Thursday morning, I woke up sweat soaked, showered, and headed down to a lovely little cheap all day breakfast place on Denman where I broke my fast with poached eggs, fresh fruit and whole wheat toast…I could only manage a sip of black coffee.
My knees were shaking all the way there, and I felt completely drained of energy, and in fact didn’t think my bowels were going to hold until I returned home. I stopped at Safeway on the return to refill my water jug, and then like a weightless wraith on stilts, feeling very out of this world, slowly, slowly paced home.
After resting an hour at home, it occurred to me that now would be a perfect time to check my blood pressure, and so I bundled up and walked ever so slowly to the Burrard Street Clinic Pharmacy across from St. Paul’s.
For the past 6 months, I have been dismayed to see continued way over the top blood pressure readings, and my hematologist has advised me of this on every visit. She cautioned me to see my doctor, but I knew I would have to go through the high cholesterol blood tests and that this was not the problem, as my diet is very good these days.
I braced myself as I inserted my arm into the device and let the reading take its course.
I could barely believe my eyes, when I saw the readings.
My blood pressure had finally dropped to normal.
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