think positive

July 2013 …

Trying to find a place where I could breathe and rest was taking too much energy. I stopped searching for a hotel or motel room that wouldn’t induce headaches and nausea. I had woken up too many times in the middle of the night with my head on fire and a burning throat, desperate for air.

But I could breathe, sort of, in the car.

Back at Fred Meyer, I bought bedding: a big brown comforter, soft warm blankets in shades of lavender, a small pillow to match. What else does one need for car camping? A plum colored hand towel and wash cloth; a fork, knife, and spoon; a thermos. Groceries.

In the soup aisle, I could not tear my eyes away from the box of beef broth on the bottom shelf. Pacific brand. Organic. I tried to talk myself out of it, but my body would not move until I put the box in the cart. Obviously, I needed protein. Fast. I found Tiger Milk bars on another aisle and grabbed a box of the extra peanut butter flavor. Packets of Emergen-C (powdered vitamin C) followed suit. Then Kava Kava tea for stress relief. Right.

A blank journal with a yellowish cover grabbed my attention. On the front were the words:

think positive
you are master of your own destiny

The color of the inside cover matched the biggest new blanket — chocolate.

Back in Olympia, when all this started going down — the difficulty breathing, the heart palpitations, the mold-induced-asthma diagnosis — my father invited me to his house in northern California, “for a respite.” Eventually I agreed, which is why I was traveling south. Respite was exactly what I needed. A place to take a deep breath, if possible, and assess the situation. I hadn’t slept for more than 30 minutes at a time for more than a week. I was afraid I would die in my sleep. Asphyxiate.

The first night in Florence was okay, but I was in a busy part of town. The tourists looked at me funny in the morning when I unwrapped the blankets and climbed out of my car to find a bathroom. The next night I attempted to sleep on a residential side street. But coastal Oregon is damp. And round about 4 a.m. the sprinklers went on and the air became damper. I tried to walk it out, but I still couldn’t catch a good breath.

Throughout this travail, I talked to myself constantly in a reassuring tone. “You are breathing, yes? Not as deeply as you’d like, but you are receiving some air. I know it’s hard, sweetheart. Just in, and out. That’s right. In, and out. Good job. In, and out. You can do it.”

Walking down the dark Florence street, breathing — shallowly yes, but breathing — I suddenly felt Emmett beside me. A big black Malamute mix with a huge plumy tail, we had traveled together through snow and rain and sun for six years. Through forests, on beaches, in boats. He finally left his cancerous body on New Year’s Eve 2007. But here he was, next to me. The comfort was visceral.

Some folks find Jesus or Buddha or Quan Yin in times of trouble, or get religion in other ways. I found Emmett, or rather, he found me — back in 2001, and now here in 2013. Tears of relief flowed down my face.

I returned to the Jetta. On a small flap on the outside of my new journal, I wrote:

Book 1: Project Susie

(My family calls me Susie.)

I need to dry out, I thought. This damp air is not helping. I need to go inland. Back on the same road where I’d met the local EMTs two days earlier — State Highway 126 — I headed east. Eugene, Oregon: 62 miles.

As I drove I sang a new song:
Project Susie
Project Susie
Help me out
Help me out.

Florence

Three years ago …

After spending a scary, sleepless night in a tiny cottage by the ocean in Westport, I drove slowly down the coast, trying to reach my father in northern California.

Pumped up on synthetic adrenaline (prescribed by a could-barely-breathe-herself doctor who diagnosed me with toxic-mold-induced asthma), full-body hot flashes surged through me on an hourly basis. Sweating, crying, praying, driving, I continued south as best I could.

The Interstate was not an option — way too much traffic and speed. I ended up on winding coastal roads, late at night. Cold. Still wearing the cotton pants and cambric shirt a neighbor had given me, and hot pink Crocs, no socks. Every time I stopped to check out a hotel or motel, the industrial cleaners they used in the rooms nauseated me. My senses — all of them — were in overdrive.

Exhausted and terrified in Florence, Oregon, I called 911, “I think I’m having a heart attack.” The EMT’s arrived quickly. One kind-faced man held my hand while others attached monitors to various parts of my body. Another advised me to stop taking the Albuterol. I had already done so, but it would take awhile for it to work its way out of my system. Their machines said that my heart was fine, just battered. Yeah.

After my breathing and pulse returned to a more normal rhythm, the patiently efficient EMT’s bid me goodbye. I started the car, turned it around, and headed into town. It was morning.

A huge Fred Meyer sign rose up on the right. A familiar sight! I had a Fred Meyer card! A chain store throughout the Pacific Northwest, I shopped there regularly for food and sundries. I turned into the parking lot.

Once inside, I headed for the clothing department. I needed warm shoes, and clothes that fit my swollen body. Long-time Queen of the FreeStore, for the first time in years I bought brand-new clothes: a pink and black sports cami, a hot pink cotton t-shirt, a long black stretchy skirt, grey fake sheepskin boots, rainbow colored socks, a lime green knee-length raincoat. I tried everything on in a stinky fitting room, and threw away the clothes I came in with.

“Lip balm?” I asked the compassionately helpful saleslady. She led me to another area, health and beauty, and found a tinted balm in a pretty pinky-brown shade.

“This will look good on you,” she said. I put it in the shopping basket.

On the way to the check-out stand, a flash of turquoise caught my eye: a small sequined purse, with a heart-shaped clasp. Perfect for the credit cards I’d been carrying in a brown paper bag. (Unsure what was moldy and what was not, I left everything behind except my computer. I was hoping to keep my job.)

The turquoise said, “You are still an ARTIST.”
The sequins said, “You are NOT DEAD.”
The heart said, “You are LOVABLE.”

I slung it over my shoulder. Let the healing begin.

Four months in a Jetta

I don’t live in a car. Isn’t that great?

Two and a half years ago I did. Live in a car. A 1999 VW Jetta, to be precise. If you know anything about cars – and why would you? they’re stinky, dangerous polluters – you know that Jettas are small. Four doors, yes, but definitely not an SUV. Not something you imagine you could spend the night in, let alone four months.

But I did. Live in my car for four months. Perhaps you’ll feel better if I call it camping.

Back in June of 2013, I noticed I was having trouble breathing. This wasn’t usual for me, a highly active dancer, skater, hiker, biker, jump-in-the-glacier-water woman. As a kid, I was a champion underwater-breath-holder. But now I was wheezing. More and more often. I began having nightmares about dying in my sleep. So I went to a doctor, who prescribed an inhaler. We talked about the black mold in my house.

“Do you own it?” she asked, meaning the house.
“No,” I said.
“Move.”

I moved out of my bedroom, where – I thought – the worst of the mold was. Slept in the living room. Awoke feeling better. So happy! I decided to clean the dust bunnies so it would be more habitable. Make it nice.

Turns out mold lives in dust. I was stirring up my own little poison cocktail. The next day I could barely draw breath. Was dizzy, faint, all those old-fashioned words that don’t sound very scary when you read them, but are quite terrifying when you live them.

I researched toxic mold: the worst side effect was death. O-kay. The Department of Health warned against attempting to clean it. Recommended haz-mat-suited professionals. I had been bleaching it off the walls of this abode for years. Come to find out, bleach doesn’t kill mold. And the bleach itself ain’t no picnic either, for your lungs.

By this time I was afraid to go in the house, so I tried sleeping in the backyard, in a tent that turned out not to be clean enough. Meanwhile, the synthetic adrenaline inhaler made my heart race to such an extent that I thought I’d die of a heart attack instead of asphyxiation.

A neighbor called around and found another neighbor with a spare room. Problem solved! Except by this time my body was so adrenaline addled that the intense smell of her cleaning compounds triggered an asthma attack. EMTs were called. Another neighbor – a chemically sensitive one – offered shelter. The EMTs walked me over to her house.

Which turned out to have a mold problem, too. In the middle of the night, I escaped to her garden, nose to the nasturtium and raspberries. Don’t panic don’t panic don’t panic.

The next day I walked down to my PO box, deposited the paycheck I found inside, and walked back up the hill to my car. This all took quite some time and effort. Hours for a trip that usually took 60 minutes.

One thought sustained me: I have to get to the ocean; I refuse to die here.

I am a long-time waterbaby. Legend has it that the first time I saw the ocean, I ran straight in. For me, home is where the ocean is. I wanted to be home. I needed it, like I needed oxygen. Which I wasn’t getting enough of either.

The ocean was 75 miles away, but I had a full tank of gas. And, evidently, no time to lose.

My neighbor gave me food for the journey, fruit from her garden, and let me keep the clothes she’d lent me. With my driver’s license, money, and credit cards in a clean brown paper sack, pink Crocs on my feet, shaking with the effects of the inhaler and lack of sleep, I drove down the street, turned left on Plum, and got on the freeway headed west.
Toward the ocean. Toward home.