91° at 9:00 a.m.
Triple digits, foretasted again for today. It’s temps like this, we begin to ponder the effects of global warming as our brains feel like they are simmering in cerebral consommé. The heat is hard on everyone. There are the kids who are freshly back at school in buildings that pre-dated air-conditioning and who have to walk a mile or more home when the sun is burning their backpacks against sweat drenched shirts. For those of us with chronic illness, it would seem we have a Goldilocks temperament to temperature. Too cold or too hot throws us into our deeply rutted symptom circus. I keep thinking my next craft will be an ice pack jacket. They sell rather expensive cooling vests on line that are all the rage for people who have trouble in the heat … yet at those prices of $100 and up, I should think my creative talents could come up with something suitable for less of an investment.
My goal this morning, was to try and get a load of laundry out on the line before the peak of the sun’s heat scorched the ground making it impossible to set a toe outdoors. However, this morning was filled with hard moments and even sitting still next to a shaded window was a challenge. The deep pain in my neck and back screamed for hot packs, so despite the rising temperatures, I nuked a few hand crafted rice socks and strategically draped them on my pressure points. As the warming devices gradually began to give up their heat, I decided I would try that load of laundry. I slipped off my heart monitor, because I knew it would have been off the charts and as I was only going to be a minute at the washer machine, I decided my heart rate would just have to keep climbing without any cybernetic counter maneuvers on my part.
There were two very full baskets of linens, leggings and lingerie, t-shirts, towels and tight legged jeans. Best I could, as the clock was ticking on my time to be upright, I separated out a suitable load. Our laundry nook is small quarters, barely room for the appliances, albeit the clothes dryer has been unplugged for years. Yet my dogs both felt compelled to help by circling my feet and watching my every move. My furless friends are both very attentive during the day when I am sitting up in bed or trying my hand at some cleaning on the floor. But when I am on my feet they seem to act as if I am walking the high wire and they are ready with the net should I falter. I often wonder if they can smell or otherwise sense my autonomic imbalance. Indeed when my body floods adrenaline from a POTS surge, my old girl Taco moves to the edge of the room and just watches me in silence, while Dalai Lama positions herself at my back and leans her light frame into my kidneys. Coincidence she is applying gentle pressure on my adrenals?
Once the clothes were full and the home made laundry detergent added, I could close the lid and relax for the next twenty minutes until the main event. With a wild fire of pain still ablaze in my body there would not be much peace as the pieces of sinew sought allostasis.
I listened to the hum of our neighbor’s air conditioner, the power tools of a crew working to cut back the dead brush along the edge of the quarry in preparation for fire season and the occasional dog barking to announce its territorial domain. Lost within a timeless sense of listening, my body was busy behind the scenes continuing to seek balance. It was not long before I noticed an absence in the spacial sound patterns. There was no more noise from the washing machine. My chest sunk a bit as I realized it was time to tackle my next big adventure.
After reading a text from my college girl who was busy with her own balancing act as the first year students arrived on campus and she began her formal hen mother role for the year, I carefully lifted large armfuls of wet clothes out of the basin and piled them high into a basket that was probably as fragile and broken as my own human frame.
As I pulled the heavy glass slider door to the back yard, the blast of heat from outside hit me like a jet engine. Priorities in place, I put down the basket and walked over to turn on the patio misters to help cool the air even if it was ever so slight. With bar stools scattered beneath our crisscrossed laundry lines, I plotted my strategy as to not spend my entire load of stand-time before the wet clothes were well hung.
Looking down at the heavy pile of fashion and feeling the oppressive heat of the sun, I longed for one of those fancy cooling vests. Settling for second best, I slipped off my tank top and placed one of the very wet tees on top of my bare skin. The cool wet cotton felt wonderful and I was able to drape some wet towels on my head and shoulders to provide enough shade and moist comfort to finish the job before my body was finished.
Once back in the comfort of my Zen room, I lay back with some ice packs and spent the next 90 minutes in recovery from the morning’s venture. Ninety minutes to recover from 91° heat at 9:00 in the morning to be dressed to the nines, indeed!
