Counting My Blessings

It’s been an interesting weekend. I wasn’t here Friday because I took a special trip to see Louis. As you know, he’s only two hours away, so I don’t get to stay overnight in my favorite B&B anymore when I go to see him. You know me, I adore bed and breakfasts. But this time he had his friend Mary coming in to see him from Indiana, and we arranged to meet for dinner after her visit with Louis, and before mine the next day.

To manage that, I had to stay overnight at a local hotel. Upon arriving in town, I asked around for the best places to eat, and two names came up consistently.

One was the Bucktail Hotel. So off Mary and I went, for the best meal I can remember since my eight-day sojourn down south for the Romance Writers of America conference in 2009. Everything was perfect—ambiance, portion size, taste. And since it was an off-season weeknight and business was slow, we got a chance to talk to the owner, who then gave us a tour of the grand old hotel, including a beautifully decorated formal dining room, and some of the empty guest rooms upstairs. It turns out the hotel also operates as a B&B, and regularly hosts retreats, much like the Winter Writers Retreat I went to in Ohio last February.

You know that got my wheels turning :). But that’s a project for another day.

We enjoyed the company and our dinner so much we returned the next morning for an equally awesome breakfast. And while we ate, the heavens opened with the first snow of the season—big, fat, fluffy flakes the size of half dollars. It was gorgeous. So very Currier and Ives. So much so Louis was convinced I’d decided to go back home instead of coming to see him, since I’m not a fan of driving in the snow. While we were indulging in home fries made with real potatoes, he was calling my cell phone to see where I was. Since I keep it in the car, he got no answer.

But he did get his visit, and we had a great time. During the visit he told me how other inmates were both surprised that he was going out a second day in a row, and envious of him, still getting visits after all these years. It seems the longer you’re in prison, the more friends and family fall away, as they get involved in their own lives, and the cost of visiting and supporting a family member in prison gets to be too much to bear.

“Going to the dance,” they call it, and this week Louis told me he was blessed enough to be able to go to the dance twice in one week. A minor miracle in his world, considering he’s been there 32 years.

As always, we talked about food, and Louis listened with rapt attention as I described our meals at the hotel. When a guard came by, she confirmed the reputation of the restaurant and the mile-high size of the meringue on the homemade pies—so high that I had to settle (not!) for pumpkin pie because I simply had no more room for my favorite—cocoanut cream.

In fact, the pumpkin pie was so good, I stopped on my way home and bought half a pie to take home. ’Tis almost the season, you know, and I’m not handy with pies. Somehow they always turn out as heavy as lead.

But while all of this warm fuzziness was happening, something much more insidious was going on at home. I didn’t know it, but I had a carbon monoxide leak.

I got home and since I rarely cook after visiting Louis, decided to go out and get a pizza instead. Now pizza’s one of my special treats, and usually makes me feel great afterward—all those refined carbs fueling my serotonin levels and keeping me comfortably content. But this time it didn’t work. I felt yucky most of the night, almost nauseous, and could barely stay awake. I decided my exhaustion had to be from the trip, maybe the pizza was bad, and went to bed.

The next morning, I overslept by two hours, shocking myself. And even then, I couldn’t seem to wake up. Everything hurt. I felt like I had the flu. Massive headache, aching joints, and my mind just wouldn’t work right. I couldn’t get my day started. I knew there were things I needed to be doing, but just couldn’t muster any energy to do them.

Finally, I stood in my kitchen and announced to no one in particular, “Something’s wrong.”

Since I had smelled gas in the house earlier in the week, but hadn’t thought much of it since I’d found a burner turned partially on—I assumed it must have gotten caught up in my robe pocket or something as I was passing by--I called the gas company.

They called 911. Next thing I knew I was told to get out of the house and wait for the fire department and EMTs. Everybody arrived, four different vehicles, checked out the place, and I did indeed have a carbon monoxide leak at the stove and the boiler in the garage, and a gas leak as well, inside and out.

The gas man shut off the gas, and the EMTs tried to talk me into an ambulance ride. I declined, and got a friend to take me to the emergency room instead.

Not the way I had planned to spend my day, for sure. And through all of this, I just couldn’t think right, you know? I hurt, I ached, I couldn’t organize my thoughts, and all I wanted to do was go to sleep. Food made it worse, not better.

Fortunately, my contamination levels were low enough that I didn’t need oxygen therapy. For this, I credit my extreme sensitivity to chemicals of every sort—during the day I heard several horror stories of people who ignored their symptoms and passed out several times before they sought help—or didn’t seek help at all—and my Qigong classes, which include deep breathing and therefore keep a fresh supply of oxygen circulating in my body. My vitals, despite my confused state and aching body, were excellent.

But what really struck me was how similar the symptoms were to those of a hormonal imbalance, which is something I’m much more familiar with than I’d like to be. At first, I thought that was the problem. Until none of my hormone-boosting tricks worked—like the pizza.

The bottom line is I am lucky to still be alive. And so is my son, who fortunately was at his father’s during all of this. So I went to Mass last night to give thanks, for everyone who was so kind and helpful yesterday, and for being so blessed as to have escaped what for all too many people becomes a tragedy.

Among other things, I’ll be able to go to the dance again.