The Secretary Got Mono
I got my COVID vaccines on February 3rd and March 4th. I had no physical side effects: no pain, headaches, nausea, etc. I’m not even sure if I had a fever. After my second vaccine I slept for at least 40 hours in 4 days, then I had severe brain fog for exactly one week. My brain literally woke up clear on March 11th.
A couple of weeks later a friend experienced a crisis and I supported her intensely for a few weeks. I felt tired, disorganized, overwhelmed, and started falling behind. Normal stress response… right?
For years I have had very mild eczema on my wrists and forearms that pops up in times of stress but never itches. In April my eczema started spreading over my body and itching like mad. For the first time in my life, my dry skin in general was itchy. I started getting extremely itchy skin-colored bumps on my face that would pop out of nowhere, last a few days, disappear, then more would come. Stress… masks… skin changes as you get older… weather changing… right?
My eyes started hurting. Not burning like dry eyes, but hurting like a sore muscle. I could feel my ENTIRE eyeball. I went to the eye doctor. My eyes were healthy and no prescription change needed. I bought blue light filtering glasses. Too much screen time… right?
I was having disgusting soak-the-mattress-pad squishy-sheet night sweats several times a week. I did not have a good rationalization for this one. If it was early menopause I would be getting hot flashes during the day, too. But bodies can be weird… right?
Throughout March most of this stuff was manageable. I was getting more and more behind, but nothing seemed connected and everything seemed minor.
But in the last week of April I started getting really tired. I am a night owl. Falling asleep before 1am is weird for me. I was needing naps at 4:30pm and forcing myself to stay awake until 9pm so I could sleep through the night. I was tired as if I had really bad flu, but I didn’t have really bad flu.
Then the confusion and memory problems set in. I am someone who obsessively finishes one thing before I start another when I’m working as a compensatory strategy for my ADHD. I started finding progress notes and other really critical documentation half done. I’d find 6 or 7 half-finished email drafts that I thought I had sent. By the time I’d find a pen and paper to write something down on a task list, I’d forget what I needed to remember. I seemed to be okay verbally, but written word was extremely difficult especially when trying to synthesize information. I struggled to take notes in meetings. When I needed to research or reference things (even things I already knew almost by heart) looking between different documents or web pages to consolidate information was literally impossible. Writing text messages was incredibly overwhelming. I looked at a menu, understood all the words, and could not hold enough information to make a decision. Driving home from an early doctor’s appointment I had to stop myself from going to 2 former and my current office, because I was going to work at HOME.
The secretary in my brain has many presentations:
When she’s burned out she shows up and fills her time with unnecessary busy work.
When she’s depressed she puts her head down on her desk and sleeps.
When she’s anxious she runs around all over the place and never manages to sit at her desk or even sort the mail.
On a bad ADHD day she has a bad attitude toward life and does everything possible to make everything difficult.
On a good ADHD day she is super focused and gets everything done and color coded.
But this. This was like she got mono, took a medical leave, and didn’t leave instructions or the key to the desk. The other staff were trying to keep up as best they could, trying to answer the phones and at least take messages, but they didn’t know the answers or find the post it notes to write down the questions.
This was not burnout. It was not depression or anxiety. It was not ADHD. But it WAS very scary.
At some point in all this a good friend of mine said that he was still really tired a month after his vaccine, and he thought the vaccine might be the reason. I was 2 months out from my second vaccine, and this had never occurred to me.
So I called my doctor in May, honestly feeling pretty silly and still telling myself it was probably just stress. Her first reaction was to yell at me for not calling her sooner. Her second reaction was to tell me that it sounded like my body was attacking me. Best case scenario was that it WAS the vaccine, which meant that it would probably just go away, but since there is no data we needed to expect that it was something else. She ordered me to take a week off immediately and sent me to the lab.
(Insert here how much I LOVE my doctor for hearing me and taking me seriously.)
I had a total of 4 video appointments with my PCP in two weeks. I had an in-person appointment with a rheumatologist. I emailed with my endocrinologist. In all, since the middle of May, I have donated TWENTY SEVEN vials of blood, about a gallon of urine (literally), and my brain had a photo shoot. We tested for everything from Lupus and Celiac to parvo and Hepatitis B to Cushings. The last time I went to the lab the COVID screener took one look at me and just said, “Any changes since last time?” And when I left he said, “Hope you get some answers soon!”
Here is what we learned:
- Several labs confirmed that there was definitely inflammation somewhere in my body, but nothing told us where.
- All of my organs seem to be functioning normally.
- All of my hormone levels are normal.
- My brain is healthy.
- I have hypogammaglobulinemia. Don’t ask, I don’t know. But apparently it wasn’t something to worry about on its own.
- My overall iron levels were low normal, but my platelets and hemoglobin were off. More specific iron tests showed that I was in fact pretty anemic. I bought iron supplements to start on June 14th.
My brain stayed boggled. It was getting to the point that I didn’t care if I had cancer as long as I could just get an answer.
I downloaded all of my medical records generated since May 12th for my psychiatrist: it was 140 pages.
On June 12th I woke up… could it be that this is what a clear mind feels like? I’d forgotten. But it was Saturday. On June 13th I… got things done? Really? On June 14th I woke up, cautiously wondered if my brain really was clearing up, and opened my email. It made sense. I answered a pile of them WHILE listening to and participating in a meeting. I was able to assess the situation. I freaked out. The secretary had returned and realized what an absolute chaotic mess everything was in and wondered how anyone managed to even get paid while she was out. Everything unorganized. Everything a mess. Nothing filed. Voicemail full. She thought about pretending she was still sick, but she didn’t. Because she had recovered and needed to get things back under control.
So now I’m about 10 days in and my brain has stayed clear. I don’t need naps anymore. My face hasn’t itched in a week. Eczema is still there but itching is way down. Night sweats are gone. I’m finishing my emails. I made some lists. My treatment plans will be done on time this month. NOW I’m officially burned out, determined just to make it another 10 days to my two week vacation, but I’m hopeful that when I come back I can start fresh. My energy is also much better, probably because of the iron supplements.
Anemia explains some things, but not the confusion or memory issues or night sweats or skin stuff. So what was it?
Today I talked to my doc again just to close the loop. She told me the most beautiful thing. She said that while I was her first patient who had reported anything like this to her, she has now had many more who also have. There is not nearly enough data for any solid research, but a clear trend of “Vaccine Long COVID” is developing. She said she is so glad that I called her and fought for an answer, because it could have been anything.
We don’t truly know if this is vaccine related. I will need to wait and see if it comes back. What I am sure of is this: if this was vaccine-related, then this is just a scaled model of what my COVID experience would have been like. The idea of what the actual illness would have been like for me terrifies me. The idea of losing what little control I have over my executive functioning for longer than a month makes me want to cry. I fought tooth and nail for years to make friends with the secretary in my brain, and my life and mental health would disintegrate without her. She is still healing, and I am nurturing her, but we’re okay.
I’m slowly reemerging, but with changes. In my attempt to decrease screen time, I learned that I still like to read (because it turned out that while I couldn’t read and analyze information I could just read and enjoy a story). Minimal time on social media is healthier. Going to bed when you first feel tired is actually a good thing. Stopping work at the end of work hours is okay. So I’m going to try to build this stuff in. And actually stick to it.
I really want you to know: If you’re going through anything like this: you are not going crazy. It’s very real. Trust yourself, and talk to your doctor. And don’t let them leave the room until you feel heard. Tell them you are scared and need answers, even if the answer is that you don’t have what’s being tested for. And if your doctor doesn’t hear you, find another doctor. Your doctor works for you, and it should feel like they are on your team. Donate the blood and the urine. Take time off.
And even if the answer is that you, like me, probably aren’t sick but just experiencing a taste of what COVID would have been like for you, show up to be a statistic in the research that will help others. Sign up for the COVID research apps and take 30 seconds to log your symptoms (or lack of them) every day.* Because statistics DO matter, especially now. And COVID is so very far from over. The world is desperate for vaccines because they will save our lives; we clearly don’t know the long-term effect of the vaccine, but it is much less likely to be death for ourselves and definitely will not be death to our loved ones. If vaccines are causing this longer-term effect for some people, then I want to be part of the research so that people living in countries who don’t have access to all of our specialists and labs and brain scanners can also have answers. I don’t want them to be afraid of having Alzheimer’s or cancer if their bodies are just still figuring out how to save their lives.
Take care of you. And in doing so, take care of those you love… and maybe even people around the world.
* If you’re interested in participating in COVID research, these are the two projects that I have researched and participate in daily:
- COVID-19 Citizen Science through University of California San Francisco
- COVID 19 Symptom Study through a collaboration between Stanford, Harvard, Massachusetts General Hospital, and King’s College London
Above and Beyond
Today I was digging through an old flash drive looking for my resume to update for a grant my director is writing, when I came across a folder entitled “blogs.” It had 3 documents in it. One of them is finished and posted so many years ago, and it’s probably my favorite (and also probably the shortest) (It Is My Honor). One is barely started, a blog roughly called “When You Move Around A Lot” that I have been thinking about for apparently 6 years, 10 months, and 15 days (there’s an app for that). I had no idea I’d started it. This is not the year I will finish it.
And then I found this. Based on the date and time of creation as noted in the document properties (10/10/2012 at 7:26pm), I actually wrote this on the flight from Phoenix to Minneapolis that took off an hour after the end of this story. (Yes, I went into my old email address and found the flight itinerary.) That’s probably the one and only time I was ever so inspired that I started writing immediately. I’m assuming I stopped typing because I had to turn my laptop off. I don’t know if I didn’t post it because it wasn’t finished, or just because I emerged into Jachin’s wedding then returned home to my still very new job and just forgot about it. Maybe both. It’s definitely not tied off like I would normally tie these off. And there were quite a few grammar errors.
But I really REALLY enjoyed reading it, so it’s time to put it up. Also, I fixed the grammar. And also, I miss flying.
Jachin is getting married! About time! I’m stoked . . . for the wedding, for family, for cousins (they get their own category), for a vacation.
And I get to ride in an airplane. I understand being afraid of flying, but I just don’t understand why anyone wouldn’t like to fly. The mere fact that I get to settle myself into a box in one place, defy gravity for awhile, and unpack my limbs in another time zone both thrills and relaxes me. I don’t care what anyone says; I’ve never taken AirBorne and I’ve never gotten sick on an airplane. It’s not that flying is a perk of going to Jachin’s wedding. And no, the wedding isn’t a perk of flying. They are different, but hold equal perk value. I would be just as excited about the wedding if I had to drive to it, and just as excited about the flight even if I was going to . . . well, I can’t think of anywhere I wouldn’t be excited to go to, but you get the idea. Maybe physics camp or something.
I bought my ticket in May. Early birthday present to me. I waited a little longer than I should have, and the price almost doubled. Such a crapshoot, timing airfare purchases. Guess I’m not buying a camera again this year. It’s okay. It’s worth it. Weddings, cousin-hugs, and flying.
I stayed up late last night in my typical packing ritual. . . organizing toiletries. Cleaning out and refilling travel bottles. Sorting the essential liquids and gels into my quart-sized clear zippered plastic bag (I’ve upgraded from Ziplocs into a special TSA-approved bag with an actual zipper that came with something I bought once. I think it’s actually bigger.). Sorting the essential non liquids into a separate bag. Never check in your suitcase make-up, layers of face-protecting/youngifying/cleansing stuff, or jewelry. You don’t realize how vain you are until you’re stuck solidifying memories with a lot of picture-snapping loved ones with a big zit on your chin and uneven skin tones. Those are the days you’re stuck longing for the pre-Polaroid era when lighting was poor and everyone was brown anyway. So just keep that stuff in your carry-on.
Moving into the bedroom I begin to lay out clothes. Who knows what the weather will be like. It’s Minneapolis in October. I have no idea what I’ll be doing. I’ve asked to be put to work, but I know there will also be social stuff with picture-happy people I don’t know and will only remember me as “Umm, I think that’s the cousin of Jachin’s – the one that lives in California. Didn’t she come from Mexico or something?” I put together several outfits. I give up and just take them all. Geez, that camisole smells like onions! Throw in a sink-load packet of Tide. And shoes… good Lord! Am I really taking 3 pair of shoes for a 5 day trip? If my toes get cold I’ll be miserable. Better take those, too, just in case. I’m too tired to make any more decisions. I pull out my favorite old duffel. I bought this bag for $30 at Wal-Mart in 1999. It has taken me to Mexico many times. It took me to Venezuela and the Amazon, to Paris, to Israel, to Jordan. I sat on it in a parking lot when I flew to Indiana to surprise my parents. I loaned it to my parents for a few tense months. It has been separated from me a few times, but we always come together again. But, like most things made of canvas and plastic, 13 years of international travel has taken its toll. The stiff back is very cracked and threatening to collapse. But it is a friend, one of my only constants. So, like any Rupe worth his or her salt . . . I pull out my trusty roll of duct tape and go to work. Good as new. Probably better. I consider running an iron over it to melt down the fiberglass, but I don’t want to wait for the iron to heat up.
The mornings of trips go right or they don’t. On this particular morning I only overslept by 40 minutes. Crap. Now I wish I had taken that shower last night. Shower, hair, makeup, clothes, earrings. Note to self: people with excessively oily lids should not wear eye makeup when traveling; I’m glad I remembered in time. (Trust me, folks – oily lids is a real thing. It’s kept quiet and victims suffer in silence. It’s not just about eye shadow melting off; if it gets in your eyes they burn and water all day. Anyway, I digress.) Finish packing and organizing and rearranging and making things fit. Should I take that other bag in case it doesn’t all fit in my purse? Nah, it’ll be okay. Pillow. I learned long ago that the quality of my air travel comfort is directly related to whether or not I take my own pillow. Where’s the Care Bears pillowcase? I always take the Care Bears pillow case. (Yes, I’m a grown woman who always traipses through airports with a Care Bears pillow under her arm. Don’t judge me just ‘cause my quirks are more public than yours.) But today I can’t find it for some reason. Here’s the blue one that goes with the twin sheets I only pull out when someone sleeps on the air mattress. Oh, the trash! The apples – gotta cut the apples. And the grapes! I still have BERRIES? Flurry of fruit prep. Into the car I go, not too late. I have to go to the bank, anyway. For some reason they have had a very difficult time processing a pile of straight up, cold, hard, no-need-to-clear, cash I deposited 4 days ago. Something silly about banks not having to work on Columbus Day. But if it’s still not working I’m screwed because you have to pay to check a bag and I’m out of cash and I can’t leave my friend behind. It’s all good. Relief.
Half way to work I realize that I forgot my headphones. Maaannn!! In the science of travel there are constant certainties, like gravity. Inconvenient, but dependable. One of these certainties is that you will forget something. In the grand scheme of things, forgetting my headphones is not that big of a deal. In the little scheme of things, those headphones are what pumps Harry Potter into my head so Grandpa Jim Dale (the narrator) can lull me to sleep in his soothing voice in places where not using headphones would be inconsiderate. I spent a lot of money on those memory foam comfort-emphasized earbuds specifically to sleep with. Oh, look: I have buried in my purse the old wrap-around-the-ear headphones with the short on one side that were replaced by the memory foam ones because they hurt to sleep on. Sigh. At least I have my passport. One time I got all the way to San Francisco and realized I didn’t have my passport and my friend had to get up at 5:30 in the morning and speed 80 miles in 90 minutes to bring it to me and I almost missed my flight. So it could be worse. (The fact that I use my passport for identification in airports even when I’m not flying internationally is irrelevant.) Moving on.
They used to say you should allow an hour at the airport before domestic flights, and they let people you love stay with you until the bitter end. Then the world happened. Now they say you should allow at least two hours and they make you go alone. My flight didn’t leave until 4:10, but Shelly needed to drop me off by 1:30, and I was hopeful that security wouldn’t be too bad mid-afternoon. When I walked into the airport, my airline area was deserted but for a luggage lugger whose blue uniform made him blend into the wall. “Just go there,” he mutters, pointing at the kiosk. I’m glad I checked in online this morning. I release my duct-taped friend to the lugger as a mother drops off her gilded toddler to the Sunday School Nursery worker. “I’ll see you soon.” “Try to keep it together,” I communicate telepathically. Literally.
Off to security I go. Only two people in front of me. Seriously? I hand the TSA agent my passport. She looks at me, then at my ticket, then back at me. “You’re going to Phoenix, right?” “Yes, I am.” I look at her calmly as if it’s perfectly normal for an American citizen to use a passport in this situation. She pulls out her little magnifying glass to stare at the horrid triple-chinned picture that the short little post office lady took after sitting me on a high stool and aiming the camera UP from her waist level, making it look like I had just gained instead of lost 50 pounds. As no one is in line behind me, I dare to do something I’ve never done before . . . I break a cardinal rule of interaction with travel-related security personnel (including TSA agents, immigration and customs officials, and security guards) ingrained into my psyche since my earliest formative years: I ask the TSA lady a casual question. “What are you looking for when you do that?” “Well,” she says, “The black line – the line that you sign your name on – it’s got these . . . it’s different . . .” “So you’re looking for the microprint?” I ask helpfully. “Yes! The microprint! That’s the word I was looking for!” A pleasant Asian man has come up behind me now and smiles. “Long day?” he asks her. “You have no idea.” I move on. I get to stand in the body scanner thing with my arms over my head. I don’t know what the big deal is. Americans are the only people on the planet who are deluded with the idea that they are entitled to privacy. If you’re reading this blog you are very likely a part of that exclusive and very restricted club I belong to; you know, that one where people share way too many irrelevant details about their boring lives with the intangible and abstract entity known as the Universe. And yet, someone takes a 3-D heat picture of us to make sure that no one is trying to violently end our lives simply because we happen to be one of the privileged few who are so stuck on privacy, and the world goes up in arms about it. Get a grip, people. Go spend a few months living in a place where you get searched every time you walk into a grocery store and you’ll realize how petty our rebellion against TSA searches really is.
My years of practice and skill refinement have prevailed. I’ve done the thing right and I’m waved on through. Ten minutes, curb to inner circle. Personal record. Now it’s time to find my gate and then some food. I have a couple of hours to kill. I decide to settle in a booth at the airport version of Sonoma Chicken Coop. Now, I like Sonoma Chicken Coop and I’m not usually one to say anything negative about a place, but in this case . . . I ordered the Tropical Chicken Salad, specifically for the ingredient of mango (as described on the menu) and the side of focaccia bread (which I had before and really like). I settle into my booth and delve into my phone, organize some stuff I want to read for work, and look forward to my salad. After an excessively long wait of more than 10 minutes (and I was the only person in the place and there was no line, but there was a lot of Vietnamese chatting) I was finally brought my salad. I immediately notice that there is no mango. Instead there are grapefruit and pear slices. At least I think it’s a grapefruit; it might be a questionable orange. And rice noodles. Neither of these things are on the menu description. I’m too passive. I didn’t say anything. I should have. Airport food is too pricy to settle. I look up from my salad and see the TSA lady walking past me back toward the security line, hefting a giant mug of coffee. Anyway. I called my mom and we had a lovely long conversation that ended when someone came to the door. I hung up, looked at the time, and realized my flight was leaving in 15 minutes!! I repacked everything, picked up my bag – and the clasp on the strap broke. Not from strain. The middle of the metal clasp just snapped. I paid good money for that bag specifically FOR the strap. Thank God it also has handles. I hope I still have the receipt somewhere. I dashed over to the gate and was the last person to board. I made my way to my seat at the back of the plane, folded myself in, buckled the belt . . .
And the door closed.
It doesn’t matter what has happened in the hours before, or how chaotic last-minute preparations were, or what you forgot . . . when that door closes it’s out of your hands. It’s like the moment you put your pencil down at the end of a final exam for your most difficult class: for better or for worse, it’s done. You have done all you can do, and all that’s left is to sit back and let someone else take over. All I am allowed to do is buckle up for the ride. Literally. I have a very difficult time relinquishing control when there is always something more I can do, but there is a great peace that washes over me when I must really and truly be done. I usually like window seats in the back of the plane. I’m a person who thinks it’s silly to get stuck in a standing line, and there’s just too much pressure to dash for the door if you’re sitting up front. The process for getting into a window seat is simple: Lift, push, stand aside, “Excuse me,” wait, toss, slide, tuck, buckle, breathe, and wait. I begin perusing Sky Mall magazine. Most of the stuff in there is ridiculous, but some of it is a good idea that I make a mental note to find at a more reasonable price. There is always something that makes me laugh out loud. Today it is the ROM: a revolutionary exercise machine that will help you shed the pounds in only 4 minutes a day six days a week. The plane starts to slowly roll. At first you’re not sure. Sometimes it’s moving, sometimes it just feels like it’s moving – you have to find a fixed point outside and focus. Slowly we meander through the maze of runways, all labeled with weird labeled codes that make sense to the people who need to know what they mean. We stop, we go, we turn, occasionally we might drive right over a freeway. Then the flight attendants make their little presentation. I feel bad for them, having to smile through that schpeal so often. Most people don’t pay any attention to them. I just like to see who actually puts the oxygen mask strap around their head; it’s the only real variation. The plane turns. Ding! “Flight attendants, please get ready for take-off.” Silence, then 3 or 4 clicks. Then the engines come on.
I don’t care how many times I fly, I will always get excited when the engine revs. I think of two things. First, the movie Space Camp. There is a scene when they’re in the shuttle simulator experiencing the rocket warm-up. Everything is shaking, and they’re so excited. The other is my mom, sitting between me and my brother. When the plane started to vibrate she would always smile and say, “This is it, guys! Here we go!” The plane starts to roll. Slowly, then quickly, then everything outside is a blur. Everything is shaking, vibrating. My eyeballs feel like they’re about to pop out. My seat just became a recliner. Now I’m really feeling the shuttle fantasy. Suddenly, without warning, the vibrations stop and all is relatively silent. No one ever talks now. Everyone is either feeling the thrill, hanging on for dear life, or (in rare cases) asleep. I look up. We are clearly tilting at least at a 45-degree angle. This is the part where I am most amazed at science. I know a little bit about lift and thrust and aerodynamics, but still. . . this is amazing. I watch out the window at all the buildings and trees and cars and ponds and roads blending into a single dimension, like a painting. We veer right, and I’m looking straight down into someone’s back yard. We veer left and I am blinded by the sun. Slowly the pilot shifts his aim from the heavens to his destination and we level off. It’s time to relax.
I lean back in my seat and watch out the window at the topographical map flowing like water below me, fading into and out of white and gray clouds. Soon the bell dings again, the pilot tells us we’re at 13,000 feet and we can now move about the cabin and turn on approved electronic equipment. When I was a little girl, back before all passengers were potential terrorists and pilots were sequestered behind bullet-proof doors, my brother and I were invited to the cockpit of an American Airlines flight. We got to meet the pilot, see the control panel, and were privileged to wear the plastic pin inducting us into the exclusive club of those elite junior co-pilots. I wish I still had that pin. Anyway, this is the point in the flight where I always picture the pilot in that cockpit hitting the Autopilot switch, leaning back with his Ginger Ale, and breathing a sigh of relief. The first hard part is done. Now just to get us all back to earth without flipping over the handlebars. Always I have something I want to read or write or do. I never do it. I stare out the window at the rotating globe until I get sleepy and nod off. Pillows come in handy. Even if I don’t sleep on it, they are a barrier between me and the cold wall of this metal box. I miss Sunshine Bear.
Today, though, despite my short night, I do not sleep. This is one of – if not the – clearest days I can ever remember flying. Usually there is at least a thin film of haze between eyes and ground that softens the view even if it doesn’t block it. But not today. Every field, hill, road, farmhouse . . . all stand out in stark relief. We rise above the clouds, and even there is stark clarity. I’ve never bought in to the whole “clouds are like puffy cotton balls” routine. I’ve been looking at the tops of clouds since I was a toddler, and usually they are either just a big sea of white waves or tall pillars of bleached marble. Today is no different. Today tall and unpredictably shaped pillars rise above a thick white floor toward a sky of perfectly bright blue. Today the sky is a Crayola color. Perhaps Cornsilk blue. God definitely went heavy on the pigment today. The sunlight bounces off of the clouds until I wish I had my sunglasses. My eyes close to the brightness and I doze off briefly.
I jerk awake. The clouds are gone and I’m looking over desert. Jagged hills jutting unjustly like pimples out of an otherwise smooth, flat landscape. A trickle of a stream reflecting the sun like a mirror fragment glued to a beige wall. It dwindles to nothing, but I can see the bed it has made for itself during times of plenty. I don’t really like descriptions. They are tedious to write and even more boring to read. But I began narrating to myself what I was seeing. The Heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky proclaims His handiwork. I have to write this. Comparing hills to zits is just too inspirational. Once I was talking to Diane about Arizona and the desert. I was thinking of sand dunes. She just looked at me and said, almost rapturously, “The desert is beautiful.” I will never forget the look on her face. Diane loves Arizona. I got to visit her there once and I saw what she meant. This is not a time to describe the desert, but it was beautiful. As I looked down on it now I saw in my mind’s eye what I saw on that trip. Desert has one S, and Dessert has two because you always want more. Grandma Wiedling taught me that.
The inevitable moment of turbulence seizes the plane, which is lurched into gyrating convulsions. They pass as quickly as they come. It strikes me that there are no crops. There’s always crops. But not here. This is the desert. There are no crops. Only black dots that I can only imagine are shrubs and cacti. I think of all the animals that live in that space, in that unfriendly dry and hot desert. A whole little universe down there. God’s imagination is so far beyond my own.
Ding! “We are beginning our descent into the city of Phoenix. Please make sure your seat is up, your seat belt is fast . . . yadda yadda yadda.” It’s all the same to me. “Okay everybody! Someone is not listening and won’t put their seat up. Make sure it isn’t you!” I love it when flight attendants break the mold. And it wasn’t me.
I watch some more and Phoenix begins to slide to attention below me. Neighborhoods are so interesting. Many of them are layed out in designs that only someone in an airplane would be able to see. A flower. Three joined heptagons. A triangle inside a larger triangle. Concentric circles (I would hate to live in the middle of that one). Does everyone in Arizona have a swimming pool? Apparently. Why are swimming pools always bright light blue? Why not purple or pink or green or yellow? Has anyone ever considered how great a deep purple swimming pool with a bright yellow flower design would look to the passing air traveler? Somewhere out there is a very rich person reveling in the fact that no one thought to take his swimming pool color scheme to a more creative level.
We emerge from the residential zone into the industrial area of town, which is very evident from my aerial perspective. Where do all these random squares of water come from? There is a huge rectangle of a manufactured pond down there just big enough for a single-lane speedboat racing strip. This is obviously the point of this space, because a single speedboat is zooming down the middle of it, creating waves that reach both sides. He gets from one end to the other in about 20 seconds. It’s the speedboat equivalent of racing your bike to the end of the driveway. But if you’ve got a boat and you live in Phoenix . . . Next in the cue are a few large factory-looking buildings. We’ve begun our decent now, so I can clearly see the water towers and smokestacks sticking out of them. We pass a huge building, and the entire roof is painted over with the company logo. Seriously? What’s the point of that? There is no helipad on the roof, so no need for a mailbox sign. The logo tells me nothing about the company. And it’s not pretty, so there’s no artistic value to it. Why on earth would someone waste all that paint? I’ll bet they have plenty of employees who would like to have their office repainted. I bet they don’t even know about all the paint that was wasted on the roof. It’s about 5pm here, rush hour. We’re downtown and much lower now. Rush hour traffic is funny when you’re traveling as the crow flies. There is something comical about seeing a huge line of cars stopped at a traffic light when there is so much empty space in front of them and no cars coming from the opposite direction. There’s a geometrical pattern to the road: clump of stopped cars, space, clump of stopped cars, space, clump of stopped cars, space. First world efficiency at it’s best. Clearly this town needs to get its lights synced up a little better. The first runway slips below me. I brace my legs. This is really the only part when I ever feel a little nervous. We’re still about 50 feet above the ground. What if we run out of runway and go crashing into a fence or another plane? What if he overshoots and we flip forward? I’ve been in a commercial jet that bounced. In the pilot’s defense the weather was horrible that day, the runway was slippery, and he nailed it on his second attempt, but it was still a little freaky. But all is well. The pressure smashes my head against my seat as I say a prayer for the pilot, to whom, as an official junior co-pilot, I owe my allegiance. The brakes whine, the flaps go up, and hundreds of tons of steal loudly rebel against their forced resubmission to the natural forces of nature. We roll back into that runway crawl and slowly make our way to the gate.
This is the part where people are just plain stupid. Before the fasten seatbelt light goes off, people are standing up gathering their stuff. There is a mad rush to get into the aisle. For some reason it doesn’t occur to anyone that no one is going anywhere until the door opens. And that before the door opens the runway guys have to pull the ramp up to the door, raise it, and lock it into place. Once the door is opened, all the first class people get to get off first. Then everyone else gets off, starting with the first row. It takes at least 10 minutes before the people at the back of the plan even start moving. And YET, they will insist on gathering their stuff and standing in the almost non-existent leg room in front of their seat, hunched over under the luggage compartments, as if this uncomfortable and impatient position will give them the opportunity to dash right out of there . . . . right behind the other 100 people doing the same thing at a snail’s pace behind the little old man who’s $6 bottle of water rolled under the seat in front of him. This is why I like to sit at the back of the plane: 1) I am highly entertained by this impatient tom-foolery, and 2) I don’t have to endure weird stares of people who don’t understand why I would rather just sit in my seat and not succumb to the entranced procession of the herd.
Legacy of a Cat
Striper as a kitten in the CCC clinical office
In November of 2004 I was a new case manager at Chamberlain’s Children’s Center in Hollister, California. I was not very good at my job yet. One of the best things about CCC is that they truly strive there to create “practice families” and expose the kids to normal life stuff, rather than “rehabilitate” in a sterile vacuum then throw them back out into the world and hope they make it. We had been talking about getting some pets, so it was no surprise when our CEO, Doreen, showed up one day with a kitten that she found alone in her neighborhood. She was bushy, with big tufts of hair on her jowls, and had an air of elegance about her from the very beginning. I wanted to name her something sophisticated, but the kids took to her tabbyness and called her “Striper.” I have spent the last decade telling people that she isn’t a stripper.
Waiting for the fax to ring!
And so Striper moved in to our office. She was entertaining by day and independent by night. She had a special love for anything that made paper move, and we quickly learned to dash and protect the fax machine as soon as it started ringing. There is nothing more professionally awkward than having to call someone and ask them to refax something because your cat jammed the machine. We also learned to unplug the desk printer at night… after Striper discovered that by holding down the power button she could print test pages. We came in to work one day to find all of the paper in the printer (at least 50 pages), previously blank and loaded, strewn all over the floor describing the features of said printer. We walked in to the same disaster months later when we forgot to unplug it, which made me wonder if she tested it out every night.
The life of a therapy cat
When Striper was small she would climb up my executive style desk chair and take a nap behind my neck while I worked. As she got older she became less and less tolerant of grownups, but she had eternal patience with the kids. Striper had this lovely progression of irritation starting with her ears lying back, then tail twitching, then a low growl, then a hiss, then a bite or scratch. This pattern helped the kids learn to recognize nonverbal cues and modify their social behavior to respect boundaries. From them she tolerated being accessorized, carried in some very strange ways, and some fairly rough handling. The only time she looked at me for desperate help was when a two year old tried to ride her!
My boss at the time, Cheryl, is a true cat whisperer, and she and Striper had a very close bond. In June 2007, when Cheryl started packing up her desk the week of her retirement, Striper moved into her litter box and wouldn’t come out. So I was asked to take her home with me.
Playing Around
Striper and Onyx enjoying the sunshine together… with a wall between them
I had a cat named Onyx. Onyx was my cuddlebug and special friend. And, despite being fixed, Onyx had true carnal desire for Striper from day one. Poor Striper. But over time we developed a routine, each of them got me for a specific part of the day and had their tasks. Bedtime was Striper’s time, and she always woke me up with her rough tongue – constantly annoyed at my alarm clock that kept going off. Onyx chilled out a little as he got older, and eventually they started getting along. A couple of times I even managed to snap a picture of them sleeping within reach of each other! As Striper got older her peripheral vision became compromised, and I think her depth perception – it got to the point that she wouldn’t jump higher than a chair because she miscalculated so often that it just wasn’t worth the risk.
In September 2012 I left CCC (I was good at my job by then) and started a clinical position at a Refugee Foster Care Program in San Jose. My plan was to save enough to move to San Jose, but the commute took too much out of me so I decided to move in with a friend for a few months in between. I couldn’t take both cats with me. Onyx also had this habit of peeing on everything, a habit that I did not want to torture a roommate with, and had a not-so-secret desire of becoming an outdoor cat and I wasn’t willing to risk the vastly increased outdoor dangers in San Jose. So Onyx became an outdoor cat cared for by an elderly cat lady in my complex, and Striper came to San Jose.
I met Debbie through a mutual friend, and she agreed to foster Striper while I found a place in San Jose. Plans changed, and she ended up keeping her for 3 months instead of 6 weeks. I’m so grateful to Debbie for her care of Striper during that time. I was adapting to a job that was incredibly difficult on so many levels, and it was during that time that I realized how much I truly loved and needed my cat. I’m told that she spent most of those months perched at the top of Debbie’s cat tree avoiding her two cats – which didn’t surprise me one bit. She truly does despise most other animals. God gave us a perfect apartment, and we were reunited in February 2013.
Striper and I lived a quiet life for a couple of years, although I did learn about cat depression and learned to keep a
Riding home from work
couple of lamps on for her in my very dark apartment. I took her to work with me from time to time, both for my own comfort and the amusement of my clients. Some of the kids had never known a domestic cat before, and she was so great with them! I left the RFC program and went back to work for Chamberlain’s in January 2014, this time at their outpatient clinic in Gilroy. My days became even longer again, and I noticed Striper becoming more depressed and lonely.
Helping to type notes
The office was pet friendly, with two other clinicians bringing their dogs every day, and I received permission to bring her. Striper hated the car ride in the morning… I tried in the crate, out of the crate, kitty sunglasses, everything I could think of, but she would always scream the whole way. But when we got there she absolutely loved it! She loved working with the kids again, teaching them social skills, being cuddled, and spending time with me. The trip home was always fine, and she was definitely happier.
Life with a kitten
But Striper was getting old, and I could tell. She turned 11 and became a senior cat. She was tired and sore and seemed less able to jump even shorter distances. I knew that she was lonely, but didn’t think she’d be able to tolerate being around another cat. But I was also keenly aware that she was nearing the end of her life, that I needed a cat, and that I would never be able to replace her. So when my coworker adopted a kitten in May 2015 and was going back for another, I asked her to bring me one. And I was hand-delivered a 5-week old goddess of destruction called Persephone. Pippi looked like a little elf and was beyond adorable, but housed within her 10-oz body the energy of a typhoon. Needless to say, Striper was not in favor. Pippi got a belled collar when she started racing up behind my non-peripheral-vision cat and launching onto her back. Striper would have none of it, and I started to regret my decision.
Pippi and Striper meet
I wanna be like you-oo-oo!
But then Pippi grew up, and out of her maturity emerged a therapy cat. I watched in amazement as she began a months-long process of earning Striper’s trust. She would put herself in Striper’s line of sight and approach until Striper began her low growl. Then she would stop and lay down and watch. Once Striper was fully relaxed, Pippi would take a few more steps until Striper growled again. Over weeks, the tolerated distance shrank from 10 feet to about 2 feet. I will never forget the day I was reading on the couch and suddenly heard bells jangling. They were wrestling. My. Cats. Were. Wrestling. Striper. Was Playing. With. Another. Cat. I cried. Striper had a friend. As their 
relationship progressed Striper allowed Pippi to groom her every day, and every once in a while they would sleep within touching distance. Striper turned 14 this past fall, around 72 in cat years. She could jump again, run again, she wasn’t so afraid or reactive. When we got Pippi she became “kitten” and Striper became “mama,” but Pippi was by far the caregiver. There is no doubt in my mind whatsoever that Pippi added years to Striper’s life, and that Striper was never happier than when Pippi was her friend.
When Cheryl retired from CCC she moved to Visalia. Through a series of events we developed a close friendship that merged to family, and I now spend all of my California holidays here. One of the best things is that I can load up the cats and bring them with me. Both of the cats hate the ride, and they’re not really a fan of being here, but all 3 of us are certainly happier together than with them subjected to a cat-sitter in San Jose.
Buddies forever!
So last Sunday, December 23, 2018, was no different than any other “go to Visalia” day except that we were leaving in the morning instead of late at night. Striper woke me up to turn off my alarm and gave my face and hands a nice bath with her now smooth tongue. She demanded food and even got some coconut oil out of me. She hid under the bed when the suitcase came out, and came to cuddle when I took a break on the couch. She took her travel pill without complaining, although she didn’t seem to get as drunk from it as usual (usually she’s making out with the walls, it’s pretty funny!). She was getting herself a snack when I picked her up to put her in her crate, before I went through the traumatic ordeal of catching Pippi to put her into hers. We rested a bit after that, then we were off.
Striper was quiet in her crate, but she was further into her pill than usual at the start of a trip so I was just grateful. We were all listening to the 8th Outlander Audio Book, that I had started that morning. I paused in Los Banos for a power nap, then ran into Starbucks for some caffeine. When I got back into the car I realized that I still hadn’t heard a peep out of Striper. I called her name, with no response. I poked her through the bars, no movement. I opened the door. She was curled up, sound asleep, eyes closed, relaxed. I yelled at her, I shook the crate. She didn’t move.
Striper was gone.
Striper was gone, and I had 115 miles left to drive. I called Cheryl, sobbing. She calmed me down to the point that I was able to ask for prayer on Facebook then block it out and do nothing but listen to my book and drive – with the occasional freak out about Pippi being too quiet, but she was fine. I got to Visalia, where we confirmed that Striper indeed would not wake up, let Pippi take one goodbye sniff into the crate, and put her unceremoniously in the garage. I wrapped gifts, taking breaks to come comfort a crying Pippi. I fell asleep around 4:30am with her cuddled up with me under the blankets. She’s here with me now, purring, as we share Striper’s story with you. Her tongue is much rougher than Striper’s.
Truthfully, Striper did it right. One of my greatest fears was that she would get sick and I would have to make the decision to euthanize because I couldn’t afford medical treatment that would only extend her life by months. I’ve never actually seen a dead pet before, since only one of mine died when I was at home and I was too young to be involved. I don’t know what I would have done if I had to pick her up her body and transport her. This would have been so much more tragic for me and Pippi if we had been home, alone, if I had to go back to work the next day. Instead, Striper picked a day when she was healthy and happy. She was already in her crate. For all I know, she died before we even left the apartment. We were on our way to Cheryl, at the beginning of a 2 week break. Her death was free to me, since her cremation was covered by my friends as a “condolence gift” (whatever that is). I can spend all the time with Pippi that she needs. Striper was truly a mama cat in her final moment.
I could never replace Striper. But here’s the thing: Pippi is lonely. She has never been alone before. And she truly IS a mama cat. It’s like a calling for her. And what I want most for her is to have a life with a cat who can reciprocate all the love she has to give. So yesterday I went to the Valley Oak SPCA and adopted a beautiful kitten that I will pick up on Monday to begin the process of adding her to our family.
I think most pets are very special to their family, but it stays there. Because of how Striper started life, she has been so special to so many. So many kids have been loved and impacted by her! She has made so many smile, taught them things. And she herself finally learned how to allow herself to be loved. This is a legacy that cannot be spoken about many cats. And I am so grateful to have been her human.
Striper
October(ish) 2004 – December 23, 2018
The San Jose Pop Up Choir
Performing “Little Town” for Kidney Action Day – I was Belle
Up until about 2 years ago I had only had one truly close friendship since college that I didn’t meet at work. One of those work relationships developed long past that job, but the others all ended every time I transitioned. Friends I had from college and after pretty much all got married and had families, leaving more and more married to work. When I moved to San Jose almost 6 years ago I ended up in a work environment that did not really harbor any friendships for me, and I became desperately lonely. My doctor had been recommending a website called meetup to me for several years, and I was lonely enough to start considering the possibility of facing my social anxiety to try something new. I really missed singing, but all of the local choirs I could find were very “official,” requiring auditions, money, strict attendance, and musical skills that I really don’t have. Then a coworker told me that she had once visited a meetup group called the San Jose Pop Up Choir, a small group of people that get together to sing karaoke at a little studio. I had never sung karaoke and, despite my love of performing, the idea terrified me. I checked out the meetup and the next one was going to a Sound of Music singalong at a movie theater. Now THAT I could do!!
I met Teresa and Kathleen at that theater, and the rest is history. The San Jose Pop Up Choir is now my family. I have found people like me there… single, professional, mid-30s, overworked and lonely in the Bay Area. I have found people a generation or two above me who are living proof that aging doesn’t have to be boring. I have found “kids” a generation below me, and been able to observe just how special and unique and admirable these beautiful snowflakes truly are – they endure a life far more rigorous than I ever have! I’ve watched people come to meet a New Year’s Resolution to overcome stage fright and a year later belt out Whitney Houston by themselves. I have found the friendships that I never expected in my tiny subgroup called Quarter to Ten. I have found family.
I love the tagline on our new website: Making friends one song at a time. Because, really, that is our priority. Honestly, we don’t care if you can “sing” or not (whatever that means). All we care about is that you will support an environment where people can make music with their voice and laugh together. And, shockingly (or maybe not so much), as people who think they can’t sing relax in a nonjudgmental environment, they suddenly discover that they CAN sing.
Because we are such a wonderful group, we are growing. This year we have grown a lot. When I became a “serious” member almost 2 years ago, we were lucky if 20 people showed up on a Friday night. Last night was special because it was the last karaoke night in our current space, but there were about 40 of us! We are performing more, putting on our own showcases, singing at events and fundraisers. We have never charged for a performance, unless it was to cover expenses; in those cases it is usually US that pays so our guests can enjoy the evening for free. Last year we raised over $3000 for victims of hurricane and fire disasters. Our stage is small, making rehearsals cramped and difficult, and it’s increasingly easier to trip over cables these days. We keep buying more equipment as we grow and become more active, but it’s expensive and breaks down. Some music can’t be performed at a formal event unless we can purchase licenses (Even songs like White Christmas!).
We’re in the process of moving to a new location (Well Sinohui is – we’re along for the ride), and we need to make some upgrades – a bigger stage, some better equipment, promotional material like business cards and postcards, things like that.
Will you help us?
Click here to read Sinohui’s story and watch a video of our signature song (in which for some reason I can’t keep my chin down).
This holiday season we will be doing lots of caroling – a toy drive and downtown Campbell to name two – and would love for you to join us!
Here are our two upcoming big events – we’d love to see you there!!
(Turn your sound up) – Free Holiday Concert
Thoughts by Sallie 