Swallowing a Chicken and Choking on a few Bones: The highs and Lows of this Weekend (1)

         Dr. Gloria is the outpatient physician who I saw when I was diagnosed with Malaria a few weeks back.  There is nothing special about her, really, except she does her job, professionally, thoroughly, and kindly; this makes her EXQUISITELY distinct from any Ugandan doctor, working in Uganda, ever. Yes, yes, this is the part where I say, "well not ever..."- Hmph. We Lovvvve Dr. Gloria. So despite the unusually long wait in a fairly empty clinic, our threesome trip to the doctor's was pretty okay.   I was checked for Malaria...again, still going through fluctuating levels of weakness and total blah-ness: "Oh! But why are you back again? Are you not getting along with Dar?", "Oh no, no Dr. Gloria, I love Dar I just..." (did you hear that Ug doctors, she remembered who I was and showed concern for my well-being despite knowing I was NOT in the exclusive categories of having TB/having HIV/ being an infant with Malaria/ or any of these in tragic combination-just because I am not dying doesn't mean I don't count. Hmph!!) Dr. Gloria ordered some more in depth blood work and urine sample for a certain kind of bacteria as well as Malaria. 


           In the meanwhile, Ms. V also had to have blood work as well to begin a chart as she has been suffering from acute stomach pains since long before I knew her (so like longer than 6 months) let's just say since she was young.  I held her in my lap while the lab technician (in the 1 month I've lived here and 3 times I've seen him, he has demanded me to learn Swahili as soon as possible at least 30 times, so I told him to make sure I stop getting sick and I will learn, he agreed) prepared her big needle.  The Little One has no shortage of stories at her Hulk like transformation if faced with an injection; apparently, she bites; she wounds; she maims, and swears there is a whole slew of broken nurses out there who can attest to this fact.  Having just felt the pinch of the large needle he was preparing for her, I was a bit.....nervous.  I held her in my lap, one arm firmly wrapped around her free arm and both legs, while I whispered soothing comments into her ear.  She discussed, with squeakily thin voice, the approaching needle and I swear my heart beat right through her otherwise still, calm, chest. We survived.  


          She was given de-worming medicine and revealed yet another quirk in her personality-the girl LOVES medicine.....almost as much as Chicken! Which, well......It was so bad she almost cried at the idea that her medicine came in a single dose and mine was much more-weirdo! (actually, no, I think I can guess the history of this going back to her mama, but let's keep this light.....enough) It turns out I didn't have Malaria, or the weird bacteria thing.  BUT (ahem Ug "doctors" this part is called doctoring) While I sat in on the Little One's consultation, Dr. G listened while I threw out other suggestions for what was bringing me down, and ordered a hemoglobin test, and Yaayyy, guess who knows her body? Turns out the Malaria had brought me down a few notches and I was anemic, enough to explain the tornadoes of emotions and behavior a few weeks/days/hours ago, thank you very much-well...... mine, not my mother's, and certainly not hers of today; she is just a crazy, narcissistic, neglectful, careless-urghhhh-keeping it light, keeping it light......


          Dr. G did nothing more but give me some vitamins to keep me going till I replenish the ones I used to take in Ug. (If she's very good I'll give the Little One one tomorrow as a treat in lieu of the chocolate I will eat, hehehe, I'm getting good at this).  Well, actually she did a whole lot more as far as reviving-well- establishing my trust in some-well-one practitioner of western medicine.  Even lil Ms. V has a sad tale of being ignored by some stupid dr. over her stomach issues, and she agrees, Dr. G is super. We <3 Dr. G.....


           Speaking of hearts, in case anyone reads this blog they may notice the large, red Owl distracting them from all of my elquoent thoughts, musings, and stories while it hangs from a tree and-what-farts? I found this lovely "gadget" at blogamation and yes, it may very well look like I am a novice blogger who threw some random, ill-placed, ill-sized, gadget on her blog, just because she figured what a gadet was and how to attach it.....well, okay, that is exactly what happened. But lemme tell you this, after getting over the initial distraction, I have fallen in LOVE with My Little Owl, because of course, it's her-the Little One.  With her big wide eyes that see everything and her enormous heart made up of layers of experience and wisdom and innocence and curiosity, My Little Owl sits atop her tree, watching me write her words down. I check with her now and then as I edit what I've written, knowing that maybe just now she would disapprove of the exposure, but hoping that by the time she finally chooses to learn to read and understand what and why I've written, she will trust me enough to approve.  So thank you Blogamation for my Farting Little Owl!


          But hey! I do have one reader, huh? My gratitude to my first follower Ms. Z. After my almost bout of diarrhea (ha!) at seeing I had a follower I was much relieved (haha!) to see it was a familiar.....friend, though new.  Ms. Z, in my head, is played by Helen Mirren, not just because of her profile pic, but because her writing depicts the same flawless Grace that is embodied by the actress.  When I first found her blog I wrote her a long email about how, though it seemed we had absolutely nothing in common circumstantially, her writing hooked me, like when I sit by the Indian Ocean in one spot and literally watch the tide go out and come back in again: so flawless and so graceful. She's cool, but I never sent that message because I'm Ugandan, and Ugandans are good-damn good-at stalking.  I wasn't sure if there was some Blog-Stalk law or something, and trying to play it cool I kept my cheesy analogies to myself, till now.


          Ohhh, I know why I keep making potty comments, the water in my bathroom is out, so the toilet is on my mind-on my lazy ass I gotta go alllllll the way to the next room to poop-mind. 


          I've written and re-written today's post 3 times, when it is usually a free flow.  That's because yesterday was actually a Pretty. Shitty (ahahahaha-that one wasn't even on purpose). Sunday and I've been trying to document why in so many different ways, but each felt wrong and heavy and pointless.  Until I remembered the chicken and doing yoga with Vannesa...


         

Awww-k-Word

         The last few days have been a marathon of bonding, blog reading, and stifled panicking-fine then, we'll call it a triathlon.  When last we spoke things seemed to be coming to a head-

[ugh I know writing this will feel good, it will stretch out my voice muscles, get me all warmed up again, but I've just spent the last few hours reading other peoples blogs.  I don't know if this happens to everyone, but when I read a certain kind of voice, Victorian, Australian, any kind of unique accent or writing style, all my thoughts take on that voice.  So now I'm trying to write my blog with like 50 different mom voices floating in my head-it's pissing me off-disclaimer]

        As I was saying, things were getting pretty ugly there for a bit.  Actually the beach thing was only the eye of the storm, a relative calm before more energetic chaos in the house.  No matter what I tried to do, I couldn't seem to hit the right note to end the nasty, putrid, thoughts whirling in my head and heart.  I couldn't help whining, demanding; taking everything the wrong way and feeling like it was them against me.  Ooff, I shudder at the memory of how ampt up I felt, how tired and tiresome.  

        The Little One showed me no mercy. Yes, I have confessed, for the most part, it was I who had hit an emotional whirlpool, but I still cooked, cleaned and played housewife, and she would sit staring off into space-going completely mute the minute Mukaka was not in the room-like I just didn't exist.  And all I could remember is how many times I pulled the same shit with my mother; I distinctly remember the purposefulness of it, the cold, empowered feeling of knowing how much I could hurt her just by voiding her existence.  She was getting off on watching my nerves get all the more raw-but only when she knew I wasn't looking.

        So Thursday evening I sit in my room and contemplate walking away.  It was a breaking point.  I had done what I said I would come to do; the transition was over and now it was as if my role had played itself out...

        Vannesa is one of the most adept survivors I have ever known.  My mother had to leave the city for the weekend, and just like that Vannesa was suddenly in love with me again, knowing very well she had no one else to interact with.  I didn't know what was more astounding, how ruthless she was in her cruelty, or how endearing she was in her need.  But whatever the rhetorical conclusion, this did not stop my hurt from soaking up that affection and need, a slave on my raw nerves. So we went swimming and she clung to me like a brand new baby, even though the pool was full of her age mates.  I took a chance and told her that I liked her so much better when she wasn't being mean to me like when Mukaka was around, she was so quick to agree-even though I'd known her behavior had been somehow conscious-I was still surprised how readily she understood exactly what I was talking about. And she vowed to stop.

          That night we sat down to dinner, just the two of us, and I don't know how it all came up. It was all very casual, like she mentioned my sister having volunteered to adopt her, so I ask her, I says, "well, what if I told you that I wanted to be your mother?"  It's weird to even bring all this up, since I'm in such a crabby mood and all, and since I have never been more desperate to get away from her as I am today...haha.  Well, but that's the point, that's how I know it's real. Anyway she was so quick to agree, but with the disclaimer that we would all have to have a family meeting with Jaja, and Mukaka, and my sister, and everyone to make the announcement (where does she learn to be so formal and proper?!?)  And I let her know that she could take her time before calling me mother-ugh-weiiirrrd.  

         Like I said, I hadn't expected this conversation to happen for a few months at least, though it's helped that my mother has already known and she thought the sooner the announcement the better.  The next morning, the last two days, in fact, of unabridged, uninterrupted bonding time has been overwhelming to say the least.  She sits across for me with the exact same intensity as when she ignored me, but she now watches my every move-my EVERY breath, her big eyes pouring "need" into me and soaking up all the thoughts and wants and desires I used to have as my own, my. very. own. MINE.  

          I wish this post flowed better, but I gotta just get it out, editing be damned.  The thing is, this is all double sided. I mean...I was already freaking out when all this happened, remember?  Like there's other shit that's being taken into consideration-for one, I have not had a single conversation with someone my age in I don't know how long, 28 days, that's how long. And I've never had a conversation with someone going through anything like this.  So it's like I'm starving, yeah, and then all this with Vannesa was like a thirst on top of the hunger.  So now I'm quenched, well at least for now, but other needs, other fears are still gnawing in my gut.  And then there is this little girl with her big, big eyes, demanding ME to fulfill HER?!?  I've seen other mothers get that look on their faces (did I just say "other"??) that quiet panic.  And you always think, c'mon what's the big idea? babies are soooo cute. Yes they are. And so is the Little One; she is absolutely gorgeous; It is just kinda crazy to go from zero to sixty with no seat belt on.  And it doesn't help that my baby is too old for naps, cannot be comforted by nursing, and is not yet in school (urgggh) and-continuing the analogy-just became MINE point two seconds ago.  

              Maybe all this is obvious to anyone reading this, but honestly the fact that I would yearn for parenting help did NOT occur to me.  Ha! Seriously, the only people I know who have kids have them by default and as a matter of fact.  I've never known anyone to have to "date" their child; to go through the very same ups and downs that happen when embarking on any other new and serious relationship.  And anyone who does know me knows, I don't know shit about relationships.  My point is there must be a method to this madness, no? There must be a way to navigate through my own life's turmoil while still managing the Little One's passing storms with minimal damage to us both.  OMG, I sound typically naive don't I?  Like a 400 lbs person saying their New Year's Resolution is to lose weight. No really, best of luck, but REALLY. By "typically naive" I mean, typical for me: the grandest adventures always strike me as no-brainers; it's the everyday that fills me with panic.  So what to do?  Does anyone want to judge me for taking hold of this little girl's life when I don't have a very good grasp on my own? Would it have been any better if I'd gotten knocked up by some Indian dude cheating with me on his German girlfriend? (wonder who would have the prettier baby, but I digress)  

           Are we only supposed to be courageous when the risks are pre-designed?  Did I just stumble into this life or did I create it?  Would I change it if I could?  The other day, at the beach, as the sun set on yet another of our bachelorette weekend outings, my mother said, "ughhh, I wish I didn't have to work tomorrow!", and I replied, "I wish I had a job. We can't always get what we want when we want it."  

           I was thirsty and now she loves me, and it's awkward and it's good.  Can I be happy with what I have even though this isn't what I had in mind, when I asked for it? 

...Can you?

Tsk Tsk Tsk-I wanted to write for NOTHING...

            I am losing the thread of the cloth I've only just begun to weave.  I have 20 pages of written words and no new posts. Words like "marketability" have stunted me.  I am losing the voice as my mind goes searching for the ear to whom I speak.  I wanted to write for nothing, and now everything has found me; all my desires, wants, ego-thrills, all that bullshit is now cloaking what was so recently a clean, white space.  Damn it all to hell-the results of a well trained mind: if it's not academia coaxing me "how can I make sure there is a contextual flow in my writing? Can I find a way to use "once upon a time" in this post?  Where is today's story and how does it tie in with the Little One and my history?", it is the hungry, hungry entrepreneur "Does this SELL? Whom to? And for How Much????" Shit. SHIT, and Damn it all to hell, those were just accidents of pure desperation, I was free-falling and now I spend hours looking for adequate references before I make an observation.
            I thought I'd find a way to hide from my thoughts, but somehow my thoughts have found me.  They keep Her muffled; She is still trying to shout, but they whisper questions that she must first address and slowly the days go by and nothing gets posted.  The bureaucracy of thinking; the red-tape of fear; I will go mad if I cannot find away to shed those tiresome policies and guidelines that inhibit my Voice.  My Philosopher will punish me ruthlessly if I do not defend her against my own conditioning.

         
           Today a parasite swims around my blood-no seriously, a delayed Christmas present of Malaria...and guess what? I'm LOVING it.  Okay, I must confess, loving all that is strong and healthy in my body, loving the the feeling of physical strength does not completely cancel out the perverse enjoyment I get from physical ailments.  I, IN NO WAY, crave disease or calamity BUT, have compassion for a mind as wild and uninhibited as mine, like those old school maps of Africa with a big blotch stamped "unknown territory", my mind is a jungle of which there is still much to discover, and in the process of carving out paths and finding direction, I find respite when my mind is forced to focus on some more...physiological struggle.  Whether that makes sense or not, it is a truth I've known on the very rare occasions I fall sick.  But it isn't just this perverse-pulling out gray hairs by the roots/twisting a loose tooth-pleasure, but also my experience of the medical process in Dar, that has me glad I fell sick in the first place. Wowzers and beyond! Just like the flat, smooth rodes and the electricity (you have to pay like crazy for) but which never goes out, the efficiency at the clinic was refreshing and healing simply because it reduced my conditioned acceptance to the ineptitude and negligence found in Kampala.
           I will use these days of recovery to indulge my body to the point where my mind gets bored and wanders off, and then...before it come to its senses again...I will write.

           Oh! This image of Africa reminds me, I've chosen my next tattoo. I serendipitously found a tattoo artist on New Year's Eve-well it would have been serendipitous except we got delayed with packing the next day and I never went to get it, but I've decided I will not post a photo for this blog until it is done-it is the only image that could possibly make sense...