Dude, This is Not a Flare

This is my one hundred and eighty-sixth post.  I think at two hundred there should be a celebration, but I’m not sure what.  The numbers are important to me only as reminders that I have persisted with this task.  I never set out to achieve any particular number of posts, and I can easily foresee writing for years to come, so there isn’t a “goal” number of posts.  But I do want to schedule a little happy dance with my 10 year-old self, so we can sing “we’re doing it, we’re doing it”, a little rejoicing in the pleasure of writing. 


This week I read this:  A Northern Family’s Role in the Slave Trade, http://www.alternet.org/rights/87500, about the DeWolf family of Rhode Island.   I currently live in the south, but the point of this referral is not to gloat that slavery also existed in the north.  Instead, I read this as a courageous exploration by nine family members, descendants of a prominent slave-trading family.  They investigated their family’s history and traced the route of the slave trade from Ghana in West Africa, where the slaves were obtained, to Cuba, where the family had plantations, to New England, where the family became powerful due to their lucrative business.  The family members were even willing to acknowledge and examine their current privileged existence and it’s direct relationship to their roots.  I applaud their honesty and bravery.  Another small piece of the conversation on race that is overdue in the U.S. 


I am not more suspicious than the next person.  In fact, I am a pragmatist.  If I can foretell the future (as sometimes I can, in an odd way), then I accept that I have an uncommon family trait and there’s nothing crazy or evil about it.   On the other hand, when I spend paragraphs describing how well I’m doing one day, and have a recurrence of severe symptoms the next, I have to wonder if I jinxed myself by publicly revelling in my recent good health.  I’m sitting here, enduring the nausea from a pain pill, typing with stiff fingers and moving my legs restlessly to try and find relief from intense knee pain.  Are you kidding me?  Has my B-cell production mechanism suddenly swung into full gear and started pouring a fresh crop of cells back into my marrow?  I don’t want this to be the start of a flare.  I want it to be some fluke produced by the confluence of high temperatures, the Riverbend Festival, and the length of my hair, and further provoked by indulging in three different kinds of hummus in one week. 


While I am letting that inner voice plead with the Big One (“please, God, not the flare”), I am working on a conscious denial:  this is not a flare.  This cannot be a flare.  No lupus flares this week, buddy.  I am not starting into a flare.  No, nein, non, no eyebrow-plucking way can this be a flare.  Un-unh.  Nope.  Not even gonna talk about.  It. 


My dog got into the compost and filched a meal of rotten food.  She’s paid the price.  Nausea (I sympathize, Lu), vomiting, diarrhea…bad doggy stomach symptoms.  I feel guilty.  The compost bin needs repairs-no, it needs rebuilding.  No more old Rubbermaid storage thingie with holes punched in it.  Time for a custom, homemade, wooden pen, accessible only to earthworms. 


But man, that compost is doing the job!  Today, two more plants, both of the Goose Lake tomatoes, have little baby tomatoes growing.  It’s amazing how true these guys are to their genetics.  I have five pairs of tomato plants, of five different origins.  So far, it seems that the members of each pair grow at the same rate and begin to produce at the same time, to the day.  I go out and examine the plants every morning.  I’m fascinated to see this pre-ordained path of development. 


Tomorrow is World Wide Knit in Public Day.  I plan to be there with or without pain and stiffness (which I’m sure won’t be present, because this is not a flare).  10:30 a.m. at Niedlov’s, dude. 




One Response

  1. I hope it’s not a flare. Those B-cells better just stay quiescent.

    Seriously, I hope you’re ok.

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