Foodbank Tales #3

I leave the house at 9:00 am on Fri. for my scheduled pick up time at 9:15.  Loading takes about 15 minutes and we’re off, Veronica and me, to our first stop maybe 15 min. later.  Today we’re in the Roosevelt neighborhood that has a grand mix of low income and middle-class homes.  The stops are pretty routine, and as is often the case only one person so far has answered our knock as we stack food boxes and rap on the next door.  Until the second to the last stop.  Still, it’s a nice day, good to be outside and on the move doing this small worthwhile thing.

The address is a faded-pink apartment complex on Alabama, a major thoroughfare, but the apartment actually faces the intersecting side street.  As we pull up to the building, I recognize the spot and say to Veronica, “This is it.  We’ve been here before.”  The door opens and a man in a wheel chair moves out onto the small landing at the top of his ramp.  I ask, ”Is this #102.  “Yes, are you delivering our food today?  We are!”  I answer.  He is a solid, middle-aged guy with kind of a hip look lent by his Elton John glasses.  Blond hair covers his head in a medium-length brush cut.  He turns to his friend standing close by, a tall, dark-haired man with tats and a hard look.  “Give these ladies a hand with those boxes,”  His friend steps up and helps move the boxes from the truck to Elton’s lap.  “Thank you,” he says.  We rely on this food.  We would be in a world of hurt without it.”  “You’re very welcome.”  I say.  He spins around and deposits the boxes inside the door of his small unit.  The building is down-at-the-heels and needs a paint job, but the exterior space is tidy.  As I return to my truck, our friend comes back out.  “We got this meat we can’t use, just defrosted.  Can you ladies give this to someone else who could use it?”  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I reply.  “We just can’t do that, but please pass it on if you can find another taker.”  “Alright, have a good one.  Oh, and take my phone number off your list, please.  Someone stole my phone, wallet, everything last week so you can’t call me.”  he says and disappears inside his apartment.

Veronica pulls out the route sheet and we move on the next delivery drop.  I feel good.  I like that guy though I’m certainly sorry about his lost belongings.  We had a short but genuine exchange.  We were somehow in touch, and it gave me a real lift.

What is so compelling about this simple act of delivering food?  With ease and no thought I am able to abandon all judgment, fear and negativity to reap the simple satisfaction of bringing free food to people who need it.  It is such an easy job and so gratifying in this time of anger and angst.

The next stop is a big old green, two-story house about the same vintage as mine, built in 1904. These people get two sets of boxes.  As we’re stacking the last 2 on the back porch, a young woman comes out.  “Thanks very much,” she says “Hey, we have all these apples we’ve been giving to everyone who walks by.  Could you maybe use some for the other people you deliver to?”  Next to the driveway, there is an old, short tree that has suffered a brutal pruning job.  Apparently lacking any sense of retribution for its ill use, the little tree has produced an abundant crop.  “Sure, we’ll pass them on.”  we say, as we pick up the box and shove it in the back of the truck.  This is our last stop.  Veronica and I divvy up the apples, agreeing they might not be quite ripe.  We don’t think we can donate them, but maybe I’ll try to make some apple sauce.  If not, we’ll give them on to our good friend Ernie, who volunteers at the pig rescue farm.  In any case, we’ll honor her gift and pass it on.

I turn off Alabama onto a side street to drop Veronica off.  She likes to exercise by walking back to her south-side neighborhood from all over town.  As I pull up to the curb, I spot something interesting on the sidewalk a half block away.  There is obviously a garden as well as a canopy with a decorative border strung across the sidewalk.  I park the truck, pocket my keys and stroll up the street to see what’s up.  It’s a very well-done fruit stand + small art market.  The garden is beautiful.  This is August, harvest time, so both garden and fruit stand are full of cucumbers, peppers, green beans, squash and way more as well as home-canned fruits and veggies.  There is also a selection of cards, fridge magnets and small notebooks all decorated with various brightly-colored, comic dog portraits.  I’m charmed!  As I select a fridge magnet with basset hound and riffle through my wallet looking for $2 to put in the pay box, a woman comes out the gate to speak to us.  Her name is Erin.  We learn she is an artist who used to do summer fairs until the pandemic consigned her to home.  Now she sells from her own front gate.  Cool!

In our short morning run we have made a kind of genuine contact with three people,  We are given license to poke around neighborhoods not our own, drawn out of our bubbles to see how others are getting by during these times of trouble. and how, sometimes, they’re able to offer up their own brand of help or willingness to support others.

 

 

 

The Covid-19 pandemic started in Feb. 2020, with a bang very close to home.  The first cluster of US cases was in Kirkland, Washington, 90 miles down I-5.  The first superspreader event took place in Mt. Vernon, where I used to teach English, 20 miles south of our house.

“Last month, there were 120 residents at Life Care. As of Wednesday, at least 81 have tested positive for the coronavirus and of those, 34 have died, as well as a visitor. About a fourth of the coronavirus fatalities in the U.S. have been linked to the nursing home, according to state and federal data.”  Seattle Times

“A COVID-19 superspreader unknowingly infected 52 people with the new coronavirus at a choir practice in Mount Vernon, Washington, in early March, leading to the deaths of two people, a new Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) report finds.”

Living through the Covid-19 pandemic is earthshaking, scary, difficult but punctuated by lessons and learnings as well as all the dark stuff.  For some time I’ve been thinking about writing mine down, both for my own benefit and even perhaps others.  The narrative jumps around some, between 2020 and 2021 because I didn’t start writing events down in any cohesive fashion until recently, and I am drawing on both past and very recent happenings.  While I’m sticking to my original title, by the time I now begin to post online we are at least 13 months into this pandemic – and counting.  We all have a pandemic story to tell.                                                                                                                                       This is mine.

3-12-20  Email to my son and daughter-in-law who are less than two weeks into a trip to Namibia in Southern Africa. They feel very far away.                        “We are all social distancing like mad In Bellingham/Whatcom county.  Everything has been cancelled over the past few days, events, colleges, etc. Whatcom Co. has declared an emergency.  Talked to Ben yesterday and his team at work is on tenterhooks because there is no real guidance from Peace Health; they don’t have enough supplies or equipment for a local epidemic.

I had my own personal brush with potential infection.  Went to tutoring last night and Felipe had a dry cough which he wasn’t really bothering to cover.  He wasn’t concerned – only had it 5 days etc, but didn’t feel too bad.  I explained the symptoms of Covid-19 and the fact that some people don’t really get very sick but that they can still spread it – if indeed they have if. Then I cancelled the rest of the tutoring session. Now I get to worry about it for a week or two.”

3-18-20, to Andrew and Jenny in Namibia.                                                                    “Viral developments” have been happening over the past 2 days with head spinning rapidity.  In Washington, no more public school, in fact no more public anything:  WWU classes, churches, downtown movie theater, senior center,  library and more, all closed for the foreseeable future.  One diagnosed case in Bellingham but as you move south down I-5, more and more. And since there’s really no systematic testing in place to speak of, we don’t of course know how many people are sick.  I was sort of doing ok until I learned they closed the library. Now I’m gobsmacked!  Feels spooky and ominous.                                             Looking forward to hearing from you guys.”

3-18-20,  Andrew to us:                                                                                                              Hola Team,  After much deliberation (much!) we have come up with a plan.  Time will tell if it’s a good one. We have had to purchase new tickets to get home, and after avoiding the $18,000 and $8,000 dollar ones (no kidding), and wanting a few days to avoid the mayhem back home, we settled on a flight that has us back in California on Wednesday 25th.  This flight is as direct as we can get, routed Windhoek-Jo’burg-Dulles-SFO.  We’re told that our tickets are fully changeable, so theoretically we can move the dates if needed.

Things here in Namibia remain calm, with coronavirus just starting to enter the news.  I’m sure it will spin up fast when it gains traction.  Itinerary as follows:  Windhoek, Upuwo, Epupa falls, Marienfluss, Etanga or Opuwo, Windhoek, fly out on 3-24.

3-20-20, Andrew to us.                                                                                                                Yes, this is a mess.  Total mayhem today and I’m not gonna lie, we’re a little stressed out.  We started very early and made it as far as Kamajab, heading to Windhoek as fast as we can.  Should be there tomorrow.

Our SA airways flights have been cancelled, so we are now on a third (!) set of tickets, now flying Windhoek-Jo’burg-Dubai-LAX, departing early on the 22nd.  Fingers crossed that Emirates doesn’t also cancel service.

South African government wasn’t letting foreigners leave the country unless they were catching a direct flight to their home country, but since there are now no direct flights to the US (Delta also canceled their route), they are allowing layovers in Dubai and some other places.  So that is our plan.  We take off in about 36 hrs our time, which is an eternity these days, so we are hoping this all works out.  It’s going to take weeks to untangle our flight mess when we get back, and it’s getting expensive.

I’ll look at that article you sent, but data/service has been crappy.  Try whatsapp to Jenny’s number, it’s the best way to stay in touch, easier than email.  My phone is dead, so Jenny’s phone is it.   I’ll check in tomorrow when we get to Windhoek.  Andrew

 

Note:  My son, Andrew and wife, Jenny have been traveling throughout southern Africa for several years.  They own a Landcruiser, stored in Windhoek, Namibia, when they are home in Santa Cruz.  If you’re interested in Africa, try his website:  https://stuckinlowgear.com 

Or:  https://andrewmckee.smugmug.com  for superb (my opinion) photos of Africa and elsewhere.

Last summer when Aimovig, the first of the new CGRP medications, hit the market, I was at the head of the line to receive this long-awaited wonder drug.  None too soon as I had either failed to respond to more than 35 medications used to treat migraines or developed a host of intolerable side effects.  My migraines were near daily occurrences, my thyroid TSH levels were abnormal and I was having painful digestive problems.  I was as miserable and desperate as I had ever been in over 25 years with chronic migraine disease.  Aimovig successfully prevented my migraines for a month.  Then it too failed, even at 140 mg double dose, and I was left with months of side effects to endure before the drug washed out of my system.

Sometime during that wounded winter that followed, a friend recommended Michael Pollan’s newest book, “How to Change Your Mind, What the New Science of Psychedelics Teaches Us About Consciousness, Dying, Addiction, Depression, and Transcendence.”  It was a fascinating read, gave me hope and lead me to begin exploring a whole new direction in the search to alleviate my chronic pain.

There’s a certain irony here.  I am a baby boomer, born at the end of WWII, among the first of my cohort.  I grew up in California during the 6O’s, went to college at UC Berkeley, the epicenter of the “Summer of Love,” sex, drugs and rock and roll, hippies, Vietnam war protests and more.  Intent on escaping the confines of a difficult childhood, I plowed my way through four years in this maelstrom without ingesting any illegal substances, a minor miracle given the place and times.

Now, the more I read, the more I am convinced that these new medicines, appropriately used in a clinical setting, are promising powerful treatments for depression, anxiety, PTSD, substance abuse, terminal illness and chronic pain.    The resurgence of research  in therapeutic use of these drugs is fairly new but coming on strong.  Migraine is not the primary focus of most ongoing research, which is currently focusing on PTSD, depression and terminal illness.  There is, however, a current research study in process at Yale University and another completed at Johns Hopkins University.  Both focus on psilocybin and migraine.    https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3345296/                       https://clinicaltrials.gov/ct2/show/NCT03341689

Looking ahead MAPS, the Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies – www.maps.org – is developing research into the use of psilocybin and LSD in the treatment of cluster headaches.  Current research is underway at Yale University.   https://clinicaltrials.gov/ct2/show/NCT02981173

Outside of research settings, psychedelic medicines are illegal, categorized by the FDA as schedule 1 substances since 1970.  This means that the Federal Government thinks there is no medicinal value and a high probability of abuse (just like marijuana).  However, Oregon’s attorney general recently approved language for a ballot measure which would make psilocybin legal if passed, in 2020.  In June, 2019, Oakland, California, became the second U.S. city (after Denver) to decriminalize psilocybin and other psychedelic plant medicines.

After reading Pollan’s book, I buckled down to do my own research aimed at deciding if these medicines made sense for me.  Running out of time, hope, options and money to pay the monthly rental fees for two very expensive neuromodulation devices, I am committed to finding answers for myself.  My early computer searches revealed some limited but promising, credible leads.  (below)  I was excited, but these early studies of course raised more questions than they answered.  I drafted a boilerplate letter requesting information pertinent to my own situation and made a list of anyone I could think of who might have something to offer me.  These included big name researchers in the field to friends of my kids who I thought might know something.  And I began to get some answers which then led me to new questions.

“Psychoactive substances as a last resort – a qualitative study of self-treatment of migraine and cluster headaches” Karlstad University, Sweden https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5584001/                    “Psilocybin for the Treatment of Migraine Headache”  Yale University  https://clinicaltrials.gov/ct2/show/NCT03341689

 

There’s a hell of a lot I am NOT doing these days.  After a good December, my pain level has started to shoot back up, which is always a complex, episodic tale that I never feel like living much less telling.  This morning is a reprieve, the second time I’ve had the following experience.

 

I arrive at about 9:30 at the Senior Center, feeling rocky, migraine emerging, slightly flustered and disorganized, unsure if I’ll make it through the session.  I pull myself together somewhat as the model arrives and try to settle in as we start with the first 20 minute pose.  I like this particular model a lot, interesting face, porky body, willing and committed to the work.  Halfway through the 2 hour-session my stomach has settled, and my migraine is almost gone.  I’m alert, relaxed.  My individual parts are feeling much more collected into a whole me, and it is all a huge relief after the last few days.  Like a big weight has lifted.  I don’t know why or how this works for me.  It’s certainly the process but also, I suspect, the energy in the room, the quiet, collective attentiveness and clarity of shared – not just activity – maybe purpose, maybe struggle.  Who knows.  Something.

A new person showed up to draw today.  She volunteers at the Pickford as does Patrick, our model, but mentioned she doesn’t know him well.  He’s not a very talkative guy.  Drawing him has allowed her to know him in an entirely different way.  We are not permitted to examine people in this way ordinarily and not just their hands and faces but their bumps and lumps, how that fits into the space around them and more.

Yesterday I used my hands to rake and prune my garden, which felt good, even very good, but the lift didn’t last.  Drawing, especially in this group setting – no matter the outcome – does something for me that is undefinable and profoundly nurturing.  I’ve been thinking off and on about different ways to do figure drawing more often.  Maybe youtube!  Never occurred to me before.  Would be interesting to compare.

I like this drawing although, looking at it on the computer, I see all sorts of odd, out-of-wack stuff, proportions, angles etc., that weren’t so obvious at first or in process.  Nonetheless, it kind of works for me in more ways than one.  It was such a captivating study in angles.  Art is crucial to my well being, learning, engaging with others and supporting my perpetual effort to hold my mind, body and spirit together.