A Whirl of Confusion

 Whatever date the Winter Solstice was this year, we've made it. We've been in fog here all week, and my brain is foggy, too. Seeing my doctor today to see if some adjustments need to be made in meds.  This is where it started getting confusing. On December 22, 2023 I was told by my doctor that all my symptoms of anxiety, tremors, vertigo, high blood pressure, confusion, etc. were Serotonin Syndrome. In other words I had too much of the brain chemical that was supposed to elevate my mood and ward off depression, But too much serotonin can be deadly.  It could have led to extreme muscle spasms and even heart failure.

 

The really frightening part was that I’d been taking the over the counter supplement SAMe for at least 5 or 6 years. My neurologist never cautioned me not to take it with antidepressants. When my family doctor found out, he immediately said, “You should not be taking that!”  No one had told me, and the “warnings” on the box were vague. I guess it was partly my fault for not asking more questions, but I thought I had. At every doctor visit, we go over my list of medications, both prescribed and OTC.

 

The main trigger of this episode was a simple misdiagnosis, I think. In early November I told my doctor that I was feeling more depressed, but actually I was more anxious. Yes, I did have symptoms of depression, like lack of motivation and feeling sad. Both Thanksgiving and Christmas were not very joyous holidays for me.  But now I see that the increase of the antidepressant Lexapro, was the opposite of what I needed. I had too much serotonin in my system, instead of not enough. (I wonder if there’s a blood test they can do to determine this? It would be a lot better than just trying to analyze symptoms that can become confused. Almost 2 months after the low dose (only 5 mg) of Lexapro was added, my doctor could finally see that my real problem was too much serotonin, just the opposite of what he’d first thought. I’m not blaming him, because brain chemical imbalances are tricky to diagnose. I blame society’s attitude toward people with mental health problems. There hasn’t been enough good information given to the doctors or the public. And every person’s biochemical makeup is unique, so what works for one may not work for another.

 

Anyway, he instructed me to stop the Lexapro for one week and then restart it. But only a few days after restarting, my previous symptoms got much worse. Here’s what happened on January 4, 2024:

 

Next stage of my shaky new year. Anxiety turned into bad vertigo. Paul and I went to the health club. He walks the track while I go to Taichi class. Only tonight, as I leaned over to change my shoes, the whole room started rocking. I clung to the bench and felt like I was on a carnival ride, not a fun one either.

 

A friend from the class saw me and went to get a staff person to help. After several minutes they found Paul. He had to go change out of his running clothes while they got me a wheelchair. Got wheeled to our car. Now that I'm home in bed I feel better. But so much for getting my exercise done! My doctor thinks I have been getting too much serotonin, which helps fight depression. But too much gives anxiety, tremors, and vertigo. Other bad stuff, too. Not a good way to start the new year.

 

BUYER BEWARE! After over 20 years of doing the wrong things unknowingly, I have learned a lesson I must share. It took hours of internet research to find the actual scientific research--which we consumers, and apparently many physicians and pharmacists are unaware of. If you take any antidepressants or migraine medications (and in my case I take both), you must NOT take any common cold or allergy remedies. No antihistamines, decongestants, expectorants, cough suppressants, or pain and fever reducers. There are a couple of nasal sprays that are okay and acetaminophen is okay short term, but be careful to avoid overdosing this one. The old fashioned things of stay home, get rest, and drink plenty of non-caffienated fluids are the best.

Why don't doctors warn about this? My own theory is that the makers of OTC drugs, put any warnings in the very small print, if they mention at all "a very rare side effect called Serotonin Syndrome. " In my recent research, I've found that: yes the extreme side effects: heart problems and muscle spasms and delirium are rare. And these other symptoms I'm having are easily mistaken for other conditions. That's what has been happening with me. As a result, some of the drugs I was told to take have actually made matters worse. When I look back, I'm surprised I've made it to 70!

 

I'm not out to sue anyone, I'm just hoping to keep others from my mistakes. Off and on for 20 years, I've had those little whirls of vertigo, slight tremors, anxiety, occasional irregular heartbeats, hot and cold flashes. Sounds like menopause, right? That's what I thought, too. But I passed that 20 years ago. In the past 15 years, these symptoms have gotten worse. I've had 3 major vertigo events. One was last night at my health club. The whole world was rocking and rolling while I held onto a bench for dear life.

 

I know the next thing people will tell me is to switch to the "natural remedies". But the truth is they are chemicals, too, just like the drugs. Anything we put in our body has the possibility of nourishing it or having ill effects. There are lots of plant products out there in nature that are toxic to humans. So again I say, Buyer Beware. Try to find the most up to date research from reputable, third-party sources. And remember even too much of a good thing, even vitamins and supplements, can be bad.

 

My hope now is that all these adverse reacting chemicals will flush from my body, that I will regain some strength and equilibrium, and be able to enjoy life again.  But these symptoms have been going on in my life for a long time, and it may take a long time to get back to equilibrium. 

What Are You Taking for Granted?

 

In our modern world, we take so many things for granted.  A couple of weeks ago, the pump on our well stopped working.  All of a sudden, there was no water when I turned on the faucet.

A call to the well-driller brought the suggestion to shut it all down for an hour and then try to restart it.  So we did.  It worked, but then the same thing happened the next day!  Another attempt was made to reboot it with the hour-long shut off.  It worked again, and Thanksgiving went smoothly.  Then the well pump quit again on Christmas Day and then on New Year’s Day, 2023.  This time the driller came to our house and tested the pump, but still hasn’t been able to figure out what is wrong.  “Wait and see,” was the only advice he could give.

I realize our house is past ten years old, and nowadays that means things are going to break down.  Some of our appliances have already had to be replaced.  Not complaining.  It’s just life.

But this whole experience has made me realize how many things we do take for granted.  Like the water coming on every time we turn the faucet handle.  Or the lights coming on whenever I hit the switch.  Even my phone and my computer making it so much easier to do research and to write.

Many of us are old enough to remember the days of typewriters and rotary-dial phones.  (My first two books were originally typed on a manual typewriter!)  But I fear our numbers are dwindling.  What kind of things will our children and grandchildren never experience?  Kind of like how we (and often our parents) never experienced travel in a horse-drawn covered wagon, homes without indoor plumbing or electricity, and travel from Kalispell to Eureka taking days rather than under two hours.

Right now our well is working again, after the second reboot.  But I don’t take that water in my sink or shower for granted anymore.  I realize it could disappear any day now.

I think the timing of this wake-up call event was good, with Thanksgiving just around the corner again.  I have a lot more things to be thankful for than I realized, and I hope to stop taking them for granted.

UPDATE 2023: In the end we had to spend a thousand-some dollars to buy a new part for the pump. At least for now I can turn on the faucet without fear. 

A Life of Ups and Downs

     I want to apologize to my friends for burdening them with my periodic bouts of depression. It's like waves on the ocean. They go up and down. Sometimes I'm on a crest and see a hopeful world around me. Other times I'm in the trough, and all I can see is the angry wave crashing toward me. Once in a while there are even calm seas, and I can relax and bask in the sun.

What my counselor has helped me learn is to not get stuck in any of those places. The sea of life is always in motion. The most important thing I can remind myself is that those low troughs don't last forever. Another wave will come eventually and lift me up again. And perhaps, when I need it most, Jesus will help me walk on the waters.

Caught in a Downward Spiral

 

Teachers should NOT be expected to work in a war zone!  This I see and hear of happening almost daily, somewhere in the US. Guns are too easily available, even to children. Our popular literature, movies, and TV programs tell too many of us that the way to solve problems is through violence.  But to paraphrase Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. -- Violence only breeds more violence. Darkness can only be defeated with light. Hate can only be defeated with love.

I personally know of teachers who have been told to search their students' lockers for firearms. I personally know of a school that was nearly set on fire by two students, but these perpetrators have gone unpunished, or given merely a slap on the hand.  A great many of our schools, and not just those in inner cities, have a teacher shortage because teachers are afraid to work where they have to be police, while still trying to teach.

What is wrong here? What is causing this downward spiral? In part I see that parents and administrators are expecting students to do their jobs for them. If this continues, it's no wonder that fewer people will see teaching as a good choice.

Teachers are unsupported and underpaid. Teaching is one of the most difficult and dangerous jobs in our country. If we don't start giving teachers the support and help they deserve, the downward spiral in this nation is going to continue.

Some Things Forgotten That Should Not Be

             

            Rough wood planks beneath my feet were rocking so much that I couldn’t regain my balance. I vomited into the bucket again.

          “Where am I?” I gasped.

          “There, there, Maggie,” came a gentle male voice. “They say the voyages to America aren’t always this rough.”

          “America?” I murmured. “Why?” As I lifted my head away from the smell in the bucket, my nose was assaulted by even worse scents—human waste and many unwashed bodies.

          “Don’t you remember?” the gentle voice said. “Ah—but perhaps it’s the Sea Fever. It makes you forget, and some people lose their minds completely.”

          I turned to look at this man, as he patted my back. He must have seen the confusion on my face, for he said, “I’m Thomas Cantlon, your husband. Do you remember me?”

          Then my mind opened like a door, letting in some light of understanding. “Of course I remember, you oaf of a man.” O hoped this sounded enough like recognition. Just then, the floor lurched again, and I fell into his arms.

          “’Tis all right, dear Maggie. You just need to rest. Our wee son Johnnie is asleep at last.”

          Thomas led me to a rough plank raised about three feet off the floor. It just over a foot wide, and the length of a grown man. With his help, I climbed onto what must be my bunk. A pile of soiled clothes was the only pillow and a ragged blanket lay beneath on the plank.    

          On the small bunk beneath me, I could hear a child’s deep breathing in sleep. I assumed this was ‘wee Johnnie’. After I was settled, Thomas climbed onto the plank that stretched three feet above my head. 

 

          Where am I, Cinda?

          ‘You’re in an emigrant ship from Cork, bound for North America. It’s the year 1847.’

          But why?

          ‘Because of the famine.’

          Famine?  Are you talking about the Potato Famine?

          ‘Yes, but I think I made a mistake in bringing you to 1847. This is in the middle of everything—the worst winter on record, and the largest number of emigrations in a single year. I think I should have taken you back a few more years to when it all started.’

          I sighed, but I couldn’t tell if it came from my real self or from Maggie—or both of us. Okay, Cinda. Let’s get this over with. I hope it means I’ll get off this wretched ship.

      As Maggie fell into a fitful sleep. I felt myself—the Emilia part of me—rise and disappear into those flashing amber lights.

          Cinda’s voice whirled into my mind in the same way as the colors, which were now changing to a harsh vermillion. ‘Maggie Cantlon’ is your great-great-grandmother. Wee Johnnie grows up in America and becomes just John. When he marries, he has a daughter named Mary, your grandmother.

          All right, I get that. Why wasn’t I put into my great-grandfather John. He’s the one Grandma always talked about.

      ‘Two reasons: He was born during the famine, and he was only a child of three when this ship sailed. But we are here to learn history. You can’t go ‘within’ a person of the opposite sex, though.’

          I hadn’t thought of that. So are you taking me farther back to when Maggie was younger, and to when the famine started?

      ‘That’s the plan.’

          You’d better get it right this time.

      ‘Don’t worry, I will. This my first time being the guide instead of the one being guided.’

          Wait! What?

        No reply came. Her voice faded like a gull winging into a fog.

The colors ebbed away, and next thing I knew, my bare feet stood on green grass. It was day, but fog was drifting and curling around me. My eyes made out a small stone cottage, roofed with thatch. The man who’d called himself Thomas was gazing at me from the single doorway in the stones. He had to duck to come out, for the door was only about five feet tall. He looked much younger, and his brown eyes sparkled as he smiled at me.   

The Perils of Prejudice

 

Chapter 3 – An Unexpected Visitor

 

When we arrived home after our twenty-eight days in Ireland and Great Britain, the vision of those statues in Dublin still haunted me. I began accumulating and reading any books about Irish history that popped up on my Internet searches. As I worked my way through this first seven I’d bought, I became more and more appalled at the stories they revealed.

          Over the course of almost a millennium, England had considered Ireland a country of barbarians, and many even called the Irish sub-human. The Irish Problem was a preoccupation of English Monarchs from the fourteenth century onward. Some of the atrocities committed on both sides seemed unbelievable.

 

          One night, as I lay in bed trying to sleep, images of some of the things I’d read bounced around in my mind. Lord, I wish I could have been there to help those poor people. Or at least to see for myself what they went through.

          ‘I think that’s what I’m here for,’ came a voice in my mind.

          What? Am I going crazy now—hearing voices?

          ‘No, I’m really here in your mind.’

          I glanced over to see my husband sleeping soundly, and sat up in bed shaking my head. This shouldn’t be happening. Lord, help me!

          Then a bluish light appeared at the foot of the bed. Within its glow I saw a face with piercing brown eyes, surrounded by a halo of brown curly hair. I covered my eyes to clear my vision, but when I looked again, the vision was still there. “Who are you?” I whispered.

          ‘My name is Cinda,’ said the voice I’d heard in my head before. ‘I’m one of your descendants, born in 2064.’

          “But that’s forty-two years in the future. How can you be here?”

          ‘It’s called crossing the GAP, a way of jumping across vast expanses of space and time.’

          “I must be asleep and dreaming all this,” I murmured.

          The light suddenly disappeared, and I sighed with relief. Until I heard the voice again. ‘You don’t have to speak aloud to me,’ said the voice that had called herself Cinda. ‘I guess you could call me a time-traveler. I think I’ve been sent here to take you back into your ancestors’ lives.’

          You think?

          ‘Things like this have happened to me before, Emilia. Another GAP-crosser took me back into lives of some of my ancestors. Now she’s told me to do the same for you.’

          I closed my eyes and lay down on my pillow. When I opened them, all I saw was the dim ceiling of our bedroom. All right, if this is a dream, I’ll go with it. And if it’s real—well, I’ll have to go with that, too. Did you hear that, Cinda?

          ‘Yes, I did.’

          My heart pounded and felt like it would jump out of my chest. So am I dreaming, or not?

          ‘Does it really matter?’

          I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe it didn’t make any difference. “I don’t know,” I whispered to the ceiling.

          ‘Just trust me,’ said Cinda in my mind. ‘To start with, I’m only going to take you back 50 years, into your own past. Maybe you will remember this—'

          Strange yellow and amber lights began flashing over my head. When I closed my eyes, the lights were still dancing before me. I felt like I was falling through the bed, then the floor, and at last floating in nothingness. My hands began to tremble. Soon the sensation filled my whole body. Just as I was about to cry out, my vision cleared.

           I was sitting on a soft blue sofa in a sunlit room. Across from me was my grandmother, Mary Emilia, sitting in her favorite rocking chair. Grey hair framed her wrinkled face, but her brown eyes still had the twinkle I knew so well.

          “So you saw Killarney,” Grandma smiled. “Did you also get to tour the Ring of Kerry?”

          “No, unfortunately. I ran out of time and had to get back to Edinburgh for school.”

          “Ah, too bad. It’s a beautiful place.” She had a faraway look in her eyes. “I heard so many memories from my grandfather of times he spent there in childhood. I even got to visit there once with my mother and father, when they went back for a tour.”

           She had a faraway look in her eyes and lapsed into silence.  At last, I spoke, just to break the uneasy feeling in the room. “The weather was dreary and rainy when I was there in 1973, Grandma.”

          “Yes, it often rained, my grandfather Thomas Cantlon told me. The worst was the bitterly cold winter of 1846, when it snowed for weeks on end.”

          “Were you there. Grandma?”

          “Heavens, no! I wasn’t born until 1889, long after my parents and grandparents had made their way to America.”

          “When did they come?”

          “I believe it was 1847. My father John Cantlon was a child of only three ,

          “What was that like?”

          “I’m sorry, dear. I should have asked my grandfather more about it, for my father was too young to remember much. The only thing he remembered was feeing sick and hungry as the boat tossed and rocked in storms on the sea.”

          “I wish I could know what it was really like.”

          “Oh, child, those memories are terrible, I think. Whenever I asked my grandfather, all he would say was: ‘Those times are best forgotten. My mind recoils from them when I try to remember.’ 

          Shining tears appeared in Grandma’s eyes.

          “I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

          “Oh, I cry at the drop of a hat these days. I guess it’s the price of having lived eighty-five years. Each morning I ask the Lord if I can go now—to see my dear departed husband Frederick.”

          I stood and moved toward her, taking her quivering hand. “I’m sure the Lord will take you home soon, Grandma.”

          She pulled one of my hands to her cheek. I felt the softness of her flacid skin. “I pray God hasn’t forgotten me,” she whispered.

          “The Bible says He will never leave us or forsake us,” I murmured.

          Her head nodded against my hand. “Yes, well I’m ready whenever He is.”

          I stood there a long time, just holding one of her hands with one of mine, while she pressed my other hand against her cheek.

         

          Then the room around me began to swim before my eyes. Those amber lights flashed in my eyes again.

          Are we going somewhere else, Cinda?

       ‘Yes, it’s time for you to see the Potato Famine for yourself.’

          After all I’ve read I’m not sure I want to.

      ‘Admit it, Emilia, you do want to deep in your heart.’

          Yes, I suppose so. What year are we in now? I’m all confused.

          ‘You were just back in time with your grandmother in 1974.’

          She died in 1976, I think. Are we going back to my own time now? To 2022?

     ‘No, we’re going backwards again.’

     My stomach churned, and I tried not to be sick. I failed, though. Soon I found myself vomiting into a stinking bucket.     

         

An Irish Odyssey, Chapter 2

 

The following is from the second chapter (first draft) of a new historical fiction book I'm starting, titled An Irish Odyssey.  You are the lucky few to see it first!

Photo of Famine Ship, Dublin, Ireland, 2022

With a maiden name of Emilia Rene Haas, most people would assume my ancestry is German, but that’s only partly true. My father’s mother was one hundred percent Irish, which makes me one quarter Irish on his side. On my mother’s side, there is mostly English and Scots-Irish. 

These Scots-Irish ancestors of mine were Protestant Scots and English from the Borderland--southern Scotland and northern England--to whom King James I of England in 1610 offered free land in the northern counties of Ireland. This was done to create a buffer between Catholic Ireland and Protestant Scotland and England, and it came to be called The Plantation of Ulster--the 9 counties of northern Ireland. His plantation of Protestants on seized Catholic lands wasn’t the first, however. In the 1500s Queen Elizabeth I also planted Protestants in Munster, the six southwest counties of Ireland. My Irish ancestors came from this region. In fact, English political attitudes toward Ireland as The Irish Problem date all the way back to Henry VII, father of the better known Henry VIII.

          By the 1800s very few landowners were native Irish, and the majority of Catholics in Ireland were tenant farmers, who relied almost solely on the lowly potato as their source of food. As time passed, their potato crop became their only source of revenue to pay rent to their Protestant landlords. In addition, they were required to pay a tithe of their earnings (ten percent) to the Protestant Church of England, a church they didn’t belong to and gained no benefit from.

As time passed, these seeds planted in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries led to sectarian violence that has lasted into the twenty-first century. The roots of the problem still haven’t been fully resolved, but are simmering beneath the surface like a dormant volcano. The conflict has always been more about political power and less about religion, and those plantations by English monarchs have borne much bitter fruit.

 

          Four days after our tour of Derry/Londonderry, our tour group settled for two nights in Dublin, capital of the Republic of Ireland. In 2022, it’s a bustling city with a harbor on the River Liffey, which runs through the center of the city. The old dockyards have been given a make-over into a pleasant pedestrian way, paved with gravel and concrete stones and a lane of shade trees running parallel to the riverbank. We didn’t see any of the graffiti which we’d seen in Northern Ireland.

          As my husband and I walked along an esplanade, we saw a three-masted sailing ship moored by one of the quays.

          “That’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it?”

          “Yes,” said John. “It reminds me of the tall ships we sometimes saw sailing on Lake Huron, when we lived in Michigan.”

          “It would be interesting to sail on a ship like that,” I said.

“Of course, the sailing wouldn’t be nearly as smooth as on modern cruise ships.”

“I know. You’re right,” I nodded. “We’ve been spoiled by our two cruises on Radiance of the Seas. Cruising was a relaxing way to travel, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, sure. But I’m not ready to go cruising again until we see if Covid is really over and done with,” he said. “I don’t want to be stuck on a quarantined ship.”

By this time we were standing right above the gangplank leading to the tall ship. A chain stretched across the entrance with a sign showing prices and times of tours. Printed above an archway were the words: This is a replica of the Famine Ships which carried thousands of Irish overseas during the Potato Famine in the mid-1800s.

“I remember my dad talking about how his grandparents and their families came to America during that famine,” I said, looking down at the rough planking of the deck. “Those must have been very difficult voyages.”

John nodded, “Crossing the stormy North Atlantic is seldom smooth sailing.”

The ship didn’t show any signs of life, as we stood and gazed down on her. “They must not be doing tours today,” I shrugged.

“Maybe they will before our group heads back to England.”

“That’s tomorrow morning, though.”

John reached over and took my hand. “Let’s walk some more.”

We strolled away from the ship, and soon came to some statues arrayed along the walkway. They were unlike any statues I’d ever seen. The first two we came upon were a man and a woman. Each clutched a small bundle to their emaciated frame. Their clothes were rags, and their feet were bare, but the faces captured me most. They had the most haggard features and haunted-looking eyes. The man was gazing slightly upward, and in the midst of the fear and desperation on his face, I thought I sensed a tiny ray of hope. To his left, though, the woman’s face showed only bewilderment and despair.

“I’ve never seen statues like this in my life,” I murmured to John. “They look so forlorn and hopeless.”

“From what I’ve heard of the Potato Famine, over a million Irish starved to death,” he whispered. “Those who could manage, left this island forever. Here, look at this sign.”

A few paces beyond these first two statues, a placard read, “In 1844, the Earl of Tullamore evicted all his 120 tenant farmers, tore down their rough stone cottages, and left them to find their own way to Dublin.  Those who survived the 100-mile walk boarded ships like the one moored here, in hopes of finding a better life in America, Canada, or Australia.”

Just beyond the sign was a small statue which was merely a pair of worn-out shoes. Near these, another placard displayed a map, showing the road many had taken. It was labeled “The Famine Memorial Trail.”

I stood rooted to the spot in silence for what seemed a long time, until my husband spoke, “Are you all right?”

Turning to him in a daze, I murmured. “I’ve heard Dad talk about the famine and his family’s emigration from Ireland many times in my life. But it never hit me until today what a tragedy it was. To think that the landlords refused to help their own tenants, and just left them to starve or fend for themselves--if they could.”

“I remember a saying from one of my literature classes in high school. Our teacher often talked about stories that showed ‘Man’s inhumanity towards man.’ This is a classic case, I think,” said John.

“Come to think of it, our tour guide mentioned a field we passed on the coach tour in County Kerry last week. He said it was full of unmarked graves of victims of the famine. No one even knows how many graves there are scattered across the country,” I said. “People were so poor they couldn’t afford coffins, and many were buried in mass graves

“I’ve read that the blight which killed the potatoes was worst in the western counties, like Kerry,” added John.

“I’ve done a little genealogy research,” I said. “My Dad’s mother’s family name, Cantlon, comes from County Kerry.”

We stood gazing at those sculpture shoes, as a cool breeze began to whip the trees above our heads. Yellow leaves scattered in the autumn wind. I shivered, and pulled my sweater tighter around my chest. “Let’s head back to the hotel, okay.”

As John took my hand again, he squeezed it and said, “We’re lucky we have a warm shelter. The poor people that these statues commemorate had no place to go.”

“And no coats, either,” I sighed.

That night, after a rich and filling dinner, we settled into our luxury hotel room. As I stared into the darkness above me, I tried to imagine what my ancestors must have experienced during the famine and their journey to America. What challenges they must have faced when they arrived dirt poor in the place they hoped would be a land of opportunity. Lying there, gazing at a barely visible ceiling, I decided I needed to learn more about their story.

It needs to be told and not forgotten, I said to myself. In many ways, it reminds me of things I’ve heard said about the Jewish Holocaust. We must remember so these grim parts of history won’t be repeated.