I think when Pandora opened that fateful box of tricks she was, in fact, releasing the month of April.
Picture attribution: (Three scenes depicting Pandora and her cursed container, illustrated by Walter Crane (1845-1915), all [Public Domain] via Creative Common).
Yeah, yeah, I know, you think I’ve lost my mind but give me the opportunity to explain myself and you’ll understand.
Now, I’m not a fan of the month of April. Never have been and for good reason. Even if it does bring showers for May flowers, the fourth month of the calendar year brings a multitude of turmoil unlike any other month. Seriously, what other month brings such varied weather patterns? Rain storms powerful enough to drown any hardy rat; chilling winds that cut a person to the bone; hot temps in the 80’s and 90’s (today it is 87 degrees); grey skies; frosty landscapes; snow storms…get the picture?
And the insects. WTF! Blackflies already??? (Some species of black flies have four to seven generations per year. Black fly adults are active throughout most of the spring , summer and fall and even fly during warm spells in winter. https://content.ces.ncsu.edu/black-flies-and-their-control)
Double WTF!!!
Of course April brings some good things like the singing of American toads on a warm evening.
There are brightly colored tulips and yellow daffodils; vibrant green, swelling leaves; but also slick, slippery, brown mud.
Most historians believe that Pandora opened a jar, not a box. Box, jar, tomato, tow-mah-tow, who knows. Since Pandora is one of mythology does it really matter? As the story goes, when all the nasties left the box or jar or whatever, hope remained behind, clinging to the inside surface of the container.
I guess that’s what April really is–30 days of hope. However, I would have preferred if trust was the remaining item in Pandora’s box of tricks because hope gives the impression of longing while faith is more peaceful.
For example, I have faith that the American goldfinches will molt into their brilliant yellow feathers.
Male American goldfinch, molting into his breeding colors.
And I have faith the Great Blue herons will return from their winter playground.
In 1732 poet Alexander Pope wrote An Essay on Man from which the phrase ‘Hope springs eternal’ comes. He was referring to man’s ability to believe that good will overcome adversity, whether that adversity is an infestation of ants in my living room wall or a chocolate Lab puppy who loves to play in the mud.
Ahhh, hope. I guess it does spring eternal in the month of April.
Okay, I’ll be peaceful with the month and let it unfold as Mother Nature intended.
I’m sure you know this joke: Three neurologists walk into a bar………
No, never heard it. Too bad, it’s a good one.
The punchline is ‘It’s all in your head.’
I’m laughing so hard I’m peeing myself.
Wait, that’s not why I’m peeing myself.
Prologue
“It’s all in your head,” he said, waving a dismissive hand in the air. A hand with long fingers–the fingers of a surgeon; someone who manipulates the delicate threads of neurons.
I’d heard this song before. Over the past seven years it’s been sung to me a multitude of times by varied doctors who are confident my symptoms are ‘in my head.’
Sorry to disappoint but this post won’t be happy and fuzzy, about wild animals or flooding waters, although I do have a cute video for the end.
No, this post is about a journey of 1000 unsteady steps, but, hey, it’s my blog. When you have a blog you can post about anything you want.
Onward.
Enter symptoms: stuttering, dizziness, falling, pins and needles in my fingertips and toes, headaches, incontinence (oh boy, what fun), cognitive fog, shuffling gait, memory blurriness, and a general feeling of who gives a rat’s ass.
In my first MRI from 2015, the radiologist wrote as part of the report:
The lateral ventricles are enlarged out of proportion to the cortical sulci. Of note, the possibility of normal pressure hydrocephalus or aqueductal stenosis should only be considered in the appropriate clinical setting.
At the time I wasn’t told the information and being the poor patient that I was, I took on faith my PCP”s diagnosis that my headaches, inability to collect my thoughts, and my stuttering were the result of anxiety.
Fast forward to 2018. Me in front of my classroom teaching about the human body when I drop the marker. Reaching down to retrieve it I fell forward. A collective gasp from the students and, long story shortened to keep you from dozing off, I ended up in the ER of Melrose Wakefield Hospital.
ER doctor ran tests — CAT scan, blood work, and an MRI. He told me I had had a minor stroke but that I also have an enlarged ventricle and that he was admitting me for observation.
The MRI radiologist wrote:
The ventricles are enlarged.
Enter Dr. Benson who stood at the foot of my hospital bed and told me the MRI was fine. My CAT scan was fine. My blood work was fine. My symptoms were in my head, not literally, though. I should seek psychiatric help for anxiety. He prescribed anti-anxiety medication and sent me on my way.
My students had driven my car to the hospital. Dr. Benson discharged me and allowed me to drive myself home (while under the influence of a potent drug–man the world was spinning). I do remember driving to McDonald’s for something to eat and hitting the drive-thru barrier, crumpling the front bumper of my car. I don’t remember what I ordered.
Later in 2018 and another neurologist and another MRI:
Findings: The ventricles are enlarged as on preceding exam from 2015. Given the normal size of sulci and cisterns this raises the possibility of communicating hydrocephalus or normal pressure~hydrocephalus.
I was told I needed a psychiatrist, the my MRI was clean. ‘It’s all in your head,’ Dr. Blank said.
So, I went to see a psychiatrist and received a neuropsych evaluation. The results, my symptoms are organic, not ‘in my head.’
Enter Dr. Ho at Tufts Medical Center who finally performed a Lumbar Puncture. That was Friday, August 24, 2018. Come Saturday morning I was back to normal. No stuttering, no tremors, no gait disturbance, no incontinence, no neuropathy. I called my sister and we laughed and cried with joy.
Come Sunday the symptoms slowly returned. That time when I cried it was due to frustration.
Enter a neurosurgeon who looked at my symptoms, the MRI’s ,and the Lumbar Puncture results, and told me he wasn’t convinced I had NPH but if I did have it he wouldn’t install a shunt.
‘Come back when you’re in a wheelchair,’ he told me.
2023
My symptoms have returned with a vengeance. The stuttering, incontinence, gait issues, falling, pins and needles in my fingertips and toes, cognitive fog, headaches–the whole basket of squirmy, wormy symptoms supposedly ‘in my head.’
New MRI:
There are few scattered subcortical and periventricular white matter T2 FLAIR hyperintensity seen within the cerebral hemispheres, which are nonspecific and may be seen the setting of chronic small vessel disease. – There is unchanged supratentorial ventriculomegaly dating back to 2015, out of proportion to the degree of sulcal prominence which may related to the patient’s reported history of normal pressure hydrocephalus.
Enter Dr. Matthew Gold. ‘You’re a nervous woman and need therapy.’
WTF!!!
New neurosurgeon. ‘You need therapy.’
Well, I guess I need therapy. I’ve put in a call to Brigham and Women’s Hospital’s department of Neuropsychiatry to hopefully schedule an appointment. In the meantime I’ll keep wearing my diapers, using my walker, sitting on my couch when I would rather be out walking and playing with my dogs and gardening, and take my anti-anxiety medication (which, by the way, does not alleviate the symptoms.) and munch on Tylenol for my headaches.
Yup, it’s all in my head.
Blessed be :{
Oh, here’s the cute video I promised you. Thanks for reading my story and, no, I did not proofread it. I have a headache.
Red-bellied Woodpecker and Southern Flying Squirrel
Spring always surprises me. I walk between the patches of snow still clinging to the ground and marvel at the life peeking through the earth.
‘Is it time?’, they whisper.
‘Not yet,’ comes my reply. ‘Wait two or three more weeks for the Earth to turn her eager face to the sun a bit more.’
But do they listen to me? Nope. Thinking they know best, they push up into the still frigid air. Ha, they’ll get a wake-up call when Old Man Winter breathes on them one more time before he heads on his way.
Tulips in early Spring.
Okay, I’ll admit it–plants and animals know more than me. They know when it’s time to sprout…
Pussy willows sprouting along the Concord River.
… and when it’s time to form a mating bond.
Male Northern cardinal feeding his mate.
I woke a few mornings ago to the liquid trill of a White-throated sparrow. His song sounded like spring itself, announcing her arrival.
Male White-throated sparrow.
Although, I continue to believe the best sound to announce spring are the peeps of spring peppers. As Margaret Wise Brown wrote in her children’s book Pussy Willow: “When the peepers peep, then it is Spring”
A flock of robins came through my yard a little over a month ago. A day of cheerful chatter as they cleaned out every last berry on my viburnum bush and winterberry branches.
American robin.
Dozens of red breasts flashed in the sunlight and then, poof, they were gone, off to some other location where the berries were plentiful. Soon they’ll return, hungry for the fat worms stirring within the ground.
American robin yanking on a worm.
Spring in New England is not as lush as some southern locations. I’m sure spring sees gardeners in Georgia sitting amongst their hydrangeas as the hummingbirds zip by. (Damn, I would love for my hydrangeas to be this lush. Perhaps I should move to Georgia.)
I hear my name on the wild wind
It calls for me to come and play
Snow and ice melt away before my feet
I wrap the hope of warmer days around my shoulders
I seek out the life emerging in my midst
Pink to announce the return of the peonies
Red for the coming blush of a rose
They beckon in their colorful displays
But March is a fickle month
More so than the god for which it is named
This month refuses to set its mind to what it will bring each day
Cold nights and snowy landscapes are still to be had
When I run with the pups we do not tarry in the shade
For the fingers of March leave a chill against my cheeks
I stand in the sun with my arms raised and I listen to the wind's melody
And reach for spring as I sing a song for March.
I often wonder why the browns of March are so distinct from the browns of January. Just like the acrylic paints I buy, expensive pigments create rich, deep tones. This must be what is happening in March–Mother Nature is using a higher quality paint to color her world. Or perhaps its the new life swelling under the soil and at the tips of the tree branches. Or the golden afternoon sunlight as it reflects off the river and a Wood duck’s crest.
Wood duck drake.
No matter the reason, I go on record that the colors of March are more intense, more mesmerizing, more hopeful than the colors of January.
March is the time of year when I eagerly await the postman, or postwoman. My mailbox is often stuffed with seed and flower catalogues. I imagine my excitement at receiving the newest Bluestone Perennials catalogue is akin to someone from the 1920’s getting her Sears catalogue.
Regardless of whether I plan on buying a new plant, I absorb every detail in the catalogue. Each description brings to mind the coming warm summer days that I’ll lazily spend sipping lemonade while basking in the glory of my gardens.
Or hot summer days where I’ll toil away in the punishing humidity trying to keep my plants from dying due to the drought.
It’s all good; March is a time for dreaming.
My glorious gardens, 2022.
Bailey has grown like the weeds that threaten to take over my gardens. She is now eight months old and I call her my little chocolate muffin. Oh how I wish I could nibble her nose.
Bailey, 8 weeks.
Bailey, 8 months.
She loves to annoy the cats, prancing after them, her tail almost wagging her rear end off. She’ll make a sportive dash at Sam who dashes away but Oreo always stands with a ready paw. After a while the three of them are best friends. As for Harlee, he sits and watches. At ten years of age, he has no desire to chase anything that isn’t edible.
Oreo, doing what he does best–napping.
One of the downsides of March is the mud the dogs track into the house. I try to be firm at holding them in the doorway to have their paws wiped but they are so happy to have spent time bounding through the yard, I hate to spoil their fun. Plus they smell of fresh air and the warming sunshine. So, I let them run across the room to the water dish and I follow behind with a wet rag for the floor.
Bailey and her sister, Grace, playing in the yard.
Two Bald eagles have been terrorizing my ducks. It’s nesting time for eagles and the eaglets have hatched and need to be fed. What better for a young eagle to eat than a fat Mallard?
Listen closely and you’ll hear the Mallard hen quacking for help.
March is a wonderful month to host a party. With the coming of the Spring Equinox and the lengthening of the days (but, oh how I despise DST), it’s great to have one’s home filled with the warmth of friends and family, the scents of a crackling fire in the hearth, and a roast in the oven.
I loved planning gatherings but, sadly, my life has changed in that it’s just me, the dogs and cats, and the ducks. And my son, thank Goddess. I am open to invitations, though (hint, hint).
I’ve been living in my little corner of the Concord River for ten years.
Back in March, 2013, I bought my house and began my journey as River Lady. A lot has happened since I signed the closing documents and accepted the keys.
The keys to my kingdom, circa 2003.
But what of the ten years before my journey on the Concord River began?
Twenty years ago I ran the Disney World 10th Anniversary Marathon. It was a very, very, very cool experience.
26.2 miles later in 2003 with my pal, Goofy.
I ran as part of the American Stroke Association’s program to raise money for stroke research. Since my father had died from a stroke, the program was near to my heart. I’ll never forget the feeling of satisfaction when I crossed the finish line. I’ll also never forget the pain!
In the ten years that followed I ran a second marathon, moved five times, got married then divorced then remarried then divorced (all to the same man — yeah, I know), went through bankruptcy, foreclosure, fell and ruptured a cervical disc, adopted two dogs, and made a s#@tload of stupid mistakes, remarrying the same man not included.
Living through those ten years was like being strapped to a roller coaster designed by Hades.
Yup, that decade was one for the books.
The past decade has brought with it a few more surprises, some good, some not so good. More stupid mistakes and some smart decisions, although I’m pleased to write I’m no longer strapped into Hades’ death-defying spirals. The ride I’m on now has gentle swoops and turns, thanks to my medication. Ahhhhh.
So, let me ask, what do I do now?
Seriously, I need to know.
I figure I might have ten good years left in me, give or take a year or two, and I have no clue what to do with myself.
Buying a new house isn’t an option, partly because I can’t afford to buy anything and partly because I don’t want to leave my corner of paradise. However, I must say that as more people move into my area with their speed boats and chain saws, my little corner is getting crowded. But I’m here for the time being.
So, again I ask: What do I do now?
Have I mentioned that over the past five months I have fallen more than three dozen times?
Yup.
Some of the falls were due to my left leg deciding it no longer wanted to work. Sometimes my left foot wouldn’t make it over the riser of a step and sometimes my left leg would give out as I was walking.
Gravity and I are not friends.
Other falls happened because the Earth shifted. I’m not kidding; it’s like living on a boat. One second I’m standing and then boom, I’m kissing the floor.
A few falls occurred because of snow and ice. Gotta love old man winter.
Remember Rocky? The Italian Stallion? If you don’t, I must ask: Have you been living under a rock?
You may have heard this one, but I find that it doesn’t hurt to be reminded of it every once in a while. First let me tell you the story, and then we can talk about it.
Once upon a time, there was an old man who used to go to the ocean to do his writing. He had a habit of walking on the beach every morning before he began his work. Early one morning, he was walking along the shore after a big storm had passed and found the vast beach littered with starfish as far as the eye could see, stretching in both directions.
Off in the distance, the old man noticed a small boy approaching. As the boy walked, he paused every so often and as he grew closer, the man could see that he was occasionally bending down to pick up an object and throw it into the sea. The boy came closer still and the man…
I’ll get to writing soon, I promise, but it’s taking longer than I expected to gather my scattered thoughts. Until I return, here is a blast from the past…2017.
In Greek mythology, there is a story about Sisyphus, who was the founder and king of Ephyra. The short version of the legend is this: Zeus punished Sisyphus for his trickery (he was a cunning man) and, for cheating death twice, forced Sisyphus to roll an immense boulder up a mountain. The added punishment was that the boulder, each and every time it neared the summit, would roll down, forcing Sisyphus to repeat the task for eternity.
I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve begun this post with the fable of Sisyphus.
Or, maybe you’ve used the title of the post to help solve that particular puzzle.
You see, today, November 23, 2022, marks three years since ovarian cancer claimed my sister, and each and every day since that Saturday in 2019 I have pushed a boulder of grief up a proverbial mountain to only have it tumble down, forcing me to repeat the task the following day.
Some of you reading this post might say, ‘Enough already, get over it; it’s been three years, for goodness sake.’
The truth, though, is that we all grieve at our own pace.
Don’t get me wrong, I manage to find reasons to laugh, smile, sing, dance, and enjoy ice cream. More so now that I’ve finally climbed out of my rabbit hole of depression thanks to the magic of chemistry. Seriously, now that I’m back on an antidepressant, suicidal thoughts have been banished and I can see sunshine where dark clouds of despair once filled the sky.
Sadly, antidepressants don’t remove grief. Loss of a loved one, be it a person or cherished pet, is a tough boulder to carry. You just get that damn rock near the top of the mountain, convinced you’ll reach the summit, and something simple as a scent, or song on the radio, or a flower, sends you tumbling down the mountain, with the boulder pounding your soul and heart as it rolls over you.
But for today I refuse to move the immense stone of my grief. I’ll let it rest at the mountains base and I’ll eat a lemon donut (my sister’s favorite type of donut), have a cup of pumpkin spice coffee (another of her favorites) and I’ll let my sadness bath me in its warmth.
I’ve been through many tough summers; summers where I shed endless tears. Like the summer after my mother died–boy did I cry that summer. I remember it rained a lot; always dreary and wet outside.
Then there was the summer of 2020, after my sister died. Another fountain of tears filling my little corner of the world.
The years pass.
Happiness and tears sweep us along with them as the tune plays out.
Well, even though there are tears in my life right now, they are not from seeing Summer 2022 in my rearview mirror. My tears are from depression and the darkness that surrounds me on a daily basis. But I don’t want to blog about depression because depression sucks and I’m tired of life sucking.
Let’s focus, instead, on saying goodbye to one truly sucky season–Summer 2022.
Goodbye Summer 2022
Male Northern Cardinal
The season clung to my corner of the Concord River with a feverish intensity — hot, sticky, and bone dry; like a layer of plastic wrap had sealed in the humidity and blocked out all else–including the rain.
I spent my mornings watering as many of my plants that I could while keeping to the restrictions the town’s water department had put in place due to the drought.
A few of my plants died, some wilted because I was unable to water them to the depth they needed, and some languished then perished slowly due to fungus or bacterial wilt.
The heat didn’t keep the spiders from doing their things, though.
Here are some other highlights from Summer 2022.
An Abundance of American Goldfinches helped to brighten my gardens.
Male American Goldfinch pulling apart my zinnia.
My zinnias didn’t stand a chance.
A cool assortment of birds hung out along, and on, the river.
Double-Crested CormorantGreat Blue HeronGreat Blue HeronGreat EgretDouble-Crested Cormorants
The Ruby-Throated Hummingbirds didn’t miss a beat when it came to gracing my yard.
Alas, they leave so very soon. It seems as if they were just heading my way and now they’re flying south.
Leave the nectar feeders up until at least the end of October. We have to make sure the stragglers have nourishment for their long flight.
Juvenile Ruby-Throated Hummingbird.
Be safe, little ones.
Juvenile Ruby-Throated Hummingbird.
I had an assortment of lacy insects flutter through my yard.
During one of the rain storms, my water-collecting buckets also collected frogs.
Seriously, I hang the buckets to catch water from my down spouts, as a way to gather water for my gardens, and I ended-up with frogs!! From my gutters?! I thought when it rained frogs we were in big trouble?
The ducks behaved like odd ducks. They took a liking to the top of the oak slag.
Female Mallards.
So had the Cooper’s Hawk.
As did a Mourning Dove.
Mourning Dove.
And a Merganser.
Juvenile Hooded Merganser.
And a Common Flicker and Carolina Wren shared the high perch in search of delicious insects.
Common Flicker on the right; Carolina Wren on the left.
Imagine all the sad wildlife I would have if I had cut down the tree all the way to the ground. Good for me for keeping the slag. If you’re taking down a tree, leave a portion for the animals who live nearby. The Universe will send you Karma chips if you do.
Summer 2022 was a difficult gardening season. Keeping the plants watered while conserving water felt like I was juggling air and smoke. I wish I had the mindset of some of the local residents in town who were watering their lawns everyday. Lush, green lawns that need lots and lots of water.
Sigh.
I’m not sorry to see Summer 2022 end. She wasn’t kind to the planet and she wasn’t kind to my little corner of the Concord River.
Listen up, Autumn, pull it together and be nice to me or…well, I don’t know what I can do but I won’t be happy, that’s for sure.
May the bounty of the season be yours.
And my you have cool nights, crisp mornings, and gentle rain to lull you to sleep.
Happy Autumn.
There are lots of types of tears. There are tears of sadness and grief, tears of regret. Anxiety tears are up there on the list with tears of fear and worry. And of course there are tears of joy. Do you think a person can shed tears of joy, fear, worry, and anxiety at the same time? Does the mingling of emotions alter the taste of the tears?
The simple answer is no, the taste is the same–salty.
Okay, here’s the deal, I decided to adopt a puppy. OMG!
I’ve been wanting to bring another dog into my home for about two years. A playmate for Harlee (Yeah, right, does he look like he wants a playmate?)
Harlee’s thoughts: ‘You have got to be kidding me! First the cats and now a puppy!’
Well, on Monday, August 22, a little after 5:00 PM, my newest family member came home.
Meet Bailey.
Bailey, being held by the breeder.
Bailey is a chocolate lab who loves playing in water. Yup, this old lady who lives on a river adopted a dog who loves water.
Bailey has been home six nights, I’ve cried myself to sleep on half of them.
Some of my tears were tears of joy because, let’s face it, puppies are bundles of furry joy. But my tears were also a mixture of fear that I’ll somehow screw up Bailey’s life and she’ll become a terror dog; tears of anxiety that I won’t train Bailey correctly and she’ll need therapy when she’s older, and tears of worry that I’m too old to take care of a puppy.
Wah, wah, wah.
The nights went something like this: Bailey is asleep in her crate and I smile and sniffle as I watch her dear little body peacefully nuzzling her stuffed puppy. (The very same puppy Harlee stole out of Bailey’s crate before she came home.)
After watching Bailey for a while I would turn my attention to puppy training videos on YouTube. After about 20 videos I would become convinced I wouldn’t be able to raise a reasonably sane dog and the floodgates would open.
Look at that face…
…now do you understand my fear? I want to give her the best possible life but I became convinced I would mess up.
Yes, I know Harlee is a well-behaved, happy dog but he was at least two when he came into my life. Puppies…well, as one video trainer stated: ‘Puppies can be irreparably damaged if they are not trained properly in the first three months of their lives.’
WTF!
I only had one month to get the whole thing right?
Cue the tears.
I didn’t even own a puppy puzzle!
Sigh.
My rescue came in the form of my son, who reminded me that raising a puppy is both exciting and frightening but that I’m a smart woman who is capable of doing a great job.
My smart son and Bailey, August, 2022.
And my friends Bob, Jill, and Rachel, who gave me a puppy puzzle.
Yeah!
So from this point on I am swearing off dog training videos and going with my gut, and the trainer for the puppy class Bailey I and will be attending in September.
I feel much better. And you know, tears of joy taste the best.
/ martycalabrese 
concordriverlady.com 