Monday, June 6, 2016
Another Crow Post
I had to pick up Sophie from school early today to take her to the quarterly appointment with The Neurologist. The appointment is just for drill because we all know that when you're two decades in, there's nothing new under the sun. The crows were strutting around the parking lot of Sophie's high school, spewing their mess at me. Crows do not, they do not, like me. I don't like them. They are too large too black too loud too vulgar. They throw nuts on the ground from the tops of trees to crack them open. I think of brains dashed to pieces, their insides spinning. They hop on their crow legs across the road even as my car inches forward. Get over here, I think, and look me in the eye. For all I know they keep the world spinning. Sophie's pants were wet when I stood her up out of the wheelchair, and her wheelchair cushion was too. I sighed as crows screamed. I learned this morning that the LAUSD has not assigned Sophie to a summer school class. I screamed as crows hopped. While it's an imperative in her IEP, it's even more imperative that I not have her home all day every day for two months. This imperative makes me feel if not guilty than less than, not good enough. And please don't assure me otherwise. Crows are incredibly intelligent yet I wish I had a shotgun to pick them off, one by one, starting with the murder that sits in the pine tree outside my bedroom door. That should give you an idea of my less than not good enough. Sophie moaned in the car all the way to The Neurologist even as Bob Marley shot the sheriff and wailed of dreads and weed. Why are you moaning? I thought. Dreads and weed. I had my I'm never enough it's never enough how can it ever be enough thoughts. Sophie threw her right leg out from the backseat and hit my elbow, zinging the nerve. She's had no seizures. She is well. I pulled right into a handicapped parking space at the hospital. It wasn't raining like the last time so I didn't cry. We sat for only a few minutes under the Conquest sign where all the rich donors have their names enshrined (thank you, rich donors) and were called inside. The nurse asked no dumb questions and used the old-fashioned blood pressure thingy when I told her that it worked best. The Neurologist was pleased. We threw around the possibility of taking another bit off the Vimpat or the Onfi, but I said no. I don't really want to rock the boat or murder a murder. I feel feeble right now. I told The Neurologist about my dizzy spells, how when I lie down the room spins, the inside of my head churns and the world tilts. I didn't tell her that I'd looked up my symptoms on the interwebs, had ruled out stroke and ruled in benign paroxysmal positional vertigo. She suggested that I had benign paroxysmal positional vertigo. There's a crystal that's become unlodged and it's floating around inside my ear and tricking my brain. I'd think it was cool if I wasn't so unmoored. I don't need to rock the boat. The Neurologist confirmed the Epley maneuver treatment for it or just throw yourself on your bed on your side, she said. I love that. I'm thinking of crows, how they dash those nuts to the ground, shatter the shells and pick out the meat.
This is my message to you, oou oou. Don't worry --