Let the story begin

I’m not sure what today is . . . took me ten minutes looking at a calendar and backtracking through daily memories to come up with . . . Wednesday, June 29, 2011. Maybe.  It is midday here on the small Balinese island of Nusa Lembongan, thankfully slightly overcast, just under 90 degrees.  Auggie and I just returned to our villa after lunch at an open air restaurant on the beach; ScoobyDoo’s, home of the Indonesian chicken pizza, fresh tuna, lime drinks squeezed into the glass, and a man peeing off a boat into the beautiful aquamarine ocean in front of you.  Andre is surfing just down the way with a horde of Australians.

I have not been able to get my computer online for longer than two minutes, hence the silent blog. Even now, I am typing this into a word document I will cut and paste hopefully later today. I need to report out before I forget everything! So much has happened, the good, the slightly less good, and the bummer-ific.

Let us begin.

Wednesday, 22 June 2011

One of our renters arrived at noon. Thank god.  Having a witness to our behavior kept Andre and I from engaging in escalating verbal warfare over really important issues like who was going to carry the travel pillow. Plus, Auggie’s intense energy was focused on someone else for awhile. (Sorry about that, T J)

Another visitor arrived at the same time, an unwelcome entity that showed up days early and stole my energy. And some of my good mood.  And my well-thought out travelling pants, now quickly swapped for a pair of loose black capris.  The only benefit to the early show was that I was able to add some female products to my carryon at the nth-hour, just in time. I’m speaking in euphemisms here for you overly sensitive males, you males who don’t have to worry about mother earth punishing you for leaving the ground by making you START YOUR PERIOD. Oops, sorry, subtleness wasn’t working for me.

Planned departure time: 1 pm.

Actual departure time: 2:30 pm. 

Still plenty of time to make the plane. We had been driving for approximately 20 minutes, enroute to the Seattle-Tacoma airport, a 4.5 hour drive, when Auggie asked his first “Are we almost there?”  How many times can a five-year old ask that same question in a 24 hour window? I now know the answer.  Infinitely.

By the time we hit Seattle, 8ish p.m., Auggie was sleeping, I was well into my usual drag and Andre was still exuberant. Pulling into my friend’s driveway was a nice respite; we were leaving our car with a long time friend who was too nice to say “no.” She and her husband kindly fed us, played ball with Auggie and then drove us to the airport at midnight. She was the first of many people who has done a kind deed for us on our travels (Thank you, S).

Once at the airport, the line at the EVA Airlines counter was outrageously long. I already could not carry my own body further than a few steps at a time, so tired. After check in, Andre stole a wheelchair (literally – sorry guy with no legs who probably had it reserved). Normally my moral compass and tight-ass-edness would not have allowed it but –damn - I was leaden, pasty and nauseous.  Andre wheeled Auggie and I around. I was too relieved to be embarrassed. Andre was happy to have a physical task.  

Thursday, 23 June 2011

“This is sooo much fun!!!!” That excited exclamation as the airplane began to taxi down the 2 a.m. runway was a huge relief since this was Auggie’s first plane ride.  I was braced for “I want to go home” or “AAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUGGGH.” Then I handed out the drugs. Auggie slept for the next 7-8 hours, I napped on and off, and poor wired Andre must have watched five romantic comedies. After 12 hours, we landed in Taipei. It was their time 5 a.m.  We walked through airport orchid gardens, sat in airport massage chairs, ate Taiwanese airport dumplings, noodles and ice cream for breakfast.  There were hardly any people so Andre let Auggie run up and down the halls when he tired of the Hello Kitty play area. 

Unfortunately for me, a major symptom returned. As we waited through our five hour layover, I became more and more dizzy, then faint. Talk about bitter disappointment in myself. I knew how to handle the weariness but the dizziness was unmanageable. I haven’t had this symptom since spring 2010, when I tried going back to work and ended up in bed, unable to lift my head for weeks at a time without feeling like I was on a wildly swaying dock.

We were all glad to be on the last leg, the 5.5 hour flight. A bit unnerving when the cabin flooded with the smell of diesel as we geared up – the plane taxied back to the airport for repairs. After 20 minutes, we left again, praying the “repairs” didn’t include duct tape and burning incense.  I should have drugged Auggie again because he was severely opposed to sitting still. The older woman in front of him did not adore him or his constantly pushing, jamming, spasming body. The airplane’s kid movie was the same as on the first flight. Yeah. The half hour cartoons I had downloaded only killed 40 minutes. Yeah.

Embarking from the plane, we were brought to the front of the visa line because we had a child. Yeah! Porters carried our luggage outside. Yeah! A driver and my good friend met us outside. Double yeah!!

Denpasar, Bali, Indonesia. Embraced by loving arms and warm air, what better way to be greeted by a new country? 

Nicest airport EVER

All three of us are sitting on free massage chairs in the Green Relaxing Room next to our gate at the Taipei airport. Long flight here has melted away. Now for sushi at 5:30 in the morning. I'm hungry. Auggie has been a trooper, slept for 9 of the 12 hour flight. He is not so thrilled to be getting on another plane but he LOVES being able to see outside now that it is daylight. More later.

The Day Before

Ahhhhh. The sun is beating down on our brick courtyard, flashing off the purple African daisies. Andre has our place looking amazing, like an Italian garden. I fully intend to take advantage of this minute in time, in this space. The dogs and I are quietly absorbing vitamin d, the ocean just loud enough for me to hear over our little waterfall and bamboo wind chimes. Andre is off kiting, or surfing, or engaging in some other extreme sport he just created (seriously, he and Auggie were riding the big toy dump truck down the sand dunes the other day). Auggie is on a play date with his bff. He loves bff's mom almost as much as he loves bff; as they were leaving today, he whispered, "When we get to the beach, I'm going to tell __ I love her. Is that ok?" I'm sure it will be, buddy. I'm sure it will be.

Those of you that know me best may find it hard to believe I am so calm just one day before we leave for Bali. No, I have not started the valium yet (considered it, though). I started my morning with a low-key stroll on the misty local beach with a good friend. I came home to find a past student of mine cleaning the house, as planned. Well worth the money. We have renters that are staying here so I didn't want to leave the house a shambles. Nor did I want to clean it. Problem solved. I love money. It really does solve everything. Now if only I had enough money that I could hire someone to clean all the time, life would be beautiful. So would my house.

I have very little left to do before we go. For instance, I still can't decide which underwear to take with me. Can't be heavy in the heat, also preferable if they don't try to become one with my insides. So much to think about.

Much peace to  . . . oh, f***. The neighbor just started weed eating right next to our fence. Bali, here I come.

TMI

My two biggest, nail-biting, late-night terrors related to the Bali trip are, one, keeping Auggie safe and non-screaming and, two, surviving my illness.

Regarding Auggie, I have contemplated (obsessively) multiple scenarios and then problem-solved for a multitude of frustrating or terrifying instances. At this moment, I actually feel pretty good about traveling with the whirling dervish. Must be the pharmaceuticals and expensive video games, two great soothers. And, to be honest, he's become a little man that is fun to be around, generally reasonable. Generally. Just in case, I AM wearing tennis shoes (albeit, cute maryjane tennies), prepared to chase him down the airport runway at the drop of a hand. I am nothing if not a problem solver.

My illness. This issue is not so easy to circumvent. If it was, I'd be back at work.

Background: February 2010 I contracted mono, I was diagnosed in March. I did try to return to teaching high school English classes in late May (luckily, my coaching season was over by then - Speech and Debate) but was only back at work for a week and 1/2 before the mono symptoms were once again full blown and I had two different secondary infections. I was in bed for weeks, unable to even turn my head because of sickening dizziness.  For months, I could barely walk up stairs. Sometimes, I couldn't at all. My limbs were flooded with lead, my tonsils were grotesquely swollen and my liver and spleen hurt.

I say "were" but I mean "still." Walking up stairs is exhausting, as is taking a shower or . . . well, anything.  And exhausting doesn't just mean really tiring; exhausting means if I exert myself mentally or physically for an hour (sometimes a half hour), my limbs stop working, my gums swell, my throat reddens painfully, my right eye blurs, my the joints in my fingers feels like grinding glass, I can't walk across the room without sitting down, I can't hold Auggie and, worst of all, I start slurring like a drunk. Then comes the insomnia (crazy, I know).  Even if I haven't exhausted myself by daring to scrub down the bathrooms or writing curriculum, I have short term memory loss, including recent incidents, tasks and vocabulary.

Chronic Epstein Barr Virus (mono is the infectious side of EBV) has led to Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. It is mortifying to explain I am out on medical leave because I have a disease that sounds like I'm just fucking tired. Though, I AM tired. Oh, I'm tired. That's all I say. "Sigh, I'm tired." "I'm so tired." "Ugh, I wish I wasn't so tired." It's my mantra. Every time I catch myself saying it, I punch myself in the eye. Hence, the Stevie Wonder sunglasses. I don't want Andre to go jail for spousal abuse; who would walk up the stairs with my tea?

The next person that says, "Oh, hon, working makes us ALL tired - you just need to build up stamina" is going to be wearing the Stevie Wonder glasses. And a face cast. If I can gather the energy to throw the punches. I taught for 15 years, teaching and coaching all year. I know what it is like to be beat, bushed, worn down, pushing through the flu -- I've done it all. When it comes to work, I'm a go getter. I don't do anything half assed even if it means sleeping in the teacher lounge (which I HAVE done, running my first speech tournament). My disease is not something I can push through. It will kill me. Literally.

I am better. I can walk up stairs, even if I'm pretty slow. For a couple weeks in a row, I can work out on an elliptical for 30 minutes every other day. I'm starting to recognize how far I can push myself, what my level of capability will be for that day. I'm coming to terms with the fact that I have to go weeks without working out on the elliptical, that cooking dinner is going to be my exercise, but that I have to exercise when I can. I finally realized that having a conversation with even one other person is exhausting because I have a hard time controlling my entertainer/storyteller instincts, meaning I up my energy output to please people and I didn't even know it until now. Talking to people can actually make me sick. Damn depressing. No talking = second year of medical leave.

Stress will deplete whatever reserve I have in 2.3 seconds. No kidding. Any stress at all puts me in bed. For instance, the last day I visited the high school was to help the seniors during their graduation practice. Just being around people and using my brain had drained me but I was happy to see the staff and kids. It ended with a school-wide lockdown; the seniors, other staff and I were herded into the weight room. We waited quietly for 45 minutes, never knowing if there was an actual shooter on campus or if it was a threat. The door was tested from the outside twice. I almost had a stroke each time. By the time there was an all-clear, I was shaky. I was in bed by two that afternoon and didn't leave for two days. Not because I was a little tired but because I was lead-filled and nauseous, slurry. I missed graduation for the first time in 15 years. Sick AND despondent.

I am scared. Not of flying, but of getting off the plane in a wheelchair. In two days we're going to be driving for five hours, flying for twelve hours, layover for five, flying for five and half hours, going through customs, persuading them to give us the longer visa pass. Thank you god, we have a driver that will be meeting us at customs (holding up a "Holly Lorincz" sign like I'm a rockstar). I have valium. I might take a minimal dose before our drive - not for me, for Andre and Auggie's sake. No need to make it easy to drop me off at the sanitorium. Did I mention our flight leaves at 2 a.m.? Yeah. Nice. I'm trying very hard to look at it like this: it will be as it is, it will all work out, I will be able to sleep while Auggie is out.  I can do this if I just don't stress out, if I go with the flow. You know, change my whole personality. Rely on Andre to resolve every problem. Yep, that sounds like me.

The benefits will SOOOOOO outweigh the harms. I believe that with my whole heart. I will see amazement and wonder through Auggie's eyes. I will visit healing temples and see one of my dearest friends. We will snorkle and soak up sun every day. We will eat delightful fruit and make new friends. We will ride elephants and swim with Nemo. We will be part of a beautiful, spiritual culture. I will not have to wear a cardigan.

Who Packs What

The age old conversation: how much of your shit am I willing to carry? And is this just my shit or, technically, doesn't it belong to both of us?

I have backpacked around Europe in my early 20's. Never again do I want to spend a month wearing two changes of clothes, one of which can work as a tablecloth or towel. Andre, on the other hand, is the master of packing the bare necessities. He would be happy on an island with a surfboard and a shirt-cum-towel. He would thrive naked with unbrushed teeth. I want shampoo, conditioner, gel, tampons and cute sandals. Toothpaste and mascara is not an option.

If I pack hygiene and and pharmaceutical items into his bag, does that mean he is now carrying my stuff? I don't care how generous and kind he is about it, he is carrying OUR stuff. Yes, yes, I understand that if he was alone he would pack Tom's Mint Soap, a roll of duct tape, a pair of board shorts and one clean, non-beer-advertising shirt. I will even admit that I admire the ability to travel so unencumbered.  But I think I have firmly established how anal and anxious I am about traveling. That alone is reason enough to pack pepto bismal and valium.

EVA airlines allows us each two check-in bags, but I have packed Auggie and I into one rolling duffle, right at 49 lbs. In order for this to work, there was spillover into Andre's check-in bag. He's been telling me how little he needed, leaving me slightly miffed when he was upset at how much was in his bag. Okay, it was over half full, but still . . . the stuff will be used by both of us, right? The ensuing "discussion" was worth it, since neither of us wants to increase our check-in bags. Who in the hell wants to wander around a huge foreign city with multiple suitcases, backpacks and a five-year-old?

Moving on, I must tell you how proud I am of my carry-on tote bag. It is amazing. It is an Urban Junket laptop tote bag that converts into a backpack, leaving my hands free to grab Auggie as he tries to rush onto a subway as the doors are closing. Then the bag converts back into a nice purse-looking item so I don't look a hobo during nights out on the village. People, people . . . I have already warned you, I refuse to look like a backpacker on this trip. I will have a clean shirt and I will not wear tennis shoes with a sundress. Vain? Yes. Hard to spend time with as I prepare for a trip? Yes. Willing to mock myself? Sometimes.

The Book Battle

I have spent considerable time the last few months ordering books from Amazon (not schocking, if you know me, but maybe we could keep that a secret from Andre) trying to find the perfect books for my trip.

Many of my friends have suggested (sometimes forcefully) that I need a Kindle, especially for a trip like this. Books are heavy and awkward compared to the thin little guy with endless books in the palm of your hand, I get it. I'm not sure why I'm so resistant. Perhaps it's because I enjoy the game I play with people around me, hiding the cover of my book so the nosy neighbors can't judge me for reading Clive Cussler. If you like Clive Cussler, don't be offended. So do I, at least some of his stuff. But I'm a high school English teacher. If I'm reading Safeway's weekly paperback special instead of the Booker List Award Winner then obviously I am not fit to teach reading skills to teens -- or walk upright in the local library.

The perfect travel book for me is fiction, with a plot that will suck me in quickly and character development that can be totally unrealistic as long as there is not a lot of romance. I burned out on fake love after reading my mom's Harlequin Romances in the seventh grade (talk about having to hide the cover of your book -- Ms. Becker never knew the sexual education I was receiving during free reading time). I have to admit, I am a little more snobby about books than the latter paragraph would lead you to believe. I rarely read genre or formula books -- but, I'm tellin' ya', Clive Cussler is perfect for the airplane. He incorporates a little history in a current outlandish plot to destroy the world. The pages keep me engaged while the grammar doesn't make me want to barf. Most importantly, I am not sooo involved that when Auggie starts flicking spit wads over our seat I won't notice. Oh, I'll notice. Depending on the guy in front of me, I might even do something about it. But if I was reading a wonderful, beautiful, book (The Corrections) . . . well, I would be pissed every time I had to look up. I'm guessing that at some point on the 20 hour trip, Auggie will want to talk or play. It's inevitable. Stupid kids who love their parents and want their attention. So, in order to pretend I am a good mother, I have bought books that are mildly enjoyable but can easily be put aside.

I am taking one risk with a book. Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese.  My book group (also known as my drinking group) chose this book for the last meeting. Once I got the book, I realized it looked so good, it was worth holding onto it for the plane ride instead of reading it right away. That also meant I had to skip the last book meeting if I didn't want to spoil the end. (Man, drunk book group members can really be clever while harrassing you on Face Book. Seriously, guys, I'm sorry!)

As of today, I'm down to two books in my carry-on bag and two in my check-in. I really need one of those luggage weighing-thinga-majigies. If my luggage is overweight, I'm going to have to make some serious decisions. What can go? Shampoo? Snorkle? Not the books.

By the way, I guarantee Andre has not pondered reading material. I don't know how he would have time; he's repacked his surf boards and kite gear mentally at least three thousand times. Auggie? He's plotting how he will secretly stow away 230 Hot Wheels. We all have our obsessions.

And so it begins . . .

Forty-two days in Bali. Six days and counting. Well, really, five days; our plane departs from SEATAC at two in the morning on Wednesday. I have a hard time separating that from late night Tuesday. Further, we have a five hour car ride from the Oregon coast to Seattle. Shite. Five days and counting. 


My check-in bag is already packed, off and on for the past five weeks. Yes, I am what normal people call an anxious traveler. Travelers call me outrageously uptight and boring, if they are tactfully restrained. If I was to fill out a dating site form (and I may have to after this trip), I would NEVER state that I love to travel, nor would I respond to some dude who claims to be "spontaneous" and a "world traveler." Yet, that is who I have married. We might as well be James Carville and Mary Matalin, a democrat and a republican. 

The spawn from our unbalanced union is Auggie, a crazy, whirling dervish five-year-old that will charm the discipline right out of you. Example: the other day, I opened my mouth to yell at him to stop riding his scooter in the house when he slid around the corner, gave me "the eye," and said, "Hell-oh Beautiful." He rocketed away, I coughed to cover my laughing. He was scooting circles around me  fifteen minutes later as I sat at the computer, creating a new on-line savings account labeled "Auggie's Future Bail Fund." Feel free to contribute. 

Well, I'm off to bed. That's a lie. I'm off to try the valium prescription the doctor gave me for the flight. It will be the only way I can talk to Andre about his decision to leave Auggie and I on Bali for eight days while he goes on a surfing side trip to G-Landia. Seriously, what wife doesn't need to be doped down to keep her s**t during that conversation? In his defense, when he first brought this up, I said it was okay, despite the "sweet" camp name. I didn't know it was for so long. Nor did I realize who he invited to stay with us in his absence. 

But that is another night's story.