Emerging From the Cave

[Above photo: On the Island with dramatic lighting c/o a cloudy late September evening.]

21 November 2021

I tip my hat to the virus; I acknowledge its potency. I am much better, although still easily fatigued ascending a single flight of stairs and unable to taste anything. Each morning after a shower I bury my nose in the manual coffee grinder to test the return of smell. Its absence is different than I experienced with chemotherapy; the latter also induced some nausea and an aversion to food.  I recall the first time I smoked weed in an attempt to improve my appetite, I downed a pint of chocolate ice cream. “What kind is this? It’s amazing!” My wife replied, “Trader Joe’s”. Nothing so special, but that step from 0 to 1 is a dramatic one.  I’m still awaiting the return of taste and will perhaps try some zinc supplement to hasten it. I vaguely recall a New Yorker article by Oliver Sacks on ‘Anosmia’ in which he prescribed zinc for a couple of people with the condition—admittedly, not secondary to covid-19—and it worked!

I’ve only been in my apartment for 7 weeks but feel loneliness wrapping me. I must remind myself that I’ve been absent or quarantined half that time, travelling to see friends and sorting my storage space in Bar Harbor.  This covid go-round leaves me feeling frail and vulnerable. And diminished, an inevitability with ageing anyway, as we lose our strengths and senses. Mostly I feel diminished in purpose and meaning, since my professional life has mostly halted and I am far from most friends. I keep checking, but I don’t feel depressed and remind myself to temper my expectations with the reality of my situation.

Maine now has its highest new daily covid case numbers since the beginning of the pandemic. Break-through cases are not uncommon. And the longer the numbers are up anywhere in the world, mostly correlating with the rates of vaccination, the more likely we are to get a variant that dodges the vaccine. The events of 9-11 did change the world but this little spiky fella is having a more widespread, a more lethal, and a longer-lasting effect.  The idea of easily mingling with strangers to meet a new group of friends, whether in a book group, cross-country skiing, or taking/teaching a class, doesn’t seem in my immediate future.

I’ve now been out of Myanmar for nearly 8 months. My return, at least in the near future, seems unlikely. If suddenly democracy were restored and the military receded to their proper role, I’d head back promptly to resume my crusade of establishing child and adolescent mental health services in the country.  Failing that, and it is most unlikely to occur, I’m here.

I think, thus, I need to change the domain name of my blog from “A psychiatrist in Myanmar” to reflect my current reality.  “Settling in Maine” has a double-entendre that troubles me, however true. More a double meaning, as double entendre, it seems, implies that one meaning is shocking or risqué. Then, again, if I really want to be teaching abroad, being here does carry a sense of resignation.

Do I have the interest, and the juice, to start a similar project elsewhere? I think I’d choose S. America, because I know a bit of Spanish and could learn more. And I’ve never travelled there. And I like the food and much of the music. Now, I am exciting myself. I may look into another Fulbright after March (I’m next eligible two years after the last one ended).

Maybe “Perched in Maine” would be more appropriate, suggesting a transience to my residency. Having my camp on the Island gives me an adequate sense of having a home base, which I require.

I’ve been looking at blue-water sailboat ads, refining my search to land on the “perfect” boat for me. I can easily lull myself into an ocean-crossing or a tropical sojourn. Then I will see a video of a cluster of cruisers caught in a tropical cyclone between New Zealand and Fiji, with consequent terror, serious injuries, rescues, and loss of both lives and boats. Not so much, I think. Besides, the necessarily constant and meticulous maintenance and cramped quarters of a live-aboard cool my enthusiasm.  I now like my shower, my large and comfy bed, the kitchen appliances, and the fact that if, tomorrow, I want to fly to San Francisco or Bangkok, I just need to buy a plane ticket, lock the door, and take an Uber to the Jetport.

I think my fantasies run, predictably, toward open horizons when I am cooped-up. Just as, unable to smell or taste, I read numerous recipes yesterday in a wonderful cookbook which my daughter gave me for my birthday.  Reading and writing, instead of taking actions to effect my escape, make much more sense right now, although they lack the visceral pull of fantasy.

I’m strong enough for a real walk today. Maybe this afternoon I’ll go to the downtown cineplex and watch “Dune” or “The French Dispatch”.  A more practical outlet for fantasied longings. And double-masked.