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All the Pee in China, part 1

I haven’t written any blog posts for a really long time. I’ve had a good excuse. I had to pee.

I mean it. I’ve really had to pee. Multiple sclerosis causes my bladder to be both overactive—so much so that I rarely go ninety minutes without rushing to the bathroom—and under-active—so much so I have to use a catheter to completely empty.

Unrelenting runs to the bathroom have been not so good for my sleep patterns, not so good for my clarity of thought, and not so good for my travel plans. But that didn’t stop me from making travel plans. My son lives and works with his girlfriend, MC, on the other side of the planet. When this adorable couple invited my husband and me to stay with them in Beijing, there was no way we wouldn’t go. I love my son more than all the pee in China.

In the weeks leading up to the trip, every time I announced, “I’m going to China,” I’d feel mildly surprised I wasn’t asked, “How the hell will you manage that?”

Twenty five years of living with MS has made me pretty good at bluffing good health, but even I can’t bluff my way through frequent bathroom runs.

Hadn’t my friends noticed I rarely can get through a whole movie without excusing myself to run to the bathroom? Hadn’t my workshop students noticed me having to take bathroom breaks in the middle of ninety-minute sessions?

My anxiety about my bladder permeated all of my travel preparations. When I switched my language of choice on my Duolingo app from Spanish to Chinese, the first word to pop up on the app consisted two figures: the figure on the left looked to me like a distressed lady crossing her legs because she has to pee, obviously—whereas the  figure on the right had its arms outstretched, blocking the distressed lady’s way. Yes, I have the magical power of turning a language app into an ink blot test.

The distressing ideogram was paired with a sound. My American ears heard the word: “how.”

How, indeed.

I wondered how I was ever going to travel through China—not to mention to China—when I always have to pee?

The flight to China would be an overnighter. On ordinary nights, I get up four to six times to pee. I kept picturing myself seated in the middle of a long row, squeezing past passenger after passenger after passenger, disturbing their sleep—“Excuse me, Excuse me, Excuse me”—every 90 minutes.

And that’s what I could expect if conditions were optimal. 

The sad truth is, I’ve been getting UTIs on a monthly, sometimes bi-monthly basis. For those of you who have never had a UTI: congratulations. UTI stand for urinary tract infection, or Unrelenting Torturing Incontinence. To add agony to the inconvenience, every time you pee with a UTI,  it stings.

Chances of my getting a UTI during a two week trip? Between 50-100%.

Air travel with a UTI? Been there. Agony.

And even if I did make it through the overnight flight, how exactly would I make it through China? Our son wanted us to explore a few cities while we were there.

What would the public restrooms be like in China?

Our son warned us most public restrooms featured squat toilets. He advised us to practice squatting. I practiced. Our son mentioned most facilities were BYOTP—Bring Your Own Toilet Paper.

My husband had to talk me out of packing a roll.

I called my capable mother to air my anxieties. She has answers for everything. Worried about a UTI? Get antibiotics. Worried about having to pee? Get diapers. “They make diapers differently now,” she said. “More comfortable.” More comfortable than the ones she’d pinned on me in 1967? And possibly—ahem—larger?

Gentle reader, I got myself the antibiotics. When I ran out of time to procrastinate further, I drove out of town—out of state—to buy myself adult diapers. For double protection, I picked out overnight pads as well. I reminded myself that astronauts wore diapers. Who looks down on an astronaut? Nobody. Diapers could be seen as elite-wear for the long distance traveler. As I approached the check-out counter, I noticed I was the only customer. The cashier had no one to focus on but me, and those diapers, and those pads. My astronaut justification started to wobble. Wasn’t there some crazy astronaut lady who wore an adult diaper on a cross country drive to avenge a love spurned? Everybody looked down on that astronaut.  I silently reminded myself that I had a longer trip ahead of me, and a better motive: a mother’s love.

As I set the items on the belt, I forced myself to make eye contact as I returned the cashier’s greeting. I hoped the cashier didn’t see a middle aged nervous wreck with MS buying diapers and overnight pads for herself, but rather a high strung, healthy woman performing the duties of middle age—buying pads for herself and diapers for her fragile old mother—a fiction that could only hold with a cashier who has never met my mother, who is generally the most robust woman in any room. The cashier conveyed absolutely zero shock or pity, enabling me to maintain my dignity. So I got through that purchase. How would I get through China?

I’ll tell you. China was nothing like I thought it would be.  Let’s start with the meaning of that first character that popped up on my Duolingo app, the character that sounded like the English word H-O-W. It happened I would meet a friendly native speaker at a Beijing art gallery who would tell me the actual meaning of the word “Hāo.” As you may have guessed, the word has nothing to do with a distressed lady being blocked from accessing the bathroom by an obstinate man with outstretched arms. Hāo, she assured me, means “good.” Hão was also a part of her name.

Was my ink-blot interpretation of the figures in that ideogram something other than an instance of preternatural second sight?

Not so fast. Gentle readers, on my journey I would indeed meet an obstinate man who would physically block my way to the bathroom when I was in acute distress and had to pee. But I wouldn’t meet this imposing figure in China. I would meet him in the Toronto Airport.

  • to be continued

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The Overgrown Road of Laupāhoehoe

To live successfully with multiple sclerosis, you must become an artist of improvisation. You never know when (or how) your body is going to horrify you next. MS is, I dare say, a master class in mortality. Gentle reader, we are all on the same conveyor belt, heading for the same destination. Some of us just get to have a more challenging experience resisting the inertial pull as we dodge hostile takeovers on random locations throughout our nervous system.  We need to be flexible. We need yoga. And that is why, every morning of my stay at the Temple of My Dreams, I’d leave the downstairs living quarters and make my way up the stairs, and then up the ramp, to the second floor entrance to the yoga studio.

upstairscloser to temple

Once I reached the pillars, this is a glimpse of what I’d see to my left:

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I wish you could hear the ocean, as I did. Or the breezes. Or the birds. I would sometimes see glimpse a cat (or two) on my approach to the temple entrance on the second level.

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The temple itself was inhabited by a black cat.

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This cat is apparently very used to partnering in yoga.

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Ostensibly, the cat and I had the studio to ourselves. But if you’ve ever taught me yoga, or shared a pose with me, be assured, I snuck you in, too. The studio was spacious. And full.

There was a reason our family had chosen to visit The Big Island. When my husband graduated college, he and his dad celebrated with an epic two day climb / one day descent of the massive volcano, Mauna Loa. What better way to celebrate our son’s graduation from Vassar than to follow this tradition? Once we learned our son had signed on with a start-up in Beijing, it seemed only logical to give him a head start on the twelve hour time change with a ten day vacation in a time zone six hours closer to Beijing time. As parents, we’d do anything to ease a transition that is in many ways absolute. We knew our son would be starting a life far outside our areas of expertise. Our opportunities to ameliorate  his life challenges were drawing to a close.

During the planning phase, my husband kept bringing up the issue of what I would do during the Father/Son volcano expedition. Sorry, I am not the volcano vanquishing MS superhero you might find on an advertisement or some other blog. (Though I’d love to be!) I’m a fairly ecstatic swimmer/snorkeler,  but in the past I’ve gotten in some trouble overheating on the beach. My husband is accustomed to being my superhero. What would happen if I were to get stranded snorkeling while he was busy scaling the volcano with our son? His idea was to set me up in some luxury hotel for the haole (white) tourists on the dry side. No thank you! I wanted to choose my own adventure.

Meanwhile, the adventure my husband and son had chosen was going up in smoke—or more accurately—in vog. (Vog being the term for smoke that comes out of an active volcano.) As packages arrived at our house with backpacks and state of the art camping equipment, so daily updates arrived in our in-boxes on the steady eruption from Mauna Loa’s sister volcano, Kilauea. My husband kept expecting the eruption to end. But the goddess Pele didn’t seem to be running out of lava. As the date for our vacation grew nearer, he finally called the Park Service, and learned all the trails were closed. The men in my life would have to cancel their epic hike of Mauna Loa. No problem. They too, are flexible. They, too, have to live with MS. My husband found an achievable walk: an eight mile hike on Pu’u wa’awa’a. Achievable—for them, anyway. I hate to write that my eight mile hike days are gone forever. I’ll say this much: the day of the Father/Son hike, I would still have to find my own way.

But once we arrived at the AirBnB, I knew it had everything I needed for a blissful day on my own.  I could do yoga, at my pace. Break for writing. Break for meditating. Break for sitting on the lanai, soaking in the sights and sounds of the garden. Break for walking down to the beach. A five minute walk. An achievable walk. I’d have plenty to do while my husband and son took their achievable hike.

One morning, as I was leaving the yoga studio, I got a text from my husband. He’d taken a walk on an overgrown road that ran along the mountain side of the Jodo Temple. My son and I had refused to go with him. It looked like this:

oldroad

My husband texted that you could see the ocean from the road. The views were incredible. We should come! So we did. The views were incredible.

sticksonoldroad

Sure, there was a landslide to scurry over. But everywhere: island foliage in all its exuberance. Over a low wall of carefully assembled lava rocks: a view of the ocean. And after an eighth of a mile or so, the unmistakable sound of a waterfall. The air got cooler. We found ourselves under a leaf canopy, staring up at this:

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A little farther along, we stumbled on a second waterfall.

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My husband said, “All this for us? You’ve got your paved road in the wild. Our own private waterfalls.”

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All that for us. For me. You’d better believe I returned on the day of the Father / Son hike. It was just the perfect mix of challenge and beauty and wild wild wonder. At just the right temperature. Mahalo, Pele. Thank you. It all worked out just right.