A guest blogger, Olivia A. Wells, will entertain you with details of her life as an survivor of ADD and a lighting rod.
August 2011: Missed an important appointment due to a minor back injury.
July 2011: Held and managed a housewarming party for my sweetie’s friends. We had fallen so far behind schedule because the power to my cottage failed and it took four days for us to repair it. I nearly canceled the party the day before. We held it anyway, but it took me 2 1/2 hours to eat my meal. People have asked us to have a party once a month.
Broken finger in construction accident.
Broke up with my Sweetie due to serious unaddressed matters. The unthinkable. I was bereft. Sweetie then addressed the matters promptly and we did not break up. I was overjoyed!
Pneumonia rebound, out of action for four days.
Someone told me that I was “imaginative, sometimes to the point of annoyance.” It came with a wink.
June 2011: Started the process of repairing numerous known defects in the property and rendering the dwellings functional. We were still unpacking, placing or storing objects as they appeared throughout the month.
May 2011: Don’t get pneumonia, is all I have to say. I am exhausted just by walking a hundred feet. I can only manage 10 minutes in the grocery store before I must sit and rest. Medical authorities told me that it could take up to six months to recover from pneumonia. As always, I was skeptical.
The move was two days away. I was still unable to pack the house for more than two hours. I could not stand for more than 10 minutes. Then I lay me down to rest, and slept between four and six hours. I convinced Sweetie to hire moving help, and he did. Moving day went very well. The crew chief asked me why I wasn’t frantic. I said, “I don’t have the energy.” *giggle*
Near-death experience: I was headed westbound toward the Bay Bridge in my trusty van when I heard a “thunk” sound from the undercarriage. I knew that I had run over something, but thought that it merely bounced off. Then at 500 feet away from the tollgate in the Fastrak Lane, the steering became erratic and the van was bouncing up and down. I glanced in the rear view mirror to see billows of smoke from the right rear tire.
People would have been hurt if I stopped. I slowed gradually and moved right every time an opportunity presented itself. I crossed at last into the last right lane, breathing a sigh of relief.
An Alameda Transit bus passed me on the right, doing at least 60 miles an hour. It bounced off the freeway and over a high curb. The bus rocked to-and-fro. I goggled at it in terrified shock and hoped against hope that it would remain upright.
It did. I nearly wept. I did not understand what had happened. I donned my raincoat and walked to the passenger door of the bus.
A serious young woman pulled the lever, looked down at me and invited me in. I apologized for whatever the heck it was I had done and gave her my contact information. She was polite and responsive.
She had performed bravely in a dangerous situation. I told the Highway Patrolman of her skill in keeping control of a mighty machine in life-threatening circumstances.
Damage to the bus meant that another had to be called.
Thirty-five despondent people walked by me when the backup bus arrived. I apologized to them as well. No one said anything, but I received a wee few deeply hostile glares. I couldn’t blame them for feeling angry that they had lost time for no reason of their own.