What I learned from a tick.

Last week, after a nasty bout of what I thought was the flu, I was diagnosed with Lyme Disease. I started a 3-week course of doxycycline on Thursday night. Today, ten days after my first symptoms emerged, I have rejoined the human race. In the meantime, here’s what I’ve learned:

That something this big " . " can completely kick your ass. People, make no mistake. Lyme makes you sick. Long spells of convulsive chills followed by high fever. Sleepless nights. Headaches (see below). Muscle aches. Sensitive skin. Extreme fatigue. They even list depression as a symptom. Ya think?

The difference between an ice pick headache and a migraine. With migraines, I thought I had the market cornered on painful headaches. Enter, the “ice pick” headache, which lasted 3 days, was unresponsive to most pain medication and felt just like the description, as if something sharp had been driven into my temple. And every now and then, dear Yukon Cornelius would tap it in a little further.

You don’t always get a rash. I think I’d remember seeing a large bullseye on my body. Wait, maybe that’s why people were kicking me that day on the beach.

What "herxing" is.  Short for the Herxheimer reaction, which occurs when large quantities of toxins are released into the body at once. So with Lyme, it’s when you start treatment and the little spyrocetes start dying in large numbers and flooding your system with neurotoxins.  In short, it gets worse before it gets better.

All medical professionals are not created equal. I might have been diagnosed three days earlier had my regular NP recognized that my symptoms meshed with Lyme. Three days later, I went to a walk-in clinic and the symptom-based diagnosis was almost immediate. So the best advice is to learn the symptoms for yourself. Note what I experienced above, add the telltale rash and joint pain. Or Google away.

A lot of people have had this and live to tell the tale. Once I mention Lyme, it seems everyone has a story. (And a few bad tequila jokes.) It seems many have had it or known someone who’s had it. Some have even had it multiple times. Sure, there are horror stories. (Bell's palsy.) For most, the antibiotics were the end of it. Sure hope that’s the case for me.

What menopause is going to feel like. Night sweats. Not fun. Fortunately, I have many, many years before I have to worry about such things. (Delusions, another symptom.)

Doxycycline is a great diet plan.  Most people would mind if their meds made them really nauseous. I’m looking forward to fitting into my skinny jeans.

That I’m going to need a better preventive measure than tucking my pants into my socks. Because that’s not going to happen. Just saying.

Sorry, Kiele. I’ll walk you again in November.

PS. Sorry I went A.W.O.L. for a while. I took a little break after my summer book tour and then had a tight editing deadline on my Young Adult book coming out in June. More to come on that, and living on Cape Cod in the off season.

Getting it right.

In Summer Shift, there’s a young girl who dies at the beginning of the novel after crashing her car into a tree on a winding road. We later learn that the main character’s husband died in a similar senseless way. I was not writing from any personal experience here. Like everyone else, I had come across numerous roadside memorials and had always been struck at the harsh, arbitrary suddenness of such deaths; how tragic and unforgiving. How many times have each of us come within inches and been spared? Why some and not others? And so being something I could neither reconcile nor compartmentalize, I chose to explore the subject through writing, which is what writers do.

Today, a dear friend, one whom I’ve known only a few years, told me she was enjoying my novel, though those early scenes in the book took her back to the death of her own teenage son who was killed instantly when his car struck a tree on a winding road in 2005. My initial reaction was horror, that something I wrote might cause this kind person additional grief. She shared with me a website memorializing her son, and I saw photos of him as an infant in his mother’s arms at the hospital, pictures chronicling his childhood and teenage years, up to the photograph of the place where the accident happened, the tree itself with the missing bark, and the place where his ashes now rest. Having a son about to turn nineteen myself, all this tugged at my emotions to say the least.

I was also struck, perhaps truly for the first time, with the enormity of the responsibility authors have to get it right.

When we write, our brains often allow us to go to places we can’t fathom in our own lives. And as we explore subjects, we tap our empathy and imagine what it might be like to walk in the shoes of others. We do some research. We talk to people who’ve had similar real-life experiences. But as I journeyed through this young man’s life eerily preserved in cyberspace, I prayed that I had not in any way trivialized the circumstances of the accidents or victims in my book., that God forbid I may have reduced such real life tragedy to something clichéd.

Based on my friend’s comments, I don’t think that was the case. I hope in some way I was able to write something she could relate to and, as the story progresses for her, hope that I might provide some insight or comforting perspective on her loss.

But the lesson learned here, and one which I will carry forward, is to be mindful that what may be simple exploration of a subject for the author is inevitably harsh reality for others.

In honor of "Shark Week."

Today I learned there are some big fish swimming off the coast of Chatham.

“The great fish moved silently through the night water, propelled by short sweeps of its crescent tail.”

I was twelve years old when I read that.

"The mouth was open just enough to permit a rush of water over the gills."

I was at Nauset beach, lying on my belly, facing the water. I had on my baggy swim team bathing suit, the straps tied together at the back with a shoelace.

"…The land seemed almost dark as the water, for there was no moon."

My sister had gone off to collect shells at the water’s edge.

"...All that separated sea from shore was a long straight stretch of beach—so white that it shone."

Normally, I would have gone with her. But I was enthralled.

"...The woman laughed and took his hand, and together they ran to the beach."

I stopped reading to look up to the intense blue vastness, and the line that cut across the sky.

"A hundred yards offshore, the fish sensed a change in the sea’s rhythm."

Is that a fin?! No, no, just a duck resting on the surface.

"...The fish turned toward shore."

I’m almost positive it’s a duck.

"...The vibrations were stronger now, and the fish recognized prey."

Where is my sister? Did she go in?

"...The woman felt only a wave of pressure that seemed to lift her up in the water and ease her down again."

The beginning of Jaws continues to haunt me in ways that few books have, the words having somehow lodged in my impressionable gut, forever safe from my reasoning brain.

In the mid- 1970s, there were no great whites off the coast of Cape Cod. All that happened after the break in the Outer Beach, and once the seals established themselves. Now, when the waters warm, annual sightings are a common occurrence. Though no one has ever been hurt. Keep in mind, there has been no fatal shark attack in Massachusetts since 1936. But it doesn’t matter, does it? You read the book too. You know what I mean. The damage is done. Razor sharp triangular teeth imbedded in our psyches.

Eau de Lobster

This weekend I joined some friends on the outer beach for a clambake. Aside from the much-needed rain that pelted us for about an hour, and how, when it finally stopped, the gnats attacked, in my opinion it’s still the best restaurant in town.

Of course, after such a primitive feast, you come home sticky and sand-coated, with very big hair, cheeks plastered with corn kernels and lobster goo. It isn't pretty. With nothing but seawater to use to wash up, I’m guessing I didn’t smell so great either.

Then again, maybe I did. Enter Demeter’s Lobster Cologne, “not for the faint of heart. Probably our most obtuse fragrance but it is ‘dead on’ so to speak….a combination of the sea, sweet meat, and a hint of drawn butter.”

Dab a little behind the ears and you’re good to go. I’m not sure where but come the dead of February, when I start longing to be out on the beach on a balmy, moonlit night with a plate of red claws on my lap, I just might need to give this a shot.

(Other notable scents: Cocktail Party To Go, Crayon, Glue, Suntan Lotion, Between The Sheets and Daddy’s Little Helper…can’t even begin to go there on the last one.)

Thanks for the link, Linda!

Recipe for a happy July.

Anyone can publish a novel but how many people have friends kind and talented enough to create for you your very own cocktail? This summer, belly up to the bar at the Saltwater Grille in Orleans and order a “Summer Shift.” Or have your own party.

(Please rest assured this recipe has gone through rigorous testing.)

The "Summer Shift"

1 part premium vodka (Ketel One, Stoli, Grey Goose, etc.)

1 part cranberry juice

Splash of Cointreau or Triple Sec

Splash of sour mix

Generous splash of key lime juice

Fill to the rim with soda water

Garnish with fresh lime

What's more, starting this week, you'll be able to sample the dishes at the back of Summer Shift at the Saltwater Grille. Clambaked Oysters, Hopkins Haddock, Proud Mary's Portuguese Mussels, and more. (And if you order a salad, chances are my kid will make it.)

Have a safe, happy summer!

Ways to crack yourself up.

Write a book. Get it published. Wait a few days. Then Google yourself...

A new genre! What kind of books do you write, Lynn? Literary fiction? Womens fiction? Chick lit? No, I write shellfish romances. Good old fashioned clam meets clam stories. You know, ones that are set in China? Will the public never tire of them?

Ok, John Lithgow. Now we're talking. And a palooza, perhaps even a quilt-making one. In France. And somehow I have been invited to this fete. Magnifique!

Well there's the alphabetical proximity, I suppose. Or is Google messing with my head? Can it know my deepest, darkest secret, that I was once an official member of the Partridge Family Fan Club? Then it also should know it wasn't Danny who came to me in my dreams!

This will be news to my mother.

By numbers? Oils? Finger paints? On velvet?

Whoa! I have NEVER had a video taken of me in a cheap hot tub. Only top of the line, baby.

And here, at last, is when you know you've reached the end of your narcissistic interlude. Still, loving the randomness of having all the words appear in a single post. Like a found poem. A really, really bad one.

The final chapter.

Sure, it could have ended like this. I’m sure some of you thought it would. But those who’ve been patiently following my raccoon saga will be grateful to know this week it came to an end. Project Exodus (which consisted of loud music, bright lights and ammonia soaked rags) was a smashing success. On the second night, while watching TV in the living room, I thought I saw something scurry across the porch. Maybe an hour later, I heard a noise, flicked on the patio light and caught mom climbing down from the roof with a baby in her teeth. They both looked at me. I looked at them. We understood one another. It was time. I flicked off the light and let her get back to the arduous task of transporting and corralling four distressed cubs.

Warning: If you thought I was a nutcase up to this point, it’s about to get worse. You may want to scroll to the bottom paragraph.

So, after eight long weeks of cohabitation what was my reaction to all of this? After seeing the raccoon with her baby, I walked back to the sofa and burst into tears. You should have seen the look on my kid’s face. “What’s wrong?” he said. “It’s all okay. It worked. She’s leaving. WTF?” Maybe he didn’t actually say “WTF” but he might as well have. And who could blame him? I’ve since tried to figure out what was going on there and here’s what I’ve come up with. (And sorry, PMS was ruled out…)

A) Gargantuan relief. That she had finally gone, that this hadn’t ended in some kind of tragedy, that she was doing precisely what I’d been told she would do, taking her little ones off to someplace safe. Things had gone according to plan. When does that ever happen?

B) Gratitude. That these cubs had such a great mother, that things had worked out, that my house hadn’t been destroyed as many warned it would be, and that I’d been able to share this experience, which was a rare and amazing encounter with nature. I had done something from the heart that ran contrary to common sense. (Certainly not the first time, nor will it be the last) And it hadn’t backfired.

C) Ok, maybe I was a little sad that they were vacating after all this time. I’d grown accustomed to their coos each time I opened my dresser drawer for a clean pair of socks. And just maybe I was projecting my own kid’s leaving for college onto this whole experience. (Ya think?)

There’s a final act to all this. That night, one of the babies was left behind. All night long, it roamed around the house and cried for its mother. I was afraid it might attract a fox or coyotes. That morning at 5:15, the dog started going crazy. The baby’s cries got louder. I ran to the bedroom window in time to see the mother carting the last of her brood off into the tall grass across the street. My guess was that she had three babies to keep safe that night, and didn’t dare leave them to go back for the fourth. Not until daylight.

And that’s the last I’ve heard of them. (Thank goodness. I know, I know.)

PS. That morning I went out to buy screen and hardware cloth and sealed up the vent.