Category: southern writing

creative nonfiction, Life in Alabama, southern culture, southern writing

Six: The Descent

by rayclifton6 Comments on Six: The Descent

I reluctantly began this story several weeks ago here due to the urging of others. It is difficult because it is personal, and I have always guarded such things. If we met on the street today and you asked me how I was doing I would say “Pretty good” or “Fine, thanks.”

I continue the tale with the hope that it might be helpful to someone.

The next part of the story may seem incredulous. Let me frame it this way:

Have you ever gone for a time, say six months, and one day tried to put on a pair of jeans only to discover that they are too tight? You ask yourself, “Have I put on some weight?” You step on the scales and find that you have gained ten pounds. Your first thought is “How did that happen?”

The answer is gradually. My progression into chronic illness was the same.

In the weeks following hospitalization, I experienced some tingling and numbness in my feet. I began to stumble a little, and my gait became unsteady. Walking up or down stairs and on uneven surfaces became challenging. I would lose my balance but “catch” myself on a wall or a chair. It was not a matter of vertigo or “light headedness.”  It was strictly mechanical. It was hard to walk a straight line.

I also lost a lot of weight. Most of it was muscle. The clothes in my closet (my sizes had not changed since my twenties) were now way too large. Clown clothes.

I rationalized that these two conditions were linked. I was simply “out-of-shape.” Muscle atrophy from inactivity had affected my mobility, and I could get back to normal with disciplined exercise. I started lifting weights and felt better immediately, but after a few workouts I experienced complete fatigue. Though it was difficult to get out of bed, I had responsibilities — my family, my church, and my employer. I stopped and re-started the workouts several times, but the results were always the same.

Sometime later the Redhead and I were watching television one evening. She asked, “Why do you keep rubbing your hands?” I realized they too were numb. I really had not noticed before that moment because of the issues with my feet.

The numbness gradually worsened. Both hands and feet were numb during the day and throbbed at night. The Redhead told me I was “moaning” in my sleep.

Still, I let some time go by. Surely all this was simply connected to the Specialist’s “post viral syndrome” diagnosis.

Then I began to experience something the medical community calls “brain fog.” I lost track of things. Wallet. Phone. Keys. Forgot the names of people I had known for a long time. Stopped in mid-sentence because I could not remember a word.

I finally started to worry. I had waited long enough, and I had to find another doctor soon.

Thus began my search for answers in the modern medical system. It would drag on for over a year.

creative nonfiction, southern writing

Four: Storm

by rayclifton10 Comments on Four: Storm

I am sitting in a grassy field under a small tent. A young nurse is taking my blood pressure. She is dressed in army fatigues, like one of the nurses from the old television show M*A*S*H. It is sunny and the light is very bright. She is talking to me, her voice muffled like we are under water. There are no other sounds. No birds singing, no traffic, no other voices. We are alone.

“We are going to get you to a room soon honey, okay?”

“My head hurts.”

And later:

I am lying in a bed somewhere. My head feels as if it were in a vice. I hear my son’s voice.

How you feelin’ dad?”

“I don’t know what to do. They gave me all these COVID kits to put together, and the instructions are in Chinese. Can you help me figure it out?”

I would later learn that the first memory never happened. I was admitted to the hospital by standard procedure, through the emergency room.

The second did. My son found me babbling like that the next day. I had received no treatment up to that point. My fever had spiked to 103.

I remember almost nothing about what transpired in the week that followed. Most of what I write reconstructed from The Book. Other things were false (or no) memories that the Redhead explained in the days and weeks afterward.

No, family did come to see you, you talked to them. Yes, you did have your phone, but I did not see you look at it. Yes, you were awake a good bit of the time. Yes, we talked about a lot of things. No, they did bring you meals. Don’t you remember any of that?

I did not. I do not.

The Book has pages and pages of tests. Bizarre imbalances in blood profiles. Some categories were extremely low, others alarmingly high. There were also MRIs, CT scans, and ultrasounds.

They were looking for West Nile virus, but that test was negative. They considered meningitis, but never did a spinal tap (an error, given what was to come). The baffled internist bowed out and referred me to the “Infectious Disease Expert.”

After four days of intravenous antibiotics and fluids, the blood tests returned to normal.

A memory, confirmed to be true:

I am sitting in a chair and a doctor is speaking to me in a quiet voice.

“Mr. Clifton you have been an extremely sick man. We have done a lot of tests, but we do not know the cause. I suspect it may be related to the tick bite you had, but tick-borne infection tests must be sent to a lab in Virginia. It will be two weeks before the results come back. Until then, I am giving you a prescription for one week of Doxycycline just in case. By the way, I noticed from your chart that you haven’t had your COVID vaccine, and I really think you should consider…”

“No. I am not taking your shot. You should focus on figuring out what I have rather than trying to get me to take some so-called vaccine for something you think I may get.”

“Sir this is not a political thing, but…”

“No, it is not political. End of discussion.”

“Understood. I will call you when your lab results come in.”

Admittedly rude, that. It might have affected our future relationship.

The Redhead drove me home soon afterward, but to this day I do not remember the ride.

Life in Alabama, nonfiction, rural life, southern writing

Part Three: Stormfront

by rayclifton8 Comments on Part Three: Stormfront

The following Monday I made the weekly hour’s drive to my employer’s headquarters for staff meeting and consultation with my coworkers. At that time, most of us were working from home, so Mondays were a chance to talk to a body in a body, even if was technically supposed to be from a “safe” distance. That had value for me. “ZOOM” was the name of a children’s program on Public Television when I was a kid. I wish it had stayed that way.

On the drive home I started to feel a little “off,” like I was coming down with something. Sluggish. A little feverish. You may recall from the previous post that this was June 2021, and COVID was beginning to make another run in Alabama. I imagine that anyone who had as much as a sniffle during those two years had the same thoughts that first went through my mind. What gatherings have I been to in the last week or so? Did that lady who sat beside me at church yesterday cough?

I took my temperature when I got home – 99.1.  Yes, I was getting sick.

I took a hot bath. As I toweled-off I made the discovery – an attached blacklegged (deer) tick. It was engouraged, so I knew that it had been there a while. I thought back. Must have been Saturday. I pulled it off and flushed it down the toilet.

Now, dear reader, I realize that you might not be the outdoors type. Perhaps you have never been bitten by a tick, and the whole idea that I could have acted in such a matter-of-fact manner seems incredulous.  But please remember that I am a forester. I had repeated that same process hundreds of times over the years. For those who work in the woods it is routine. Just an annoyance. Cost of doing business.

Tuesday morning. I felt worse. My head hurt a little and I was beginning to feel achy all over. So, I did what most folks do these days. Took my business down to one of the local “doc-in-a-box” franchises. There was a time when you could call your family doctor (now called your “Primary Care Physician”), but those days are gone. To do so now means two to four weeks unless there is a cancellation.

The routine at the corporate franchise is always the same.

“Have you been here before?”

Yes.

“What?”

I pulled my mask down to be heard. YES.

“Sir, please keep your mask on at all times. I will need you to fill out these six pages of medical history and consent forms. Sign or initial as indicated.”

But I did that last time I was here.

“We have updated our computer system. Oh, and I will need to make a copy of your driver’s license and insurance card. Also, your credit card for the copay.”

Thirty minutes later I made it behind the door to get my vitals checked and get the obligatory COVID test.

“You have a slight fever.”

Yes, that is why I am here.

“Go down to Room 2, second door on the right. The doctor will be in with you shortly.”

Several minutes later he entered.

“Good news, you do not have COVID. So, what brings you in to see us today?”

I have a slight fever and I do not feel well.

“Ah. Seasonal allergies. We have been seeing a lot of that these last couple of weeks.”

But I have not sneezed, coughed, or had as much as a sniffle.

“Well, that is probably coming. We caught it early. Stop by CVS and pick up some Mucinex D when you leave. I will have the nurse give you a steroid shot.”

Doc, I am sure this is not an allergy.

“Tell you what. We will draw some blood and see if everything looks okay. I will have the nurse call you back in if not. But I am quite sure you will feel better by tomorrow.”

I did not feel better tomorrow. I felt worse. Head and body. Like I was in the initial stages of the flu, but I still had no respiratory symptoms. My fever had crept to 100.

Wednesday, I went back. Same doctor.

“What brings you in to see us today?”

I saw you on Monday, remember? I have a fever and my headache is worse. My whole body aches.

“The steroid shot and the Mucinex didn’t seem to help?”

No. What about the bloodwork?

“Did we draw some blood? Let me check on that.”

A few minutes later he returned.

“You do have some elevated numbers here. Looks like you have some sort of infection. I am going to start you on a seven-day course of a broad-spectrum antibiotic.”

Doc, I do not know if this is relevant, but I should mention that I was bitten by a tick last weekend.

“I do not think so. Tick diseases are rare in Alabama. At your age it is more likely prostatitis. Go home and get some rest. Give the meds some time to work.”

Sunday, June 13. I go back again. My fever is holding at 100.5 and my headache is severe. Shut the door, close the curtains, turn out the light and get in bed migraine severe.

I got the same doctor. He ordered a chest X-ray.

I go back home and tell the Redhead that she needs to take me to the emergency room.

It will be one of the last things I remember over the course of the week ahead.

creative nonfiction, Life in Alabama, southern culture, southern writing

Haircuts and Memories

by rayclifton10 Comments on Haircuts and Memories

The weather is hot here in central Alabama, and lately the Redhead has been hinting (well, nagging really) that it’s time to get my “summer” haircut. The summer haircut is an old southern tradition in which men get their hair cut a little shorter than usual for the summer months. In my case, it’s not going to make a lot of difference, because every passing summer leaves me with a little less hair to worry about.

The summer haircut brings back old memories. I hated haircuts as a child. Funny how the passing of the years turns such memories into soft-edged nostalgia.

My dad always took me to a downtown barbershop in Sylacauga back in the late 1960’s, which I believe was located on one of the side streets between Broadway and Norton. This shop was a real man’s haven: three big leather-clad barber chairs, black and white checkered tile floors, and mirrors on the back wall. Other walls adorned with mounted deer heads and a largemouth bass or two, along with an auto parts store calendar featuring a pin-up girl (scantily clad in the latest one-piece bathing suit). In one corner, an old glass-front cabinet filled with creams and tonics that every man needed to keep his coiffure under control. Metal chairs with vinyl cushions lined the waiting area. One or more conversations taking place at all times, usually about football, problems at the mill, or the latest frustrations rebuilding a small block 350 engine. Plenty to read while you waited: Field and Stream, Popular Mechanics, and the current edition of the local newspaper, The Daily Home. An old AM radio on the counter, playing good country or gospel music. Depending on the time of day, you might even hear old L.R. Ross tell you what great merchandise was available for sale or trade on the “Shop and Swap” segment on W.F.E.B.:

“Neighbors, we have a man who’d like to trade a real nice goat for a single-shot 12 gauge shotgun. If you have a gun you’d like to trade, please call…”

I can still smell the witch hazel and talcum powder.

Although there were three chairs, I only remember one being used. The barber was old Mr. Mallory. As a little boy, it seemed quite possible to me that he had probably given Moses his first hair cut. Mr. Mallory wore glasses that had lenses as thick as the bottom of an old green glass coke bottle, and the end of his nose was always about an inch from your head while he worked his magic.

Mr. Mallory always asked “How you want it?” The answer never mattered. You might “want it” like Elvis, but you “got it” in a style called “flat top.” I believe it was the cut he liked best. But it was the haircut for the small town southern gentleman at that time. I was always just relieved to leave the chair with both ears still attached. If I didn’t squirm too much during the whole ordeal, I’d get a piece of Bazooka bubble gum as a reward.

Times sure have changed.

The place I go these days for a haircut is a “style shop.” The customers are both men and women, although the barbers are all now called stylist and are exclusively female. The walls are pastel and there are flower arrangements. Something soothing and “New Age” plays on the sound system. The place smells of bleaching chemicals and potpourri. There is no Field and Stream, though if you look hard enough you might find a copy of Time or National Review. The last time I went, the receptionist asked me if I wanted a warm cookie.

My stylist is blond and attractive. She tries to engage me with conversation about American Idol or Dancing with the Stars, but it is to no avail. I have never watched either. Confident that my ears will survive intact, I usually have to fight the urge not to doze off while she works. She always asks if I would like a little mousse or styling gel before I leave. I always decline. As Eastwood said, “A man’s got to know his limitations.”

She and her coworkers are trained psychologists. They tell me how good I look–how my gray hair makes me looked “distinguished.” I am aware that I am being worked for return visits, like a young, pretty waitress works a middle-aged man for a bigger tip.

I’ll admit she does a good job with the little bit of hair she has to work with. But for her skills, she charges a fee that would have probably made Mr. Mallory decide to close up early and take the rest of the day off.

Manhood still barely intact, I leave knowing I’ll have to return in a month or so. I feel a strange urge to go rebuild a small block 350 engine or shoot an animal.

Maybe times haven’t changed all that much over the years.

I still hate haircuts.

This post originally appeared here in 2010.  

creative nonfiction, Life in Alabama, southern culture, southern writing

The Lunatic

by rayclifton6 Comments on The Lunatic

The lunatic sits under the firmament, waiting for the appointed time.

Tonight, both sides of the moon dark.  A blood-moon.  Blood cries from sky as well as the ground.

In a little patch of pasture grass between stands of pine, darkness falls slowly then all at once.  Thunder off to the northwest, air heavy but cool.  Sky thick with clouds.

The first lightning-bugs of the year hover along the tree line.  A visage that once meant empty pickle jars with hole-poked lids.  Remembered days of daisy chains and laughs.  Does it mean anything now?

We are refugees from Babel.  Once sky-gazers, mumbling in strange tongues.  Huddled by fires against the darkness outside animal-skinned shelters.  Looking for a sign from the sky.  Now screen-gazers huddled inside, forsaking all but strange truths.

The appointed time passes, and the clouds will not part. 

The Book says “A wicked and adulterous generation seeketh after a sign.”

The bulldog sighs. 

“Okay,” I say.  “Let’s go to bed.”