In parentheses

Quilt National 2009

Quilt National beckoned, and I responded. Unfortunately, photos aren't allowed, so I've got pictures of the Dairy Barn instead. (I also have the book, Quilt National 2009: The Best of Contemporary Quilts, but it wouldn't have hurt my feelings to have my own shots of the quilts.)

 

I flew to Columbus from Spokane on Saturday and drove down to Athens the next morning. When I arrived at this dairy barn in the middle of near nowhere (and just down the road from Ohio University), I expected to find quite a bit more fanfare. I just flew across the country to see these quilts, so I presumed everyone within a hundred miles would be lined up to get in as soon as the doors were cracked.

Not exactly.

Not only was there no fanfare, there were no cars. I was a few minutes early for the opening time, but surely whoever opened the doors would be there a few minutes early to gaze lovingly at the art alone.

Nope.

A car scooted into the parking lot from one direction and a second from the other direction just as the clock passed the minute the Dairy Barn was supposed to open. One woman trotted over to the gift shop entrance, and the other made a quick path to the main door.

I tried to stay out of the way as I figured there would be serious security measures to be disarmed. If there were, I missed them.

Opening involved unlocking a door and walking down a short hallway into the exhibition room, formerly the location of the milking when the dairy barn served its original purpose. The volunteer took her place behind a small counter. I fumbled in my purse for my wallet. The entire exchange was completed in a moment.

I was nearly levitating from the excitement I felt. This was my first Quilt National. I'd never even been to a juried exhibition of contemporary quilt art, and I'd only seen one small show. I tried to look only in one direction so I could be surprised by the other view when I turned around.

I asked the volunteer how long most people stayed. She said she thought some people stayed as long as an hour. (As long as an hour? What?) I couldn't then, and still can't, imagine staying only an hour unless it was one of several visits.

When I'm not so sleepy, I'll write about the quilts themselves.  (I don't have pictures, but I took notes!)

Nia with no sound

Tonight I did Sanjana with the sound turned off. No music, no verbal cues, nothing but what I could see. Or so I thought. I was shocked at how much music played right along in my head! I have done Sanjana lots of times, but I had never heard of Nia until 2 years ago, so it's not as if I've been listening to this for years.

I'm thinking the same thing that makes my body remember the moves when it hears the music makes my brain hear the music when my body makes the moves. Pretty snazzy.

I was also surprised at how many new things I noticed in both Debbie's and the dancers' movements with no sound to distract me. (And also what appears to be some goofing around by Carlos toward the end.)

I will try this again, both with Sanjana and other routines. I'm curious what else my body can help my brain recall.

First post. Anaphylaxis.

This was going to be a Facebook post, but something screwy kept happening in which the letter I was typing would show up on the screen and be immediately deleted by a mysterious backspacing, completely independent of my fingers. After the third cut and paste to try to work around it, I gave up. I've been paying for blogspace for a while, so here it is: my first post.

What am I thinking about? Anaphylaxis. Specifically, Lucy and anaphylaxis, which she suffered for the first time last night.

Lucy, 2 and one half years, is fine, thank God and the wonders of the epi-pen, and she seems unscathed by the drama associated with three firetrucks, the emt truck, and an ambulance, which took her to the hospital. (She didn't much like it at the time, as you might imagine.) She has politely requested, several times, that I give her different food, helpfully suggesting noodles with parmesan or a jam sandwich. (No more lentils, please and thank you, which is unfortunate since she gobbled them down and would have eaten more had we not been leaving the house.)

I, however, haven't settled. I am restless and agitated and wanting to DO something. This isn't that same feeling that I get when I haven't gotten any real heart-pumping exertion in a while. This wants more than moving my body.

Sitting in the van with Lucy in my lap and calling 911 because I was afraid we weren't going to make it to the hospital in time on our own is as close to Lucy's mortality as I've been. I had administered the epi-pen--also a first and awful--and her wheezing and gasping hadn't changed in the first five or so minutes post administration. If I did know how long it would take take to act, I forgot it then. All I could imagine was getting out of the car and running with her if the ambulance didn't come quickly. (Clearly operating from some place other than my frontal lobe.)

Thankfully, by the time the emergency personnel arrived, the epinephrine had started to work, and her breathing was nearly normal. She was taken to the ER, where she was given a dose of dexamethasone and observed for rebound. There was no rebound, so we were sent on our way with instructions to follow up with her doctor. The ER doctor and nurses couldn't have been more helpful (yea! Sacred Heart Pediatric Emergency Room), we had all our questions answered, and we were encouraged to call back with any others questions that came up.

Lucy is okay. I am not. Yet, anyway.

Lucy has always, until last night, had a nearly immediate hive response around her mouth (or other point of contact) to any allergen. I gave her a test bite last night, and when she had no response in 10 minutes, I gave her the lentils and rice. It was twenty to thirty minutes after she had finished eating when she had noticeable symptoms.

How do we plan for that?

We have appointments with her pediatrician and allergist, and I'm sure questions will be answered.

I am sure I will be less easy-going about her allergies; I've largely not hovered beyond her immediate space. Namely, she cannot have a peanut butter sandwich (or split peas, or mustard, etc), but she can be in the room with someone who is having it as long as you don't touch her, or vice versa. Now, this seems like playing Russian roulette. (I have already taken the offending lentils and some yellow split peas I bought by accident across the street to my friend.)

My mind has started composing scenarios in which the adult in charge doesn't notice she's having trouble and by the time it's discovered, it's too late. My mind has only started. I am being protected from imagining too far, so I will take that protection gratefully and not actively or intentionally think that direction tonight. When we talk to Dr. Thompson tomorrow, I will project far enough down that path that we can troubleshoot. 

And I will be grateful for our having known far enough ahead that this could happen that we had a means of treatment while we waited for the emergency personnel. And I will pray. And I will watch. Closely.