When people ask ,”Are you ok?” it hits me in exactly the same way as the question, “How far are you from the water?” A question with a surprisingly complicated answer.
We live in North Cove, WA – an area referred to as Washaway Beach. When we bought our house in 1992 we weren’t considered Washaway territory. (I’ve heard THAT refrain time and again over the years.) Washaway is an area where the Pacific Ocean curves into Willapa Bay. It’s at this point where major erosion is occurring and has occurred for a very long time. The ocean itself rears up every now and then and comes straight at us out of the west, though this is somewhat the exception rather than the rule. The bay to the south is more a continual threat, becoming dramatic during winter storms. When it happens folks come from miles around to watch the craziness of the sea. There are maps. There are maps of the erosion throughout recent history. There are maps of predicted erosion with dates on them. On most maps, our house is slated to fall into the ocean in 2020.
Back to the distance to the water question: The distance from our house to Willapa Bay (south) – where the erosion is constant – is different from the distance from our house to the Pacific Ocean proper (west). This, and the fact that our beach area is pretty huge … the mean tide line moving back and forth (ok, mostly forth) seasonally, makes it impossible to actually draw a bead on just WHERE the water begins. There’s also properties and woods between us and the beach, and we have to walk on the road to get to the water … like … a bunch of blocks. Not a straight line. So when people ask ( at parties, restaurants, the grocery store ), “How far are you from the water?” I’m stymied. Either that or I give them a much longer answer than they truly want.
From now on I’m going to make up an arbitrary number. I’ll say, “827 feet”.
We don’t want to move all of this stuff, so we decide to put yellow stickies denoting who will get what – on everything. You know? How old people do?
Somehow I got this immune disease the other day. “Are you ok?” I’m FINE. Remember the blue pills? Those things are awful. They give you a big round head referred to as “moon face”. I call it Humpty Dumpy head. They gave me congestive heart failure (which I’m past. I’M OK!) I had to continue on these stupid pills until the next phase which was supposed to happen soon but didn’t.
My insurance got messed up. Bob and I sat down to figure it out. At one point we were faced with the possibility of having to pay out of pocket. We stared at each other. I said, “We could lose our house over this.” Still, the staring. I’m starting to get whiffs of simmering red sauce from a good ol’ Twin Harbors spaghetti feed fundraiser when, suddenly we both cracked up! We’re losing the house ANYWAY … we’re, like, we’re so pathetic!
Eventually the insurance decided I am insured and I moved on to the next step – selecting the right gown. IMMUNO-GOWN had to be perfect. My stepdaughter, Dyan, chose the pink affair.
Multiple treatments meant multiple IMMUNO-GOWN opportunities. After receiving bits and pieces of the blood of thousands of people (whom I personally want to thank … and I do. I thank random strangers), I am finished for the week. On the way home I bought CRAZY groceries! It was as if my coursing blood is replete with a cacophony of cultures, mixing and meshing … turbaned taxi drivers, Samarai warriors, vegan hippie chicks… Relating this feeling to my workout partner this morning, she blurted, “OH MY GOD! YOU’VE DISCOVERED THE KEY TO WORLD PEACE!”
Now we wait and see what my blood will decide to do. I believe my antibodies will listen to reason and once they meet these new platelet receptor-thingies, reason will prevail.
Are you ok? 827! Power through it, Humpy Dumpy.
End of story. Next time, we talk about something else.
