Uninvited Guest

Typical cart men push up and down the streets of Istanbul

It's nice to have all the windows open, listening to the birds making their sounds.  The cars increasing their buzz on Yogurtcu Parki Caddesi.  When I look down and across my three-directional-view from up here, I see a man pushing a cart (not using his voice to echo up through the neighborhood, yet), someone walking in the park, and the tops of the trees below me, swaying in the morning wind.  There's a huge gray and black raven sitting on the railing of my large veranda.  Most of the sky is coated with some white, mostly gray, clouds moving slowly from the north east.

I'm thinking about life, and how to hold onto my positive attitude in order to keep myself enjoying this already beautiful day.  This is all I have, and it's mine to take and capture.  I'm working on how to push down the aching pain I'm giving some space to. (I don't really have a choice)  I'm going to name my pain, Misafir.  It will be male.  I guess if ships can have female names, then my pain can be male. (apologies to my male friends and brothers)

Front door of my flat

Misafir just came to my door a week or so ago with his suitcase and said, "Here I am.  I'm visiting for awhile.  I won't take up much space, and I want you to treat me like family, not like a guest."  

I wanted to reply, "There's no space in the inn."  

But, being the hostess I'd like to be,  I opened the door and said, "Welcome, there's a spare room in the back.  Help yourself if you need anything, and if there's anything I can do for you, let me know."

He's become an irritating guest.  He can disappear most of the day and then WHAM, he's back.  He wants my undivided attention.  He gets in the way and wants me to do a little dance around him to get things done.  He usually stands right next to me on my right side.  I have to use my left arm more and it's becomes awkward and annoying.  I give him my meanest look and he just glues himself to me more, like he wants us to be friends.  I have to get up with him during the night.  He's like a baby needing a bottle.  He whines and cries even when I give him my full attention.  

I even took Misafir to emergency one night.  I thought, "This is enough, I just can't do this on my own, I need some help with him."  Everyone seemed genuinely charitable in the emergency room.  I had a dear friend translate for me.  She introduced the uninvited guest clearly, in Turkish, from what I could tell.  I could see the doctor nodding his head with his arms crossed in front of his chest.  It looked like he knew about these types of guests from experience. My blood pressure was taken.  The doctor had me turn my head side to side, then up and down and squeezed my shoulders and asked if they hurt.  The conclusion he arrived at was different than what I had anticipated.  He decided I was an emotional basket-case.  He spoke some English and told me I needed to relax and take a week off from work to rest and get my state of mind together.  He suggested some psychological therapy (through the hospital) after my rest was over.  I was given a shot of muscle relaxant and a prescription to continue to take during the week.  (along with some cream in a red tube to rub on my shoulders and back-which I quickly had a skin reaction to and stopped using)  

"Okay," I thought, "I am edgy, exhausted and this relaxant has helped tremendously. What do I know?  I'll follow his advice and get some rest.  My guest isn't as bad as he seems, I need to get a grip."  After about twenty-four hours I realized my guest hadn't been told to pack up and take up residency elsewhere during my recovery. He stayed around and rested with me for a couple of days.  On the bed, on the couch, in the chair.  He let me know he was there, but was quite amicable . He was somewhat more polite and cooperative.  My confidence in the situation was soon shattered when he just started up with the same old "all about me" expectations.  Waking me up at night, hanging around me during the day whining and crying.  When the daylight appeared I'd feel edgy and cranky.  I tried to take things in stride,  but it's hard to be patient when there's no light ahead in the tunnel.

I realized my stupidity at thinking it was my nerves.  "It's the pain that is making me crazy, not my craziness creating the pain!" I criticized myself.  I knew I had to get another opinion before I strangled Misafir.  A few days went by and I  found myself in an antique office talking to a specialist on arthritis pain.  He was very thorough in his questioning and examination.  His English was excellent. He didn't look at me like I was out of mind, he looked at me more as a person who logically needs some help, but probably is exaggerating the pain level.  I was sent to get blood tests and told to stop all other medications. I was to just take panadol, 500mg, four times a day.  He said it could possibly be viral, and not to worry.

This was good news, Misafir had a time-line and would be saying good-bye soon. Two days of misery went by. The doctor called and said, "The tests show no inflammation, so continue to take the panadol and call me next Wednesday, it's probably viral."  I tried to tell him on the phone that the panadol only takes the edge off the pain for a couple of hours, but he was finished and said goodbye. (I already knew from his secretary he was leaving for the weekend and would be back on Tuesday) 

Well-intentioned people have given their advice on my problem.  They said, "Don't let your hair be wet, make sure to dry it." and "Don't let a draft get to your shoulders, keep something on them when the wind is blowing."  and "Don't be negative."  The best advice was, "How about a massage?"  I was given a vacation from my guest!  My daughter made me an appointment at Cihangir Yoga.  This massage had me floating.  The little wooden window, by the massage table, was open to the outside air. I could hear voices on the street below and the soft music she had playing in the room.  I felt like I was on a deserted beach in the tropics, emptied of all knowledge of an uninvited guest.  I rested on the table, still, as long as I could when she was finished, wallowing in the tingling sensation my whole body gave to me.

Bags of potatoes on the streets of Cihangir

As soon as I got up and left, my Misafir took stride alongside me and started chatting about nonsense.  I hung onto the topical experience as long as I could, ignoring him.  I could still feel the floating sensation and let my mind stay in a cloud, vaguely hearing my escort walking with me. I focused on the streets and the interesting sites in the Cihangir neighborhood area and let him babble on. He let me have some privacy with my daughter for awhile and kept a low profile.  She found a sweet little Japanese restaurant for dinner and he didn't invite himself to join us. (He annoyingly peeked through the window a few times, though. Reminding me he was there)

And today?  Misafir is okay. I'm getting use to him being here.  I treat him to yoga, and extra pillows when we sit and read or watch t.v.  I will give him his long walk today, so he can have his endorphin high and stop pestering me for awhile.  I never should have asked him to make himself at home.  I should have shut the door in his face! 

But, I have come to the realization he's probably related to me.  He's not just a random virus of a visitor.  I haven't decided which side of the family he comes from, yet. He's been abused in some way, and I need to be patient and  have to give him space.  I think everything will work itself through.  I've had some heart-to-heart talks with him.  He says he's been yanked and pulled and over-used. He was thrown down some stairs a couple of weeks ago.  He claims there was no malice intended, but he's hurt, regardless.  It makes him needy and fragile.  I hope to have some help soon.  I'll talk to the doctor again on Wednesday.  It may be a slow-going process.  I will treat him like family until I get some answers.

Now, for that walk…………...I better cover my shoulders from the wind....