Summer Vacations to Remember

Last year at this time I was exploring southern Poland, immersing myself in the history of World War II and the Holocaust to heal old psychic wounds.  Despite my bad knee, I forced myself up and down hills, stairs, and over cobblestones in extreme heat and humidity.  I stayed in historic hotels, Lemko cottages, and even on the grounds of castle in places with names I cannot pronounce.  I ate pierogis and pizzas with white sauce and tangy ketchup in outdoor cafes and watched endless streams of people pass me by.  I waited along the side of the road for three hours late buses and dragged my suitcase up and down the stairs to trains before I learned that private taxi is the only efficient way to travel if you can't drive gear shift.  And I thought that was a challenge. 
    In summers past I've wandered the islands of Tahiti, bobbing along in salty turquoise water, and eating pineapples and fresh grilled Mahi Mahi by the beach.  I stayed in grass huts and pensions, feeding scraps to chickens and stray dogs, and searching for the perfect black pearl.  
    On the tiny island of Bimini in the Bahamas, I've attempted to swim with the dolphins, only succeeding in getting seasick on the boat.  Thank you to all the kind staff of Wildquest who looked after me.  I have never met such a group of empathetic people living in harmony.
      I did find the trail of Ernest Hemingway, who apparently loved go to big game fishing on this island off the coast of Fort Lauderdale, but I didn't find any traces of the lost sunken city of Atlantis in those clear blue waters.

     Then there was the summer spent in the hot springs of Ojo Caliente outside of Santa Fe and bathing in the mineral waters in a funky little spa town called Truth or Consequence in New Mexico.  I'll never forget getting my rental car stuck in a ditch taking the back roads through cattle country and being pulled out by a nice guy who was recently home from serving as a relief worker in Africa.  What are the chances of that!
     I've driven from Seattle to Mount Shasta in northern California, staying in a small town named Weed, in search for vestiges of ancient Lemurians.  All these journeys I've taken alone, relying on the kindness of strangers to help me get by.  They gave me the inspiration to write during the harsh winter months.

Mount Shasta

     This summer, however, I undertook a much more difficult journey, visiting hospitals and rehab centers, to explore the frailties of the human mind.  For a long time now, worrying about mental illness has been relegated to the dark period of my past.  Having long ago accepted my brother's mental illness, I was content with the occasional visit to the nursing home where he has lived for many years.  I was comfortable leaving my brother's care in my mother's capable hands.
     This recent crisis has forced me to become much more hands on in my brother's care and to see in excruciating detail how mental illness can rob you of your freedom and dignity.  I've held his hands when they were shaking so badly he couldn't hold a can of pop.  I've had to explain to the occupational and speech therapists and CNA's how to motivate him to participate in activities and to change his clothes.  I've had to point out the side effects of over-medication to his nurses and doctors and fight to have it reduced.
     Mostly I've tried to make him smile and to laugh, to distract him for just a moment from the frustrating realities of having no control over your life.  It's been frustrating and humbling.  I wish I could tell you that I handled it all graciously, with deep compassion and empathy, but that would be a lie.  I'm still a work in progress.  
     The only good thing that has come out of this hellish summer is that my brother and I have become much closer.  Almost losing him has made me realize the depths of my love for my older brother.