Thirty-three nights in my childhood bed in a room where every inch of walls, ceiling and floor was knotty pine. Even my shower was made of varnished cypress boards. My father made it in the Fifties. The magnolia tree buffering the view of the road was the same. It was stifling. And then my head began to ache, as I tried to read at night.
I noticed the stress and the faster pulse and attempted to speed up my packing. And even with the help of friends and relatives, the stress of being in that house surrounded by the ghosts and the possessions of those ghosts caused the pulse in my temple and behind my right ear to throb.
I was sleeping restlessly and becoming irritable and moody. I forgot things and felt overwhelmed and isolated and the job of packing was almost more than I could tackle . And as I arrived in Merida the thrombosis of my carotid artery was visible to anyone who spoke with me.
Escaping this world of Southern Baptists, Republicans, and denizens of the Trump base was my goal -- but Hurricane Irma passed over my house, and it took eight additional days to get out of town, because they kept cancelling my flight because the airport was flooded.