Nothing But a Pair of Chopsticks

I can't believe it's already the twenty-eighth. September has passed stealthily.

Many interesting events notwithstanding, I find myself at a loss for words. My head is so very full, and my heart so unaccountably heavy, that the lighthearted frivolity with which I'm wont to express myself would render any stories, in this case, quite impersonal and in-apropos ([ap-r uh-poh]- a good word meaning ill-fitting or inopportune). Perhaps the major cause for this melancholy is that the Dubes moved today, leaving silent emptiness behind. There is no way for me to tell how precious that family has become to me.

On a more optimistic note, Adam and I signed up a Ewah University for Korean classes beginning mid October. I'm thrilled about this development. From every angle the course seems custom ordered: location, time, price, hours. I will be unbelievably pressed for time. There are few, if any, teachers who go to language school, and for good purpose. Both occupations are equally time consuming. But it won't be forever, I know, and will be give me a huge head start on next year. So I happily await October 16th.

Teaching is falling into a pattern, to my boundless joy. Now that I have my own classes, I'm making many modifications to the methods I had been using before. Each day preparation time is less, and my classes more focused and constructive. I'm beginning to feel like I really belong at the head of the classroom.

In just five days begins Chusok, a national Korean holiday. Everything closes down, including the school, for three days plus the weekend. So I'll have five days with which to get some rest and explore Seoul a little bit with the Dubes and Teresa. I look forward to this time with indescribable hope. 'Hope' is a strange word to use, but the feeling is a difficult one to portray. Longing. Expectation. Relief. I really need a breather.

Quite a few evenings ago I had dinner with Pyongae at her apartment. She wanted to have piping hot chicken soup with me while the weather is still warm. Heaven forbid eating chicken soup in the winter! I drank two full glasses of water before heading over, knowing that I wouldn't be offered liquid of any sort for the duration of the meal, and possibly for some time after. Many strange habits notwithstanding, I very thoroughly enjoyed my time with her, all the way down to the raw onion soaked in rice vinegar. That particular dish was, in fact, so exceptionally delectable to me that my mouth waters even now, while thinking of it. The soup was amazing, as all soup always is, regardless of recipe or cook. Two guinea hens boiled in water with three or four dried dates. Nothing more. Nothing less. To de-bone a whole chicken swimming in thin, hot broth, armed with nothing but a pair of chopsticks, requires skill, patience, and strong fingers. I have often, when partaking of this particular soup, had to discontinue eating as my fingers begin to cramp. Any more they don't feel too much pain, but I still often find my tongue sticking out one side of my mouth, and my face screwed up in focused effort to separate the tenacious edible from the equally tenacious inedible. At such times, I'm glad that small talk isn't conducted over the dinner table.

"On Friday, a week ago..."

On Friday, a week ago, I stepped out of the Little Kings (that's the name of the English school) office into the main loby. I was amazed at the chaos that greeted me. The usually quite main floor was swarming with several officers in bright orange organizing everyone and no one, fully armed police men, and men in full camo gear with gass masks. Sirens were screaming and a string of Korean words were being shouted over a loud speaker. A large crowd of SCG employees was gathered to one side, silently watching. Of course, I had no idea what was going on. The building might at this moment be colapsing around me, for all I knew, and at one point it occurred to me that, if I'd ever wanted an excuse to panic, this might be it. But there were still classes to be taught this afternoon, and lessons to be prepared. So after making sure that I had been seen (just in case, in all the commotion, they should forget about my presence), I stepped back into the other room. I heard the sirens and shouting continue, off and on, for several hours, and saw many soldiers running by the window outside, before Namsoo came down. He looked at me quizically, "What is happening?!" His manner was one of such studied, deliberate amazement that he communicated the exact opposite of what he had intended, and I immediately guessed reason for the comotion. "It's just a demo, isn't it?" If he was dissappointed, he hid it well, affirming my guess. I was later told that the SCG building was chosen at random for this "how to respond to a terrorist attack" drill. The commotion eventually subsided, leaving all as peaceful and quiet as before, so that one was really not sure if it had even ever been.

Happy to be Alive

I love the sound of laughter. A plethora of people walk by my apartment daily, young and old. Talking together. Laughing together. Others find joy in companionship, in this strange and unfamiliar place. I will find it too, someday. It is good to think about. It makes me feel cozy inside. Happy to be alive. Happy to be here.

Teresa has come back and moved in. So far it's been going well, but we are both of such different preferences and habits, that I look forward to moving upstairs on the 28th. She's a great friend, and I'd like it to stay that way.

Yesterday I began teaching by a more permanent schedule. I've been given four classes a day. While it pleases me to be teaching more regularly, I hope that this won't be an overkill. Preparation for the classes takes quite some time, and I find myself unable to throw my best into each one, as I would otherwise be. But, on a more optimistic note, most of the students that I'll be teaching are blank slates, with no prior knowledge of English at all. These classes will be so much easier than those I've taught up to this point. I will be busy, but content.

Today has been an interesting one, the recital whereof necessitates the following preamble:
Two weeks ago, Friday, I was promenading through the market. I use this verb particularly for it's expression of lighthearted pluck. It had been a good week, and I felt quitevintoxicated with the joy of life.
My quick pace was called to an abrupt halt by a voice in English demanding my attention, "Excuse me!"
I've before been accosted by strangers who want to talk to 'the foreigner'. Many of them, though not all, totter ambivalently between a state of inebriated giddiness or stupor. Such being the case, I at first made as if to ignore the voice, and moved on. But the words were repeated, and sounded judicious, so I looked around.
"You know me?" the advancing woman asked.
Quite certain that I had never seen her before, I shook my head in a puzzled manner.
"You teach my child." she insisted, "Jameen."
I didn't recognize the name, but nodded my head vigorously enough to more than compensate for its previously puzzled shake. She was, however, nonplussed as to how to continue; no less myself. Her English skills were as inept as my memory, rendering further conversation gauchely absurd. We found ourselves at something of an awkward impasse.
Suddenly her face brightened, "My friend!"
The puzzled look, despite myself, returned.
She fished her cell phone out of her purse, smiled into my enlightened (though no less astonished) countenance, and proceeded to dial the number of a friend. The phone rang and was pressed into my hands. I raised it to my ear (thinking, to my credit, "Yeobosayo? Hello?") and ejected an awkwardly expressive "Uh!"
"Uh…?" was returned, with perhaps less force and more confusion than mine had communicated.
The short conversation that ensued was, though in retrospect amusing, at present painfully uncomfortable. Somehow I survived the experience, however, and as this friend spoke more fluent English than the other, managed to explain something of the situation to her.
Returning the phone to its owner, we exchanged numbers (the thing to do), and I continued on my way, more with subdued meekness, now, than with my former cocky assurance.
The encounter was quickly forgotten, in deference to more pressing demands on my attention, and almost a week passed before I thought of it again. The reminder, though unavoidable, was not unwelcome, as it provided no small diversion. The mother of my student (I still don't know her name) sent me a text: "It's hot. Be careful." I supposed, and still do suppose, that she was referring to the weather. Though I of course laughed at such odd manner of expression, I was nevertheless gratified by her concern, and my thoughts returned to her more than once the over the course of the next week.
Four days ago my phone rang. I answered in English. That I ought to begin answering in Korean has occurred to me, but then I would be compelled to further explain that I really don't speak that language in which I have just spoken. Such prospect daunts me.
"Hello?" I answered.
"Yes." The too typical Korean response. "You remember me?"
Well, actually. "Uh…I'm not sure." What a distinctly diplomatic rejoinder.
"You talked to my friend."
Oh. Yes.
"My friend is here."
Oh.
"You talk to her."
Oh. "Sure!"
Her friend was put on, and arranged, interrupted by many 'um…'s and even more 'say again?'s, for the three of us to meet, the following Tuesday, in the market. As this stretches out over several confusing blocks, I desired a more specific location. "Halla Marteu?" I asked, suffixing a Korean '–eu' to the English word 'Mart'. "You know where?"
"Ah. Yes."
"Meet there?"
"Ah. Yes."
Thus it was arranged. Tuesday at 1:00, in front of Halla Mart, for tea. That day and hour found me, having hastily scarfed down a late lunch, at the specified location, only slightly distracted by a sale on clothes a few stands down.
The two ladies shortly joined me, and amid much giggling, blushing and covering of the mouth with the hand (these three being the typical feminine response to any uncomfortable or embarrassing situation), we properly introduced ourselves, bowed, and otherwise dispensed with the proper formalities.
"Let's eat lunch?" The more fluent of the two asked.
I donned an consternated expression, and exclaimed with exaggerated emphasis, "I just ate lunch! I am so sorry! I did not know! I thought tea!" I patted my stomach to authenticate and to demonstrate, in the event that my assertion needed clarification.
Their expressions of consternation mirrored my own, until I really began to feel a bit guilty.
"But maybe tea?" I meekly put forth, unsure of whether or not such suggestion might be considered forward.
Their faces brightened considerably enough to put me at my ease, and they promptly led me down the street, and around several corners, to a small building. Up one flight of stairs, and through a set of doors, I found myself suddenly surrounded by a dozen giggling, blushing women. This was their church building, I was told by my interpreter. These were all eating lunch together. "But you do not need to eat. We will have tea."
And tea we had. For an hour and a half we visited. They blushed and giggled often, and I was compelled to join. The blushing was a bit more difficult to farce than the giggling, but I managed to compensate by covering my mouth with my hand quite more often than necessary.
As all good things must come to an end, so did this. I eventually excused myself. But not before arranging to join them for lunch on Thursday. I'm eager to make friends outside of my small work circle, and hope that this will be a means. We shall see!

With the passing of summer, I realize in how very many ways that season brings me pleasure, the enjoyment of which will have to be tucked away until next year. Tee shirts. The cool breezes on the mountain top. Dry streets. The blues and whites and light grays of summer dress. Quickly drying hair and clothes. Iced lattes from the little cafe on the corner… *sighs dreamily*

There is much more of which to write, but if I don't quit now, this will never be sent. My love to all of you...
me

It All Seems to Work

I shall paint for you the picture, two stories below, upon which I now so languidly gaze. Over a wide gutter I see a narrow alley, rendered even narrower by such indiscriminate vehicles, new and old, as sluggishly line the street, facing both directions regardless of on which side they sit. A bright red sign is directly opposite. Its cleanliness renders conspicuous the single screaming Konglish word it sports: LOTTERIA. Three men sit on the sidewalk immediately below it, drinking beer. Across the alley way, to the right, a smartly dressed woman with a new bicycle stands in front of the "Palace Donut", a little brick-pillared, yellow and red establishment, with frosted windows and smiling pink flowers in a quaintly designed wooden flower box outside. To the left is a bakery filled with fresh, warm, sweet breads of all sorts. These three apartments are each pressed down and squished between, behind, and beneath countless others. Each sports it's own goods with more of desperation than taste, instinctively responding to the necessity to either outdo it's neighbor, or be smothered and crammed into a state of oblivion. Drooping in front of and between and behind everything, tangled electrical wires hang carelessly from one pole, here and there gathered into hasty bundles to take up the slack, before being fortuitously scooped up by the next pole, and the next. Some few people (and they are indeed people, despite my instinctive inclination to view them as 'Koreans') mill about, aimless and purposeful by turns. A man stands not too far distant, with his arm raised, pointing out some ambiguous object to the girl in hot pink who hangs on his arm. Two or three pastel colored umbrellas hide the faces of their respective owners below, despite the blueness of the sky. The green bus '02' winds its dexterous way through and around pedestrians, parked cars, and bicycles, followed by two taxis. Altogether it is a picture of jarring contradictions and inconsistencies, as every age and class and station deliberately wends its way through the scene with a clarity and ease that astounds. The business man in his spotless, pressed suite; the toddler in his dirty jumper; the elderly with his stooped shoulders; the drunk with his liquor; the street vendor with his wares; the student in his crisp uniform; the beggar with his cup; the millionaire in his sedan. This alley belongs to each individually; no person or establishment or vehicle lends any togetherness to the scene. None of it fits. Yet, in some vague and incomprehensible way, it all seems to work.

The little coffee shop from which I view this tight panorama stands out distinctly for it's simplicity and taste. It is filled with perhaps a dozen small tables, each boasting two facing, pink love seats, comfortable albeit worn. Flowers, fresh and dried, stand at each table, and occationally small green trees and bushes. A white lattice screen here, a watering pot there, natural light, tastefully soft music, and a dozen other trivialities lend the place a comfortable, lazy atmosphere. The coffee is expensive, so I won't come here often. But it's nice to get out of the house for a while. The girl who made my coffee looks to be about my age, and speaks a little (very little) English. I feel inclined to get to know her a bit.

Today, Thursday, is my day off, though I must apply the same adjective to this that can be applied to every other aspect of my life right now: temporary. I'm enjoying relaxing…really relaxing. I don't have any classes to teach tomorrow, so I don't have any prep to do. I can just sit back and enjoy. Also, yesterday I received some information about my current living situation, which greatly relieves the anxiety of not knowing one day what the next holds. I will certainly move upstairs in a week and a half, after the Dubes move out. That will be my home until Mom and Dad visit in November. After that lies the unknown. But it's such a relief to know beyond tomorrow, that I haven't the inclination to worry about December just now.

Last week I visited with the Dubes for several hours. Upon going back down to my apartment a later, I was surprised to see a different table in my kitchen. My first startled reaction was to suppose that I had entered the wrong apartment, but there were all my things, on this new table, just as I had left them. The chairs, likewise, had been replaced. This table was just as nice as the other had been, though perhaps smaller, so I was at a loss to know why the switch had taken place, or who, indeed, had effected it. To this day I it puzzles me, though I am rather inclined toward bemusement when I think on the situation. I contradictorily proceed to be even further bemused by such inclination. Oh well, such is the caprice life!

Think of me often,
Elisabeth

Categorical Seasons

The weather has changed. Korea boasts of its four distinct seasons. I used to smile at this; such distinction is not so uncommon elsewhere, that it should necessarily be considered one of the more unique things Korea has to offer. But now I understand better. 'Four distinct seasons' had more appropriately been called 'four abrupt seasons'. Summer hasn't 'turned' into autumn, nor will winter 'melt' into spring. I went to sleep on the 8th to the sound of my air conditioning unit furiously warding off the muggy heat. It was categorically summer. I awoke on the 9 th to the sound of my teeth shivering in the early morning chill, as I groped for a pair of socks. It has been categorically autumn ever since.

With the cooler weather has come decidedly less fitful sleep. Though Tylenol induced, my sleep on the first cool night felt more natural and relaxing than any theretofore. So much so, that I attempted a natural sleep the next night with such success as has persuaded me to do without the aid of Tylenol since. Thank you again and again for your prayers.

Much love...

Laughing Life in the Face

Time is rapidly passing. Much has happened between now and when last I wrote, most of which has slipped unobtrusively from the dim annals of my memory into nothingness. I shall attempt to recall what I can of these last two weeks, with as accurate detail as possible.

Firstly, Teresa moved into my apartment, with two pets, a week ago today. The next day she left to visit her family in Florida. It's the first time she's been back to America in two years. I am, consequently, left with the animals. Daive, a small, kaleidoscopic dog, all hyper affection, bears perfunctorily her irregular name. Claude is a cat – aloof, consequential, sanctimonious. Need I say more? They bear me good company, but I will be glad for Teresa to relieve me of the joys of pet-sitting in just under two weeks.

How long Teresa and I will live together, no one knows. The possibility of my moving upstairs into the Dube's apartment after they move out (around the 20th) is very strong. The probability of that arrangement being only temporary is even stronger. Having no place to really call 'home' is, perhaps, the hardest thing in being here. However, on Friday the Dubes carried one of their dressers down to my room, and having the means at least (and at last) of unpacking my clothes brings me boundless joy.

I have been substitute-teaching for Teresa. It makes me very happy to have such occupation with which to employ my days. I heartily enjoy the time with my little students, and they have latched on to me as well. I teach Monday through Friday mornings at the Little Kings kindergarten, ½ hour from where I live. In the afternoon of these same days, I teach 1 st – 6th grades at the SCG building. Each respective grade involves, of course, different lesson plans, activities, and approaches.

For my hours to be so suddenly and dissimilarly filled, especially in contrast with what they recently have been, was rather disorienting at first. Especially considering that this same week I have also taken over Beth's Saturday elementary class, which position will be permanent. This group of students is most attentive, and the subject to be taught (predominantly reading) is much to my liking. But six teaching days a week, even for so short a time, is draining. The demand for ingenuity, spontaneity, and alacrity stands in defiance of even the most lively eagerness. The Dubes, having been here for some time, understood this, and were concerned that taking these Saturday classes on top of Teresa's was a little too much. All callowness, I assured them of my capability, and really, in retrospect, I think I would do the same again. If I hadn't taken Saturday then, it may not have been open to me later. Adam waited a day or two, then as my eagerness abated, told me that he would like to teach for me on Tuesdays, giving me that day off. I confess, I don't know what I would have done otherwise. Every day my appreciation for that family grows.

One regularity, initially an inconvenience pursued more from a recognition of my need to associate more with the Koreans than for pleasure, has since grown to be a joy. Every Monday and Wednesday after lunch Pyongae and I, and sometimes Joy, walk to and twice up a nearby mountain. It's excellent exercise. The pace they keep is astounding, especially considering the fact that they wear weighted shoes. I'm glad for the opportunity to get to know Pyongae better. She speaks English with a fair amount of fluency, and I sometimes experiment on her with the few Korean words I know. The age difference between us (about ten years) is too great, according to Korean social rules, for us ever to become very close friends, but I know that she enjoys the time we spend together as much as I do.

The mountain itself is restive. It's the most interesting sensation to one moment be traipsing through a noisy, bustling city, and the next, with quite literal suddenness, to find oneself surrounded by nothing but oriental trees, bosky foliage and the sky. Lovely in every respect.

Last Sunday the Dubes and Teresa wanted to get out. Their choice of destination was a grand scale mall on nearly the other side of the city. A mall isn't really my idea of a relaxing outing, especially coupled with the fact that it's over an hour away by subway. But I didn't particularly want to spend another evening in solitary reflection, so I decided to go along for the company, if nothing else. Had I known what felicity awaited me, I would have been unable, I am sure, to bridle my eagerness. The actual destination, I discovered, was not the mall in question, but rather, a fair-sized book store located therein. A book store, nonetheless, with an English section, wherein I was soon sublimely and blissfully lost to all reality between the covers of one book or another. All good things must come to an end, and I eventually tore myself away, but not without one each of Dickens, Austen, and Christie. I revel in these delights with a hunger that only such estrangement from well written English can engender.

Another shop that has supplied me with a great deal of satisfaction is a little yarn shop around the corner. I had taken it into my head to crochet myself a hand bag, so I wandered up and down the streets of my small neighborhood, peering in at first one little shop and then another, in attempt to find the yarn with which to do so. After nearly two hours, I gave up in despair, and essayed vainly to console myself with a little sandwich and an iced latte at a near by deli. That evening I got online, looking at patterns, and conceiving in my imagination that which would never be a reality. I even looked at what it would cost to buy the yarn online and have it shipped. I suppose it had by this time become a sort fetish for me, no longer having so much to do with the purse as with the intense desire to employ myself in a thing at which I was sure to excel…a rarity to me in such a foreign environment. The next day I happened upon Joy on my way to work, and inevitably spoke of that which was still foremost on my mind. Joy has incredible English vocabulary ability, but her grasp on the usage thereof leaves something to be desired. It was quite some time before I was able to communicate to her that all I needed was the yarn. Not books. Not a teacher. Not a translator. Just yarn. When she finally understood her face brightened, and she said that after lunch she would take me to a little place that she knew of. "But," she warned, "it may be very expensive." I hadn't expected otherwise…expensive has become the norm. The little cubby hole tucked away off the street was indeed a yarn shop, but to my amusement, and initial dismay, carried no real yarn. It had imitations and substitutes enough, however, to soon satisfy me, and after some deliberation I settled on what I though would be suitable for the project I had in mind. It didn't end up being more than W15,000 for the three skeins of whatever-it-was and a crochet needle, and I came away feeling in harmony with the world, and quite contend with my purchases. The project is nearly completed, and I fortunately haven't, so far, had any repetition of such irrational drive as compelled this recent exploit.

I think that, at this point, I've written enough about personal happenstances to here justify two cultural observations. One strikes me as humorous, the other as odd. The former has to do with the police force. I constantly observe, in a state of mingled amusement and incredulity, what is to me the appearance of inflated self-importance, though I know this to be merely a Westerner's misconceived point of view. I really cannot imagine what it is that compels them to drive around with their flashing lights constantly and irrelevantly revolving, as if announcing to the world, "Look out! Here I come!" And I have to choke back laughter at the absurdity with which the quotidian plain-clothes men attempt inconspicuity. Every one of them is dressed with rigid and obvious uniformity in black and white checked shirts and black slacks. I do not attempt to understand. I merely shrug and enjoy.

A more perplexing, less easily excused actuality is the role that video games play in this society. During the adult session at English camp, when individuals were asked what different hobbies they had, the reply, "I play video games" was not uncommon. I first thought that the concept 'hobby' must not be entirely clear to these individuals; perhaps they understood it to mean, "what do you enjoy doing?" I later learned, however, that regardless of their comprehension of this word, video gaming is indeed quite the craze here. There are TV shows dedicated to those who take pleasure in watching the masters at work. Video game competitions are held among grown men. It's not uncommon for a social gathering to be wrapped around the screen in breathless delight as an unsurpassable level is conquered. I am truly amazed, and have nothing more to say on the subject.

The topic of food refuses to be suppressed. My eating habits seem as strange to the Korean as theirs do to me. It is common knowledge that, when one sits down to a meal, he cannot be fully satisfied unless he is tasting something of everything at once. Thus a little bit of this, then a little bit of that, then some of the two mixed together, then a taste of that dish over in the corner, and so on. If one only watched and never tasted, he would be quite enraptured with the remarkably painstaking delight a Korean takes in his food. Long before I had noticed this very peculiar manner of consumption, however, my eating habits had become irrevocably settled and remarked upon. I cannot feel at all to blame in the situation, given the curiously strange tastes, smells and textures of the various foods set before me. Always politely taking as much as I dare of as many dishes as I brave (and these I redundantly pronounced 'interesting' much to the general satisfaction of those to whom the preparation of the meal is credited), I circumspectly save my probably ridiculously large helping of rice for last. The delightful tastelessness of this particular food serves its purpose remarkably well in erasing from my memory all other strongly and mildly offensive tastes. I hadn't realized how great was the discrepancy between my manner of consumption and the norm until, one day, just as I was beginning to partake of my anti-analeptic rice, I was pressed to go back for more food. I felt puzzled, and must have looked it, because it was helpfully explained to me that certainly one cannot enjoy his rice without some accompanying taste. I thanked my benefactor kindly, but assured him that he was quite mistaken, that the rice was singularly delicious. He smiled quizzically, shrugged and returned his attention back to his own food. I thought no more of this encounter until, eating one day with Joy, she looked peculiarly at me. "Namsoo told me you eat funny." she remarked casually. I laughed, "What do you mean?" She explained to me what I have explained to you, while I continued with nonchalant unconcern to savor my lonely rice. I have since been asked, more times than I care to recount, "Why do you eat like that?" and my common response has become, "It's how I would eat it in America."…which is quite true. It's how I would eat it anywhere. This seems to be quite a satisfactory reply, meeting with sympathetic nods of the head, and much magnanimous condescension. They understand.

Well, thank you for putting up with my ramblings. Years from now my older and more mature self will read back over these emails and shake her head at how easily diverted she used to be. But for now, I'm glad to be able to laugh life in the face. It can be overwhelming, if one takes it too seriously.

Annyonghigeseyo (*pant, pant*),
me

Thank you for your prayers

My Family,

Allow me to begin by heartily thanking each one of you for your prayers. To know that I am being carried before our God is a greater blessing to me than any of you can imagine. I have powerful confidence in the adequacy of prayer. God hears your requests, and should He choose to disregard them, it will not be carelessly, but deliberately, leaving me with the certainty that this is indeed His will for me at present. This assurance could not be mine, were it not confirmed by your prayers.

Several people have suggested that I take Tylenol PM for a few nights, until my body begins to fall into some sort of pattern. I loathe the idea of being dependant on a drug for sleep, but desperation was stronger, in this case, than compunction. The Dubes had brought Tylenol with them from the States, such sedative not being available here, and gave me enough for three nights. The first night I fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow, and slept as one dead. As did I the next two nights. The fourth night I tried a concoction recommended me by Joy, one of the Korean teachers. The roots of two green onions boiled for an hour or so with four or five dates, the liquid then to be chilled and drunk. It tasted nothing like what I'd expected, but certainly no better. The aftertaste was indescribable. Unfortunately, antipathy was all the effect it provoked. I slept again fitfully. Joy was disappointed, and hastened to offer another suggestion that she insisted was quite Western: chopped onion and fish at the head of my bed for me to smell all the night. Is this antidote, I wonder, meant to lull me or to knock me out? Needless to say, I opted for more Tylenol. This I am now trying to slowly ween myself off of. I'm down from two pills to one, and will one of these nights try sleeping naturally again.

Again, thank you so much for your prayers and words of encouragement. They have lifted my spirits incommunicably.