Bounty

I would have written sooner, but I've been having all these medical tests, don't you know. Neurologist, check. Ophthalmologist, check. Sleep deprived EEG, check. Still left: head x-ray and MRI. And guess what? So far, everything is checking out as normal — and consistent with (ta da!) migraines. Let the Internet be your doctor, say I. I mean, I don't say that to my actual doctor, although I may check in with her soon and find out if I really have to take the MRI, given that all the other tests have come back negative and I haven't had any bizarre neurological symptoms in weeks, now. Weeks! Like they never even happened.

Which is how I'm starting to feel about summer, now that I mention it. We are literally and figuratively packing away the last of the season, pulling on jeans and hoodies, pulling out the rest of the gardens, except for the cherry tomatoes, which we try to remember to cover up at night against the threat of frost. The night before my sleep-deprived EEG, I washed and halved and roasted 25 pounds of Roma tomatoes with onion and garlic and spices, a tablespoon of sugar and a teaspoon of sea salt per pan (just like Rachel over at 6512 and Growing said), programming the oven to turn on at midnight so that I woke at 2 AM to the smell of caramelized garlic and tomato.

And I can tell you, there are worse ways to wake up, even at 2 AM. Even when you can't drink coffee.

I had planned about eight hours' worth of activities in the four hours I had to myself in the wee hours between waking and leaving for the hospital. (I used the word "hours" three times in the preceding sentence! I am amazing!) I had movies, and several seasons' worth of old TV shows (Mad Men and In Treatment; slightly skeptical of the latter: I'm not sure that watching other people's tortured, albeit fictional, therapy sessions qualified as the healthiest way to spend my bonus time). I journalled. I folded laundry. But mostly I made sauce, pulling the first batch of tomatoes from the oven and losing myself in their richness. I admit that I ate several of them right out of the pan, stopping only when I started to feel slightly queasy. Then I slid the second round of baking pans into the oven, and even managed to fit in a third round before walking to the hospital at sunrise , listening to This American Life on my iPod.

(I had planned to split that box of tomatoes between the sauce and some other stuff, but did you know that 25 pounds of Roma tomatoes cooks down to about seven containers? And so of course I had to go back to the vegetable guys who set up a makeshift market each year at the corner of High and Algoma, and pick up another case. Next up was bhaighan bhartha, an Indian eggplant curry that reduced my 11 (admittedly smallish) eggplants to a couple of duelling saucepans on the stove. Never even made it to the freezer. Next year, I buy a bushel.)

All in all, not a bad way to spend a few hours. And although I had been thinking that, really, sleep is overrated and I should just get up at 2 AM every day, because I would get so much done and the sleep-deprived postpartum psychosis wasn't really so bad after all, I nearly wept with relief when the technician told me that, "ideally," I would be asleep for the test. And then she stuck about 8000 wires to my head with rubber cement and covered me very gently with a blanket and I lay down on her gurney and crashed while she mapped (originally typed "napped" there; how Freudian) my brain for seizure activity. Of which I believe she found none. I'm thinking that if I ever have insomnia I'm going to find a gurney and some rubber cement and a scratchy wool blanket and I will be JUST FINE.

Already am.