Raising children in the Rainshadow

The fickle mountains have hidden themselves again, and a light snow is falling. I live my life in unfinished chapters, neither here nor there. Colorado is my half home and I search the faces of strangers for their stories. I wonder what’s inside their oddly garbed heads, underneath the knitted hockey caps complete with flaps and hanging strings, the myriad varieties of permanently affixed baseball caps, and other more indescribable variations. Sometimes I think if I actually talked to them they would be no more interesting than one of my cats suddenly developing the power of speech, but the intrigue of the unknown has not worn off yet. It’s rare to find a native however, especially living in a hotel.

Sunday morning, in my rented car, I sought out a local bar on trendy Pearl Street, a spot that boasts the best Bloody Mary in Denver. Vodka mixes fairly well with breakfast food but I deferred on the offer of chocolate cake and a second spicy tomato intoxicant and ordered coffee. I sip it as I sit in the corner by the window and engage in my favorite sport, watching the throng pass by. They are natives, defined by the shoes and hats, plus the peculiar habit of wearing shorts in all seasons, regardless of the temperature. There is a certain amount of tribal garb, busy patterns, odd jewelry and color combinations, but the foot and head gear is definitive Colorado. A ninety year old in a mink coat, baseball cap and pink tennis shoes, a really cute girl with dog ear pony tails, baseball cap on backwards, and wading boots, a 40 something man with white socks and the ever popular plastic crocks in a hideous shade of green. A chubby girl comes in with a blue plaid wool hat, cropped jeans, brown leather clogs, and heavy black braids hanging behind her ears. I might as well wear a sign that says, “not from here”, with my tight jeans, satin shirt, black spike heel boots. I feel pale and fragile contrasted against the people who live in the harsh shadow of the front range. Everyone over thirty shows the mountain’s weathered look, a brown and slightly grim face that matches the environment. The oldest look like Sherpas, and everyone twenty and up who does not moisturize exhibits a trace of fine lines waiting to deepen with each sunny windy and dry day.

There is one more reality of living in the mile high city, the constant monitoring on the color of my urine. I know, gross, but critical, as I learned last week when I visited one of the local hospitals with a 103 degree temp. “But I’m never sick”, I protested to the nice man who was sticking needles in my right arm and the nice lady who was doing the same to my left. They were both astutely silent about the fact that never included now as I lay there in the blue cotton feed sack with randomly attached strings the hospital calls a gown. The story of my hospital adventure is tiresome, even to me. It involves cat scans, x-rays, blood cultures, zebras and other boring stuff. Actually the zebra thing was just tossed in there because that’s what the ever so thorough hospital staff thought when they heard hoof beats. I felt like I was in an episode of “House”, except with no brilliant arrogant doctor limping into my room yelling at the staff to check the color of my pee. It was all resolved four hours into my second visit when I needed to go to the bathroom, and knowing how hospitals treasure bodily fluids, I asked if they needed a specimen. I was handed a cup, and within a half hour the same nurse came back with an antibiotic capsule and a cup of water. “You have a kidney infection”, was the simple diagnosis. I didn’t ask why they hadn’t checked for that first instead of putting me through hours of testing. I just put on my clothes by slipping the bag of saline through the sleeve of my shirt and was in the process of removing the needles from my arms when they arrived to assist me.

Outside in the parking lot I was trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my Saturday night. The nurse who had greeted me on intake was leaving for the day and asked me how I was. I told her and she immediately asked about the color of my urine, and then the conversation turned like lightning to sex. It’s me, I know. I mentioned I had quite a send off before leaving for Denver and had started with the fever on the Monday I arrived. She told me that I should get up and pee after sex and drink lots of liquids. I asked her about alcohol and she said fine, just balance it with water. I thanked her again as I savored the fabulous Bloody Mary on Pearl Street. Later when I was shopping at a nearby mall I stopped by the toilet. In the next stall I overheard this conversation between a mom and her 4 year old. “Sweetie, you need to drink some water when we get back to the car. Your pee is too yellow.”
A suitable contemplative period follows and the child protests, “I would like for my pee to be green”
Mom, in a horrified voice, “Oh sweetie, that would mean you were very sick. You don’t want that.”
The child’s view of the universe continues, “It would be nice if my pee was blue.”
Mom is exasperated by now, hands are washed and they are headed out the door. “Just drink your water when we get to the car Katie” comes the definitive, don’t push Mom any further answer. I see Katie being led away as I stop by the water fountain outside the door. She's wearing pink crocks, a purple plaid hat, and white socks.