Why do I insist on wanting to know more? Is it out of the hope that someone somewhere will say something better? That someone will give me some hope on this?
I feel pathetic right now. This is just ... overwhelming. Really. And it's a train wreck because I can't make myself walk away and stop reading it. I'm posting it for me, and I'm not even sure why I'm doing it.
No one else needs to wallow in my pool, but please feel free to push this whale back into the water.
A footnote: "b RSD causes TMJ disease and vice versa. The two usually coexist. Injections or operation for TMJ disease due to RSD aggravates the condition."
Aha!
"The dysfunction changes to dystrophy manifested by edema, hyperhidrosis, neurovascular instability with fluctuation of livedo reticularis and cyanosis - causing change of temperature and color of the skin in matter of minutes. The dystrophic changes also include bouts of hair loss, ridging, dystrophic, brittle and discolored nails, skin rash, subcutaneous bleeding, neurodermatitis, and ulcerative lesions.
It is accompanied by sympathetic dysfunction in all four extremities as well as attacks of headache, vertigo, poor memory, and poor concentration. The spread through paravertebral and midline sympathetic nerves may be vertical, horizontal, or both. "
Shit. I'm apparently closer to the evil 2 than I thought. Well ... the bruising, ridged nails and breast ulcers are accounted for, aren't they?
Oh. Well. That settles it, doesn't it? Apparently the number of stages depends on the one writing the article, and it goes from 3-4 depending on the author. I'm *well* into Stage 2 by most of them and partially into 3. It looks like they split stage three into two levels, one having the most extreme and "final" misery of this damn thing.
"RSD is a definitive chronic pain syndrome called by several different names such as reflex sympathetic dysfunction, (stage I), reflex sympathetic dystrophy (stage II), "
Man, I have to stop reading up on this. This is depressing enough without knowing more.
"RSD is accompanied by a certain degree of inflammation in practically all cases. This inflammation may be in the form of swelling (edema), skin rash (neurodermatitis), inflammatory changes of the skin color (mottled or purplish, bluish or reddish or pale discolorations), tendency for bleeding in the skin, skin becoming easily bruised, inflammation and swelling around the joints as well as in the joints (such as wrists, shoulders, knee, etc.) which can be identified on MRI in later stages, and secondary freezing of the joints.
The fourth component and pre-requisite of diagnosis of RSD is insomnia and emotional disturbance. The fact that the sympathetic sensory nerve fibers carrying the sympathetic pain and impulse up to the brain terminate in the part of the brain called "limbic system". This limbic (marginal) system which is positioned between the old brain (brainstem) and the new brain (cerebral hemispheres) is mainly located over the temporal and frontal lobes of the brain. The disturbance of function of these parts of the brain results in insomnia, agitation, depression, irritability, and disturbance of judgment. Insomnia is an integral part of an untreated RSD. So are problems of depression, irritability and agitation. "
And ...
"This can be in the form of flexion deformity of the extremity, difficulty with walking, flexor withdrawal of the muscles of the extremity, and lumbar and cervical paraspinal spasm. As a result, the patient develops muscle tension headaches, as well as spread of the muscle spasm to the facial muscles with resultant stress on the temporomandibular joint (TMJ) and severe pain and spasm around the TMJ.
With passage of time, the same phenomenon results in chronic trauma to the TMJ as well as clinching of the teeth and trauma to the teeth. The patient develops severe pain in the distribution of trigeminal nerve (sensory nerve for the face) and develops moderate migrainous vascular headaches (trigeminal vascular headaches). In later stages of RSD the immune system becomes disturbed, and the patient develops poor oral hygiene and dental deterioration.
Long-standing unilateral (one sided) spasm of cervical paraspinal muscles causes increased input of pain into the upper portion of the cervical spinal cord. As a result, a referred pain develops with resultant facial pain and secondary muscle spasm around the TMJ and the jaw. The same referred pain causes migraine headaches, TMJ pain and chronic stress on the teeth with dental deterioration"
Can someone please explain to me how every single doctor until now MISSED all of this?
Look at all the fun of the final stage!
1. Failure of the immune system, reduction of helper T-cell lymphocytes and elevation of killer T-cell lymphocytes.
2. Intractable hypertension changes to orthostatic hypotension.
3. Intractable generalized edema involving the abdomen, pelvis, lungs, and extremities.
4. Ulcerative skin lesions which may respond to treatment with I.V. Mannitol, I.V. Immunoglobulin, and ACTH treatments.Calcium channel blockers such as Nifedipine may be effective in treatment.
5. High risks of cancer and suicide are increased.
6. Multiple surgical procedures seem to be precipitating factors for development of stage IV.
RSD will leave significant residuals and will stay with the patient for the rest of their life under the following conditions:
1. Misdiagnosis.
2. Delayed diagnosis after two years and longer.
3. Additional trauma due to surgical procedures at the area involved with RSD (e.g., "tarsal tunnel", "carpal tunnel" surgery "rotator cuff tear" surgery).
4. Prolonged improper treatments such as ice application, inactivity, abuse of narcotics and benzodiazepans, etc.
5. Sympathectomy, amputation, or insertion of a needle in the area of scar of RSD for injections, blocks, or other purposes.
6. Prolonged litigation with resultant emotional aggravation and delay in treatment.
All right. This is me just walking away. No more.
The hard part of the cold front has just hit, so I'm gonna crawl into bed and pretend I'm not freezing and that my hands aren't starting to burn and swell despite the meds.
Tuesday, February 26, 2002
Saturday, February 23, 2002
Well. So. Now what?
Finally got some sleep. A little more clear-headed today.
While the drugs didn't put me to sleep, once I got there, I *stayed* asleep for a change. Woke up and got up without much more than the usual "omigod I have to move now" aching. No sign of drug hangover after beginning dose of Neurontin.
So busy being in shock yesterday over the diagnosis that I pretty much forgot to mention everything that did happen.
Nerve damage in my left hand is confirmed now. The good news is that nerves can regenerate, if they have a chance to stop being damaged. Therapy and the new meds might give me a chance to be able to hold a pen again.
My Raynaud's (which fibro can mimic) is actual Raynaud's and relatively severe. It's a problem with capillaries not doing their job right, so blood flow to extremities can be limited. Cold aggravates it something awful -- just holding a cold can of soda can spark it -- so one of the main treatments is to make sure the extremities stay warm. Gloves and socks, man.
I need to find gloves that work with it AND the RSD. So here's what I'm looking for, if you stumble across them. I need a glove without thick seams in the fingers or no fingers at all, rather like the arthritis gloves with no fingers, that don't stop at the wrist. I need ones that go to mid-forearm at least. Just cutting the fingers out of long gloves won't work because the seams will still get in the way of typing and other fine motor skill activities.
My FMS is actually relatively minor. Yes, I do have reaction in almost every trigger point when tested, but it's the RSD that really screws me over on pain. The IBS is really the worst of the fibro effects for me.
Knowing what part of the fog is and isn't fibro is easier to tell now. Now that I KNOW what to look for, I have a good idea of which is currently making me STOOPID, FMS or RSD. Fibro is more of a general ditzy fog with the blank stares and mild forgetfulness.
It's the RSD that makes me completely unable to parse and understand things sometimes -- like being able to file away and recall small details. Not being able to remember the LJ cut-text code, no matter how many times I look it up, is one of them.
RSD is usually linked to some sort of trauma (Reflex Sympathetic -- like post-traumatic stress, this attacks the nervous system). Surgeries can do it as well as injuries. Considering how many surgeries I had in a VERY short span, it's possible that sparked it. We know that I have some weird strain on my neurological system anyway. Between the Cubital Tunnel, the nerve damage in my hand, and the weird injuries linked to nerves and capilliary disfunction in my feet (the little weird bone infection in my foot spawned by them and I can't even remember what it was called anymore), it's not real surprising.
However, RSD usually manifests in the single, main traumatized limb. I have RSD, quite pronounced, in all four limbs, plus my head -- I do the weird swelling blotchy burn on my face and neck as well. RSD can spread in time across the body to other limbs if uncontrolled like mine has been.
But I didn't think about it until we'd left the doctor's office and DG brought it up. About 13 years ago or so, I had a really bad riding accident. A friend of mine and I were out on her horses and had to cross a road to get to the next field. Like dumbasses, we rode across it (two lane asphalt) instead of leading the horses. A car full of frat dicks drove by and honked.
The honk spooked my mount. I was thrown backwards off the horse, my right hand tangled in the reins. I hit the asphalt head-first. Knocked me out for a short time. Broke two ribs, my pinky (from the reins) and had one hell of a concussion. Roo said that she honestly didn't expect me to be alive at all. She said that when I hit, my head made the wet "pumpkin drop" splatting sound.
Direct trauma. Head, neck, spine. It could explain everything, including some of the more extreme memory damage. All my headaches, the migraines just getting worse, the dizziness that I've lived with for years, all of it.
It explains why none of the usual suggestions of causes and treatments haven't worked.
It explains why things like Flexeril and narcotic meds don't work. My brain doesn't process them correctly. It explains why my trembling is SO bad, why the muscles seize an I lose control of them.
Hell, I fell out of the computer chair last night when my leg seized. I hadn't had one that bad in a while. Total loss of control so bad that it literally threw me out of the chair with no chance to stop it before I hit the floor.
We'll never know what brought it on for sure. I do know that the splotchies and burning did NOT show up until after the accident, around the time that DG and I married. I've done it since we got together, which was after the fall. I don't remember it ever happening before.
It has also been manifesting in my face during that time -- which is why they always suspected lupus but I always tested negative. I get the butterfly rash, raised and puffy and red. But it's the RSD.
I am going to ask, once we get the therapy started and insurance is caught up with the program, for an MRI. It's possible that it might tell us more and help us figure out how close I am to the danger zone of stage two to three.
I don't like to lose. Liya and I have that much in common. I didn't give in when the doc told me I WOULD lose the use of my left arm and hand without surgery. I said Let's Do it without even thinking hard. Fix it.
And after the surgery, I fought to get it back. My recovery was so spectacular that I didn't have to endure the months of therapy to bring my hand back to full. I had regained full range of motion in my arm by the second visit after the staples were taken out.
If it means that half of my day is spent in therapy to try to force the RSD into remission, so be it. I'm not fool enough to think that it won't come back. I've got too much else wrong with my body, and the first new trauma can and probably will set it off all over again and then I get to repeat the therapy.
But I will not let it win.
I may be a mouse, but I'm a damned stubborn mouse.
While the drugs didn't put me to sleep, once I got there, I *stayed* asleep for a change. Woke up and got up without much more than the usual "omigod I have to move now" aching. No sign of drug hangover after beginning dose of Neurontin.
So busy being in shock yesterday over the diagnosis that I pretty much forgot to mention everything that did happen.
Nerve damage in my left hand is confirmed now. The good news is that nerves can regenerate, if they have a chance to stop being damaged. Therapy and the new meds might give me a chance to be able to hold a pen again.
My Raynaud's (which fibro can mimic) is actual Raynaud's and relatively severe. It's a problem with capillaries not doing their job right, so blood flow to extremities can be limited. Cold aggravates it something awful -- just holding a cold can of soda can spark it -- so one of the main treatments is to make sure the extremities stay warm. Gloves and socks, man.
I need to find gloves that work with it AND the RSD. So here's what I'm looking for, if you stumble across them. I need a glove without thick seams in the fingers or no fingers at all, rather like the arthritis gloves with no fingers, that don't stop at the wrist. I need ones that go to mid-forearm at least. Just cutting the fingers out of long gloves won't work because the seams will still get in the way of typing and other fine motor skill activities.
My FMS is actually relatively minor. Yes, I do have reaction in almost every trigger point when tested, but it's the RSD that really screws me over on pain. The IBS is really the worst of the fibro effects for me.
Knowing what part of the fog is and isn't fibro is easier to tell now. Now that I KNOW what to look for, I have a good idea of which is currently making me STOOPID, FMS or RSD. Fibro is more of a general ditzy fog with the blank stares and mild forgetfulness.
It's the RSD that makes me completely unable to parse and understand things sometimes -- like being able to file away and recall small details. Not being able to remember the LJ cut-text code, no matter how many times I look it up, is one of them.
RSD is usually linked to some sort of trauma (Reflex Sympathetic -- like post-traumatic stress, this attacks the nervous system). Surgeries can do it as well as injuries. Considering how many surgeries I had in a VERY short span, it's possible that sparked it. We know that I have some weird strain on my neurological system anyway. Between the Cubital Tunnel, the nerve damage in my hand, and the weird injuries linked to nerves and capilliary disfunction in my feet (the little weird bone infection in my foot spawned by them and I can't even remember what it was called anymore), it's not real surprising.
However, RSD usually manifests in the single, main traumatized limb. I have RSD, quite pronounced, in all four limbs, plus my head -- I do the weird swelling blotchy burn on my face and neck as well. RSD can spread in time across the body to other limbs if uncontrolled like mine has been.
But I didn't think about it until we'd left the doctor's office and DG brought it up. About 13 years ago or so, I had a really bad riding accident. A friend of mine and I were out on her horses and had to cross a road to get to the next field. Like dumbasses, we rode across it (two lane asphalt) instead of leading the horses. A car full of frat dicks drove by and honked.
The honk spooked my mount. I was thrown backwards off the horse, my right hand tangled in the reins. I hit the asphalt head-first. Knocked me out for a short time. Broke two ribs, my pinky (from the reins) and had one hell of a concussion. Roo said that she honestly didn't expect me to be alive at all. She said that when I hit, my head made the wet "pumpkin drop" splatting sound.
Direct trauma. Head, neck, spine. It could explain everything, including some of the more extreme memory damage. All my headaches, the migraines just getting worse, the dizziness that I've lived with for years, all of it.
It explains why none of the usual suggestions of causes and treatments haven't worked.
It explains why things like Flexeril and narcotic meds don't work. My brain doesn't process them correctly. It explains why my trembling is SO bad, why the muscles seize an I lose control of them.
Hell, I fell out of the computer chair last night when my leg seized. I hadn't had one that bad in a while. Total loss of control so bad that it literally threw me out of the chair with no chance to stop it before I hit the floor.
We'll never know what brought it on for sure. I do know that the splotchies and burning did NOT show up until after the accident, around the time that DG and I married. I've done it since we got together, which was after the fall. I don't remember it ever happening before.
It has also been manifesting in my face during that time -- which is why they always suspected lupus but I always tested negative. I get the butterfly rash, raised and puffy and red. But it's the RSD.
I am going to ask, once we get the therapy started and insurance is caught up with the program, for an MRI. It's possible that it might tell us more and help us figure out how close I am to the danger zone of stage two to three.
I don't like to lose. Liya and I have that much in common. I didn't give in when the doc told me I WOULD lose the use of my left arm and hand without surgery. I said Let's Do it without even thinking hard. Fix it.
And after the surgery, I fought to get it back. My recovery was so spectacular that I didn't have to endure the months of therapy to bring my hand back to full. I had regained full range of motion in my arm by the second visit after the staples were taken out.
If it means that half of my day is spent in therapy to try to force the RSD into remission, so be it. I'm not fool enough to think that it won't come back. I've got too much else wrong with my body, and the first new trauma can and probably will set it off all over again and then I get to repeat the therapy.
But I will not let it win.
I may be a mouse, but I'm a damned stubborn mouse.
Pretending to be
Just me, Pretending To Be.
Well. Nothing has really changed. Really.
I didn't just find out that I have something terminal, that I'll finally get lucky and the miserable pain will actually get to end -- how's that for a silver lining, but no.
I finally have a diagnosis that EVERYONE will take seriously on top of other Bad Things. The words "possible remission if we've reached it in time" are scary.
BUT Talk about no bloody respect. No, it can't be nifty and KILL me or anything, no, it's happy with just MAIMING my fat white ass and letting me go. Like branding a fucking cow, here's your wheelchair, mooooooooove along.
"Might as well put a potato on a string and drag it through South Boston ..."
Nothing has changed. I'm still in the same pain I was. I'm not any more fragile, I'm not going to suddenly crack and go climb a clock tower (face it, I couldn't make it up ten steps) or drop dead.
I'm still me, for whatever that's worth.
God has seen fit to once again prove to me, however, that not only does he have a really really sadistic sense of humour, but he really likes to draaaaaaag the joke out.
I have Four, count them, Four conditions that will not just up and vanish. Asthma is fickle. Fibro has No Cure. Raynaud's has no cure, plus the groovy possibility of bodily dismemberment -- call the gang, green is here. RSD can take all four of my limbs away from me, eat away at my brain and leave me as some sarcastic fat chick in a wheelchair with cybernetic drug pumps stashed in her body.
They'll push me and stab me and burn me and scar me until something ELSE finally makes me drop dead. How @$&*#$ ironic.
Who the @#$*& comes up with this? What do they do, have some sort of Predestination Bingo Night, Winner #$#*& takes all?
Coldsmoke also wants to know why the same doofus that cooked up these hairbrained plot twists of mayhem had to sink the final nail in the coffin with blue balls.
BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE!
Because you don't even get a coffin, in fact, you just might live forever (or at least it will seem that way) because you're going to 112, tooling around in your little wheelchair cybercoach, and some fat bastard in a bus is going to run your ass down just as you finally beat that very boss in ....
Aw, game over.
Uh. Shit. This was not where this post was meant to go, but there it is.
I never really contacted with the denial stage here. I went from relieved to stunned, to borderline panic to bloody annoyance and finally to generally taking the whole thing in with the same sarcastic crap that's seen me through the last thirty years and seems determined to drag me kicking and screaming through the next thirty more.
If you got to laugh -- or at least crack a grin, yes, you the Doo of Voo -- then I guess my real work here is done.
And until that time when the thundering grey dog comes bearing down on your ass with all the forces of heaven and hell behind it and you're looking for a port in any storm and not even God appears to be listening, you just keep your hand on the grip because when you're facing The Man at last, you'll know he's finally played his last card. You just do what old Jack Burton does ...
Oh come on, what? Do you want to live forever?
I'm Channeling Me, Pretending To Be
pooka who would like to point out to the world at large that SHE IS STILL FREAKING AWAKE!
Well. Nothing has really changed. Really.
I didn't just find out that I have something terminal, that I'll finally get lucky and the miserable pain will actually get to end -- how's that for a silver lining, but no.
I finally have a diagnosis that EVERYONE will take seriously on top of other Bad Things. The words "possible remission if we've reached it in time" are scary.
BUT Talk about no bloody respect. No, it can't be nifty and KILL me or anything, no, it's happy with just MAIMING my fat white ass and letting me go. Like branding a fucking cow, here's your wheelchair, mooooooooove along.
"Might as well put a potato on a string and drag it through South Boston ..."
Nothing has changed. I'm still in the same pain I was. I'm not any more fragile, I'm not going to suddenly crack and go climb a clock tower (face it, I couldn't make it up ten steps) or drop dead.
I'm still me, for whatever that's worth.
God has seen fit to once again prove to me, however, that not only does he have a really really sadistic sense of humour, but he really likes to draaaaaaag the joke out.
I have Four, count them, Four conditions that will not just up and vanish. Asthma is fickle. Fibro has No Cure. Raynaud's has no cure, plus the groovy possibility of bodily dismemberment -- call the gang, green is here. RSD can take all four of my limbs away from me, eat away at my brain and leave me as some sarcastic fat chick in a wheelchair with cybernetic drug pumps stashed in her body.
They'll push me and stab me and burn me and scar me until something ELSE finally makes me drop dead. How @$&*#$ ironic.
Who the @#$*& comes up with this? What do they do, have some sort of Predestination Bingo Night, Winner #$#*& takes all?
Coldsmoke also wants to know why the same doofus that cooked up these hairbrained plot twists of mayhem had to sink the final nail in the coffin with blue balls.
BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE!
Because you don't even get a coffin, in fact, you just might live forever (or at least it will seem that way) because you're going to 112, tooling around in your little wheelchair cybercoach, and some fat bastard in a bus is going to run your ass down just as you finally beat that very boss in ....
Aw, game over.
Uh. Shit. This was not where this post was meant to go, but there it is.
I never really contacted with the denial stage here. I went from relieved to stunned, to borderline panic to bloody annoyance and finally to generally taking the whole thing in with the same sarcastic crap that's seen me through the last thirty years and seems determined to drag me kicking and screaming through the next thirty more.
If you got to laugh -- or at least crack a grin, yes, you the Doo of Voo -- then I guess my real work here is done.
And until that time when the thundering grey dog comes bearing down on your ass with all the forces of heaven and hell behind it and you're looking for a port in any storm and not even God appears to be listening, you just keep your hand on the grip because when you're facing The Man at last, you'll know he's finally played his last card. You just do what old Jack Burton does ...
Oh come on, what? Do you want to live forever?
I'm Channeling Me, Pretending To Be
pooka who would like to point out to the world at large that SHE IS STILL FREAKING AWAKE!
Friday, February 22, 2002
Take 200 of these, and don't call me
I've seen gourmet recipes shorter than the instructions on my new meds.
Prednisone to start to control the RSD. Yum. Nasty foul stuff. 60 tabs, well, at least I'll be breathing well. Label print was switch to a font smaller than the "X refills remaining" text to fit it all on.
Excuse me, but I'd like to make claim that I deserve to use the F word here, thank you.
FUCK! The damn bottle Prednisone has a worse coating than the dose-pak ... ie, it powders slightly in mere movement, so when you take one ... WHAM, you gotta shave your tongue and it feels like the floor of a NY movie theater. This is gonna be a LONG three weeks.
I'm currently considering Death as an option.
Itty Bitty Elavils to up me from 75 to 100. She was Not Happy with the wussy Elavil dosage at all, especially after finding out how long I'd been stuck there with it not helping. She gave me enough Elavil at 25 mg that I can take 125 if the 100 doesn't work after a few days.
I also got ... more Zanaflex (YAY, SAMPLES!) -- which Cigna should cover automatically because RSD is a seizure-class disorder.
And the crowning touch for my nighttime digestion ... Neurontin. Starting at 100, and working up to 200, then 300, all in itty bitty precise directions on the itty bitty label.
Dude, I CAN'T fog and forget this. She is SO cool to cover my ass like that.
Course, it doesn't change the fact that YES, I AM still awake!
Or that it still hurts to move. Or that it still hurts to NOT move.
But ... having the spasm/seizure swelling splotchy scarlet and purple Pooka furnace kick in RIGHT THERE at the office ... is Priceless.
For everything else, there's a really big hammer.
Take one as needed.
Prednisone to start to control the RSD. Yum. Nasty foul stuff. 60 tabs, well, at least I'll be breathing well. Label print was switch to a font smaller than the "X refills remaining" text to fit it all on.
Excuse me, but I'd like to make claim that I deserve to use the F word here, thank you.
FUCK! The damn bottle Prednisone has a worse coating than the dose-pak ... ie, it powders slightly in mere movement, so when you take one ... WHAM, you gotta shave your tongue and it feels like the floor of a NY movie theater. This is gonna be a LONG three weeks.
I'm currently considering Death as an option.
Itty Bitty Elavils to up me from 75 to 100. She was Not Happy with the wussy Elavil dosage at all, especially after finding out how long I'd been stuck there with it not helping. She gave me enough Elavil at 25 mg that I can take 125 if the 100 doesn't work after a few days.
I also got ... more Zanaflex (YAY, SAMPLES!) -- which Cigna should cover automatically because RSD is a seizure-class disorder.
And the crowning touch for my nighttime digestion ... Neurontin. Starting at 100, and working up to 200, then 300, all in itty bitty precise directions on the itty bitty label.
Dude, I CAN'T fog and forget this. She is SO cool to cover my ass like that.
Course, it doesn't change the fact that YES, I AM still awake!
Or that it still hurts to move. Or that it still hurts to NOT move.
But ... having the spasm/seizure swelling splotchy scarlet and purple Pooka furnace kick in RIGHT THERE at the office ... is Priceless.
For everything else, there's a really big hammer.
Take one as needed.
Welcome to the Last Day of the ... no, wait
Okay. Some days you really wonder why you crawled out of bed. Especially when there's a doctor's appointment involved.
Yes, the Pooka has Fibromyalgia. It's a "minor concern" right now ...
Think and chew on THAT phrase for a minute.
Yes, I have confirmed Raynaud's Phenomenon, Primary -- severe. "Why in God's name do you not have socks on your feet, girl?" I got my butt chewed for Birks. Course, DG DID lie to me about how warm it was outside. I knew I had it, and knew it was pretty bad, but even she seemed impressed by the degree. My hands and feet performed their gold medal skate for the doc, doing the whole shebang.
Cuz, um, Raynaud's can cause gangrene and your fingers and toes can rot off if you don't keep them warm enough so the blood will circulate. I'm supposed to wear gloves and socks as long as it's below 70-75. Like, fingertip to elbow gloves to help with ...
This is where I sort of lose things.
The Pooka has RSD. Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy.
It doesn't get any better than how it sounds right there.
This post gets really long after this, going into details about RSD.
RSD is often progressive. It's also incurable. It can be treated, but many patients (that don't kill themselves, I looooove how the notes point that out -- "Emotional depression developed to such a degree that suicide was the final outcome in many of the cases." -- yeah, nice) end up in wheelchairs, with implanted drug pumps just to make it day to day.
Burning Pain, aching pain, shooting pain, swelling, limited mobility, hyper-sensitivity to slightest touch, withdrawing from commotion, short term memory loss, depression, living on a tight rope between doing too much, causing pain, and doing too little, causing pain, these and many more are symptoms of Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy Syndrome.
As RSD progresses, the abnormal pain of the sympathetic nervous system has an effect on other areas of the body and can result in total disability as muscles, bones, skin and the autonomic immune system become involved.
The first indication of RSD is prolonged pain usually more severe than the injury. The symptoms are severe burning pain in a localized area, intense sensitivity to temperature and light touch, and a color change to the skin.
There are several stages to RSD, which progress at different rates in different people. Initially, there is swelling and redness in the affected area.
Next, the area becomes blue and cold, with increased pain and stiffness of ligaments and joints, and Osteoporosis may become evident.
Finally, there may be a wasting of affected muscles, contraction of tendons, and a definite withering of the affected limb. In all of the stages, severe chronic pain continues to be a major complaint.
Many patients who are not treated early will experience spread of the disease and this may become a lifelong problem. Even with early treatment this may become a chronic condition.
I wasn't caught early. I'm between Stage One and Stage Two of the syndrome.
Treatment can send RSD into remission. It may subside for years and then recur with a new injury.
There are many other symptoms that an RSD/CRPS patient may have, including movement disorders (difficulty starting movement, increased tone, increased reflexes, tremor, muscle spasms), weakness, fatigue, skin rashes, frequent infections, migraine headaches and others could be found as more data is accumulated.
(Remember my mystery flush and hives? I was going into a flare up. Now I know. And knowing is half the battle. Too bad I'm gonna lose the war.)
CLINICAL SYMPTOMS OF RSD
Pain is the first and primary complaint, described as extremely severe and burning & aching in nature
Swelling and joint tenderness
Loss or diminished motor function
Muscle spasms
Increased sweating
Changes in skin temperature and color
Bone softening - patchy osteoporosis
The disease causes constriction of vertebral arteries resulting in poor circulation to the brain stem, this in turn causes poor focusing of eye muscles, and poor balance, dizziness and migraines.
This constant pain in the limbic system (Frontal and Temporal lobes) causes poor memory, irritability as well as insomnia. Antidepressants such as Trazodone or desipramine and better control of the pain seem to improve these symptoms. This goes along with paravertebral and epidural blocks.
The person suffering may develop abnormal function of the sympathetic system causing constriction of the blood vessels to the brain. When the blood vessels are constricted in the distribution of vertebral arteries in the cervical spine and in the distribution of the blood vessels providing circulation for the brainstem, the person develops attacks of dizziness, white spots, migraines and difficulty focusing with the eyes. All of this is due to the brainstem dysfunction, which has the responsibility of coordinating our eye movements.
Many patients develop hostility towards any individual coming in close proximity, reflex from trying to protect affected hypersensitive limbs from contact.
So.
I get to deal with fibro which is aggravated by the RSD. Mmm, double the symptoms, double the pain, double your FwordI'mstillnotusing fun.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go indulge in a completely out-of-character screaming fit of hysterics.
.... appends.
NO, wait, there's more! I forgot the one bright point (other than an answer for so much unexplained and ignored symptoms that have been wrong with me for years).
I was told to .... NOT avoid caffeine. Yes, yes, brothers and sisters of the sacred bean. Coffee may actually HELP the Pooka, balancing out all the weirdness that makes me shake and shimmy like a big ole vat of Jello.
No, wait. That was just me trying to put on my jeans. Never mind, carry on.
Yes, the Pooka has Fibromyalgia. It's a "minor concern" right now ...
Think and chew on THAT phrase for a minute.
Yes, I have confirmed Raynaud's Phenomenon, Primary -- severe. "Why in God's name do you not have socks on your feet, girl?" I got my butt chewed for Birks. Course, DG DID lie to me about how warm it was outside. I knew I had it, and knew it was pretty bad, but even she seemed impressed by the degree. My hands and feet performed their gold medal skate for the doc, doing the whole shebang.
Cuz, um, Raynaud's can cause gangrene and your fingers and toes can rot off if you don't keep them warm enough so the blood will circulate. I'm supposed to wear gloves and socks as long as it's below 70-75. Like, fingertip to elbow gloves to help with ...
This is where I sort of lose things.
The Pooka has RSD. Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy.
It doesn't get any better than how it sounds right there.
This post gets really long after this, going into details about RSD.
RSD is often progressive. It's also incurable. It can be treated, but many patients (that don't kill themselves, I looooove how the notes point that out -- "Emotional depression developed to such a degree that suicide was the final outcome in many of the cases." -- yeah, nice) end up in wheelchairs, with implanted drug pumps just to make it day to day.
Burning Pain, aching pain, shooting pain, swelling, limited mobility, hyper-sensitivity to slightest touch, withdrawing from commotion, short term memory loss, depression, living on a tight rope between doing too much, causing pain, and doing too little, causing pain, these and many more are symptoms of Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy Syndrome.
As RSD progresses, the abnormal pain of the sympathetic nervous system has an effect on other areas of the body and can result in total disability as muscles, bones, skin and the autonomic immune system become involved.
The first indication of RSD is prolonged pain usually more severe than the injury. The symptoms are severe burning pain in a localized area, intense sensitivity to temperature and light touch, and a color change to the skin.
There are several stages to RSD, which progress at different rates in different people. Initially, there is swelling and redness in the affected area.
Next, the area becomes blue and cold, with increased pain and stiffness of ligaments and joints, and Osteoporosis may become evident.
Finally, there may be a wasting of affected muscles, contraction of tendons, and a definite withering of the affected limb. In all of the stages, severe chronic pain continues to be a major complaint.
Many patients who are not treated early will experience spread of the disease and this may become a lifelong problem. Even with early treatment this may become a chronic condition.
I wasn't caught early. I'm between Stage One and Stage Two of the syndrome.
Treatment can send RSD into remission. It may subside for years and then recur with a new injury.
There are many other symptoms that an RSD/CRPS patient may have, including movement disorders (difficulty starting movement, increased tone, increased reflexes, tremor, muscle spasms), weakness, fatigue, skin rashes, frequent infections, migraine headaches and others could be found as more data is accumulated.
(Remember my mystery flush and hives? I was going into a flare up. Now I know. And knowing is half the battle. Too bad I'm gonna lose the war.)
CLINICAL SYMPTOMS OF RSD
Pain is the first and primary complaint, described as extremely severe and burning & aching in nature
Swelling and joint tenderness
Loss or diminished motor function
Muscle spasms
Increased sweating
Changes in skin temperature and color
Bone softening - patchy osteoporosis
The disease causes constriction of vertebral arteries resulting in poor circulation to the brain stem, this in turn causes poor focusing of eye muscles, and poor balance, dizziness and migraines.
This constant pain in the limbic system (Frontal and Temporal lobes) causes poor memory, irritability as well as insomnia. Antidepressants such as Trazodone or desipramine and better control of the pain seem to improve these symptoms. This goes along with paravertebral and epidural blocks.
The person suffering may develop abnormal function of the sympathetic system causing constriction of the blood vessels to the brain. When the blood vessels are constricted in the distribution of vertebral arteries in the cervical spine and in the distribution of the blood vessels providing circulation for the brainstem, the person develops attacks of dizziness, white spots, migraines and difficulty focusing with the eyes. All of this is due to the brainstem dysfunction, which has the responsibility of coordinating our eye movements.
Many patients develop hostility towards any individual coming in close proximity, reflex from trying to protect affected hypersensitive limbs from contact.
So.
I get to deal with fibro which is aggravated by the RSD. Mmm, double the symptoms, double the pain, double your FwordI'mstillnotusing fun.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go indulge in a completely out-of-character screaming fit of hysterics.
.... appends.
NO, wait, there's more! I forgot the one bright point (other than an answer for so much unexplained and ignored symptoms that have been wrong with me for years).
I was told to .... NOT avoid caffeine. Yes, yes, brothers and sisters of the sacred bean. Coffee may actually HELP the Pooka, balancing out all the weirdness that makes me shake and shimmy like a big ole vat of Jello.
No, wait. That was just me trying to put on my jeans. Never mind, carry on.
Tuesday, February 19, 2002
Half a Brain Sandwich
Apathy. Ya know I couldn't care less.
I think that's a nice working title.
Feh. All right, I'm really only posting to give Sammi something new to read. Not that this will break any literary records or set some sort of fecking standard for intelligent posting.
That's Witchy's fault. Now I'm doing the whole fecking fecking thing.
I need another quirk like I need another hole in my head.
Shit. I'm starting to put the feckin . between lines like I do in Android. Too much feckin time spent in there. Had to remove 3 . so far from here.
Cuz ya know I need another period like ...
Prolly should look up the early symptoms of menopause. This is weird.
Had to delete another fecking . there.
A Luna Bar, 2 liters of Mr Pibb and a pack of clove cigarettes has yet to be proven effective for anyone's RDA. I don't recommend it to anyone, either.
.
Dammit.
.
Double fecking dammit.
.
Okay, just shoot me. I don't care, fine, if they wanna be there I'll just bloody well let them stay so there how the hell do ya like them apples, huh?
.
What happened to the thousands of overrun Turbie Twist commercials? Not that I mind the absence, it's just weird to mark the fads and fluctuations of consumerism on television. Maybe it's just my not watching much TV that's to blame.
.
Mmmm, stomach cramp. Fibromyalgia taps me on the belly, just to make sure that I know it's still here.
.
Not gone yet.
.
Nope, I'm still here.
.
Okay, I'm leaving now.
.
Psych!
I feel like half of a brain sandwich.
Starting to think Sybil's monitor problem deals more with a weird memory leak/strain. The green dancing ants don't show up during boot, or on any of the logo screens. They were here before my reboot, and are gone after it. Kinda weird.
I know its not the card, the other monitor was fine until it would no longer remain connected right.
"Ginger Spice closed mouthed on eating disorder" Do you suppose the irony in this headline was intentional? Seems a bit too clever for modern journalism.
Microsoft is being sued again. Anyone surprised? Dint think so.
Women's Team USA is kicking hockey butt. Yay.
Now where the hell are all the applications for a new lackey? Do you people have any idea how hard it is to be an efficient Evil Overlord without any fecking lackeys? What the hell is up with that?
I want my fucking minions, dammit.
I think that's a nice working title.
Feh. All right, I'm really only posting to give Sammi something new to read. Not that this will break any literary records or set some sort of fecking standard for intelligent posting.
That's Witchy's fault. Now I'm doing the whole fecking fecking thing.
I need another quirk like I need another hole in my head.
Shit. I'm starting to put the feckin . between lines like I do in Android. Too much feckin time spent in there. Had to remove 3 . so far from here.
Cuz ya know I need another period like ...
Prolly should look up the early symptoms of menopause. This is weird.
Had to delete another fecking . there.
A Luna Bar, 2 liters of Mr Pibb and a pack of clove cigarettes has yet to be proven effective for anyone's RDA. I don't recommend it to anyone, either.
.
Dammit.
.
Double fecking dammit.
.
Okay, just shoot me. I don't care, fine, if they wanna be there I'll just bloody well let them stay so there how the hell do ya like them apples, huh?
.
What happened to the thousands of overrun Turbie Twist commercials? Not that I mind the absence, it's just weird to mark the fads and fluctuations of consumerism on television. Maybe it's just my not watching much TV that's to blame.
.
Mmmm, stomach cramp. Fibromyalgia taps me on the belly, just to make sure that I know it's still here.
.
Not gone yet.
.
Nope, I'm still here.
.
Okay, I'm leaving now.
.
Psych!
I feel like half of a brain sandwich.
Starting to think Sybil's monitor problem deals more with a weird memory leak/strain. The green dancing ants don't show up during boot, or on any of the logo screens. They were here before my reboot, and are gone after it. Kinda weird.
I know its not the card, the other monitor was fine until it would no longer remain connected right.
"Ginger Spice closed mouthed on eating disorder" Do you suppose the irony in this headline was intentional? Seems a bit too clever for modern journalism.
Microsoft is being sued again. Anyone surprised? Dint think so.
Women's Team USA is kicking hockey butt. Yay.
Now where the hell are all the applications for a new lackey? Do you people have any idea how hard it is to be an efficient Evil Overlord without any fecking lackeys? What the hell is up with that?
I want my fucking minions, dammit.
Saturday, February 02, 2002
Cluex4, sold here, for only 19.95
There are people in the world who Do Not Get It.
Some of these people never will Get It. Ever.
Some have to be hit with a very heavy Cluex4 to Get it. Even then, they may have trouble with Getting It.
There are those who just haven't heard it put the right way, and so do not Get It but have a good chance of both Getting and Retaining It.
For those, here is a short, quick and dirty primer.
1. The world does not revolve around you.
2. No matter how hard you try, the world will never revolve around you. You're a person, not a red giant.
3. Attempting to force others to treat you as though the world revolved around you will only leave you lonely, bitter, and living with many many cats that will feast on your flesh when you die lonely, bitter, and forgotten.
4. Attempting to force others to treat you as though the world revolved around you will seriously Piss People Off.
5. Nobody likes a busybody. Really. Remember Mrs Kravitz? If you're too young to remember, we're too old to give a fuck. Walk away, m'kay?
6. The world does not revolve around you.
7. Approximately 99.9999999% of the world couldn't possibly care any less about your saga. No matter how you dress it and apply makeup, save the drama for your mama because everyone else is basically already bored shitless with hearing you do the same song and dance every fucking single day.
7b. You can only do the same thing so many times and still have someone believe it. People do talk. People do remember. It's called a Reputation. I know that's a big word. It means something important.
7c. Two or three different faces in public just makes you look stupid. Saying one thing on one front, then something entirely different on another, and saving a completely different face for another -- while keeping all public -- not only makes you look stupid, but everyone will eventually catch on that you're just about as sharp as a sack of wet mice because you can't keep your story straight.
7d. Lies don't get better with more embellishment. You will get caught.
8. "No," really means "No." It does not mean Yes. It does not mean Maybe. It does not mean "please whine at me till I change my mind." It does not mean "please stalk me and follow me everywhere and give me no rest at all until I finally tell you yes out of sheer fear for my life, or change my name, face, and phone number to avoid you."
No means No. No. N-O. Look it up sometime.
9. The world does not revolve around you.
10. The world does not revolve around you. I cannot stress this point enough.
Say it with me. "The world does not revolve around me."
Knew you could do it.
Some of these people never will Get It. Ever.
Some have to be hit with a very heavy Cluex4 to Get it. Even then, they may have trouble with Getting It.
There are those who just haven't heard it put the right way, and so do not Get It but have a good chance of both Getting and Retaining It.
For those, here is a short, quick and dirty primer.
1. The world does not revolve around you.
2. No matter how hard you try, the world will never revolve around you. You're a person, not a red giant.
3. Attempting to force others to treat you as though the world revolved around you will only leave you lonely, bitter, and living with many many cats that will feast on your flesh when you die lonely, bitter, and forgotten.
4. Attempting to force others to treat you as though the world revolved around you will seriously Piss People Off.
5. Nobody likes a busybody. Really. Remember Mrs Kravitz? If you're too young to remember, we're too old to give a fuck. Walk away, m'kay?
6. The world does not revolve around you.
7. Approximately 99.9999999% of the world couldn't possibly care any less about your saga. No matter how you dress it and apply makeup, save the drama for your mama because everyone else is basically already bored shitless with hearing you do the same song and dance every fucking single day.
7b. You can only do the same thing so many times and still have someone believe it. People do talk. People do remember. It's called a Reputation. I know that's a big word. It means something important.
7c. Two or three different faces in public just makes you look stupid. Saying one thing on one front, then something entirely different on another, and saving a completely different face for another -- while keeping all public -- not only makes you look stupid, but everyone will eventually catch on that you're just about as sharp as a sack of wet mice because you can't keep your story straight.
7d. Lies don't get better with more embellishment. You will get caught.
8. "No," really means "No." It does not mean Yes. It does not mean Maybe. It does not mean "please whine at me till I change my mind." It does not mean "please stalk me and follow me everywhere and give me no rest at all until I finally tell you yes out of sheer fear for my life, or change my name, face, and phone number to avoid you."
No means No. No. N-O. Look it up sometime.
9. The world does not revolve around you.
10. The world does not revolve around you. I cannot stress this point enough.
Say it with me. "The world does not revolve around me."
Knew you could do it.
Wednesday, January 30, 2002
Cabin Fever
Thing 2 has been repeating "Hokey Pokey" over and over and over and over with no other words for the last half hour solid. Try to imagine this in your head, in total monotone, with no pause for breathing.
Thing 1 is screaming like someone stabbed her in the foot and pulling her hair and throwing paper because her sister won't shut up to let her do homework. Had Thing 1 come home and done her homework instead of running off for "rehearsal" for the talent show that I was basically told I couldn't attend (ahem), this wouldn't be a problem. Now it's after her bedtime, and she's still screwing around AND fighting with her sister.
DG won't stop screaming at the kids for not shutting up, but otherwise goes right back to his game without actually doing anything other than screaming.
Me, I'm looking up plane flights outta here.
Is this what you call Cabin Fever?
Thing 1 is screaming like someone stabbed her in the foot and pulling her hair and throwing paper because her sister won't shut up to let her do homework. Had Thing 1 come home and done her homework instead of running off for "rehearsal" for the talent show that I was basically told I couldn't attend (ahem), this wouldn't be a problem. Now it's after her bedtime, and she's still screwing around AND fighting with her sister.
DG won't stop screaming at the kids for not shutting up, but otherwise goes right back to his game without actually doing anything other than screaming.
Me, I'm looking up plane flights outta here.
Is this what you call Cabin Fever?
Tuesday, January 29, 2002
Wonder Fiend Powers, Activate!
Thing 1: "Mom, when she goes to school next year, will I have to walk her across the street to kindergarten?"
Me: (brushing Thing 2's hair) "Well, Daddy will probably help walk her over at first, but yes, you'll be walking together."
Thing 2: (turning in mid-brush) "I don't HAVE to go to school. Not with HER."
Me: (sigh, here we go again) "But honey, you need to go to school to learn so you *can* take over the world."
Thing 2: (sighs, rolls eyes at me) "Duh, MOM, I have SPELLS that will do that for me!"
---
Thing 2: "Aha, I was co-rrect!"
Me: "You're a fiend."
Thing 2: "I am a co-rrect fiend!" (squinty evil eyes) "Cuz I am SMART!"
Me: (brushing Thing 2's hair) "Well, Daddy will probably help walk her over at first, but yes, you'll be walking together."
Thing 2: (turning in mid-brush) "I don't HAVE to go to school. Not with HER."
Me: (sigh, here we go again) "But honey, you need to go to school to learn so you *can* take over the world."
Thing 2: (sighs, rolls eyes at me) "Duh, MOM, I have SPELLS that will do that for me!"
---
Thing 2: "Aha, I was co-rrect!"
Me: "You're a fiend."
Thing 2: "I am a co-rrect fiend!" (squinty evil eyes) "Cuz I am SMART!"
Monday, January 28, 2002
Epic!
I have a confession to make.
The Pooka does have a vast weakness for epics of a grandiose scale. Nay, not even a weakness for that is too simple, too mild. It is a passion, one carried from womb to now when the womb used and worn out is my own.
(The Pooka hath also benefited somewhat from the merits of a good stiff glass of Tully tonight, so bear with her.)
Epics indeed, on the scale of the greats like Tolkien, of movies grand and limitless like the Great Escape, or Good, the Bad and the Ugly, or even the humourous epic of It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World. My tolerance for such vast visions is limitless. I am the watcher, the subservient idolator ready to cast my soul to the wind to earn the favour of yet another epic narrative to capture my attention.
It has been a night to encapsulate such visions. A young Clint Eastwood, grim, impassive, but with that subtle impishness in those blue eyes that drags you merrily into the full grasp of a true rogue at work ... to the brother of that same vision, as the Cooler King denies his imprisonment with every bounce against concrete walls.
For the novice, for the poseur: I am their Bitch. Period.
Give to me the illustrative epic. I do not wish for a trite happy ending, but for the ending as it is written for the stars and not for the frail psyche of a human spirit. Give me death, give me life, give me the grandest of struggles to both surpass and embrace them both.
I submit, I surrender.
Good night.
The Pooka does have a vast weakness for epics of a grandiose scale. Nay, not even a weakness for that is too simple, too mild. It is a passion, one carried from womb to now when the womb used and worn out is my own.
(The Pooka hath also benefited somewhat from the merits of a good stiff glass of Tully tonight, so bear with her.)
Epics indeed, on the scale of the greats like Tolkien, of movies grand and limitless like the Great Escape, or Good, the Bad and the Ugly, or even the humourous epic of It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World. My tolerance for such vast visions is limitless. I am the watcher, the subservient idolator ready to cast my soul to the wind to earn the favour of yet another epic narrative to capture my attention.
It has been a night to encapsulate such visions. A young Clint Eastwood, grim, impassive, but with that subtle impishness in those blue eyes that drags you merrily into the full grasp of a true rogue at work ... to the brother of that same vision, as the Cooler King denies his imprisonment with every bounce against concrete walls.
For the novice, for the poseur: I am their Bitch. Period.
Give to me the illustrative epic. I do not wish for a trite happy ending, but for the ending as it is written for the stars and not for the frail psyche of a human spirit. Give me death, give me life, give me the grandest of struggles to both surpass and embrace them both.
I submit, I surrender.
Good night.
Thursday, January 24, 2002
A Look Back - A Pooka's Retrospective
I remember the exact day in my life when I knew that something was really, really wrong with me.
My Junior year of high school, my insomnia and nightmares hit a real peak for me. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't pay attention, my grades slipped. I was miserable. I was also confusing the hell out of everyone. I couldn't sleep, but I was always exhausted and trying to sleep. To me, that made sense. If you can't, you get tired, and you try, but you can't, so you get worse and so on.
Friday night is prime time for high school teens -- no school the next day, and the week is over.
Me, I came home around 3:30, took off my clothes, and crawled in bed. This time, I was so painfully exhausted (everything HURT) that I actually fell asleep.
And stayed that way.
It was around 9 that night when they finally found me. The door to my room had been slightly closed, but open enough that you could see most of the room and that obviously the lights were off. They'd found my books, so they knew I'd at least BEEN home.
No one ever thought of looking in bed.
My boyfriend was in a total panic (I remember him trying not to cry when he found me, yes, HE looked, not my parents), and my parents were, not surprisingly, mad.
I got yelled at for it. By my parents. For being home where I was supposed to be. Hello, Houston? We have a problem.
But I knew then that something really had to be wrong. I wasn't crazy. All the weird aches, weird reactions to medications, the insomnia ... something had to be there.
It took them another 15 years to give it a name.
Fibromyalgia. Fibromyalgic Syndrome. FMS. Fibrositis.
It has a lot of names, but the symptoms are all pretty much the same. Only the severity changes. Each one of us handles the disease differently, each one of us has our own magical combination that will ease it and make it roll over and behave. Not all of us find that combination. Not all of us are taken seriously -- some never are.
It's a disease that affects mostly women, women in the child-bearing "Valium" Stepford years. Think of how long it took pre-menstrual syndrome to even be acknowledged, much less accepted as a reality. In a field where men still dominate, if you can't see it, smell it, or taste it, it's not real. When you can't stab someone with a needle or take an x-ray of it, it's not real.
I faced a lot of that. I faced even more of it before I got to the point where even an idiot could see that something was painfully wrong with me.
I was a hypochondriac. I was just lazy. I just wanted attention.
No, I just wanted to go to sleep and wake up like every normal person on the planet. I wanted to be able to go and run and climb and play without hurting, without knots tearing at my limbs and making them spasm and cramp. I wanted to be able to be with others without catching some virus that someone they were in contact with had, and they only passed it on without becoming sick themselves.
I wanted to be normal, and I never was.
Throw being massively hypoglycemic into the blend, and you get a real mess. My blood sugar was the cause of SO much pain for me and those around me. I would wake up with morning readings of 30 and 40. I remember a reading of 19. Damn near enough to kill a person.
I don't remember a lot of what happened during those swings. I faintly remember a lot of anger, tantrums, hysterics. I remember a lot of bruises from fainting, a lot of laughter and hard looks when I'd pass out in class, or stagger into a doorframe because I was too dizzy to keep my balance. I remember having a lot of arguments with a lot of people, and I know I wasn't even remotely coherent or logical. I just don't remember any of the details. They're lost to me.
I only remember that half an hour or so after someone finally stuffed food in my mouth, I felt better. Logic returned. I'd cry and apologize and never know why.
Cocktail for a maniac. Recipe for a broken heart.
Or classic early fibro symptoms.
The doctors were close, though. They had the right idea over the years, they just never managed to find the right solution. I give them a lot of credit for that. Some of the doctors really did try: Unfortunately, none of the results fit the bill.
I've been tested for lupus more times than the scar on my arm cares to tell. I've been repeatedly tested for rheumatoid arthritis, for Epstein-Barr (mono), Lyme Disease, Multiple Sclerosis.
I've endured wave after wave of miserable tests including a colonoscopy because they were determined for a while that I had Crohn's Disease, or colon polyps, or tumours, or ...
You get the picture.
Only when you start to piece everything together does it begin to make sense.
In the meantime, I watched my self-esteem and confidence dwindle to nothing. *I* knew there was something wrong me, and I knew it wasn't just in my head. There was too much proof that I wasn't crazy, but none of it matched up.
I bruise terribly. I rarely feel an injury, but I will bruise up black and purple and it definitely hurts then. After surgery, (or even my tattoos) I bleed more than I should. I've almost died in childbirth due to massive hemmorhaging. I've had a blood transfusion to keep me from dying.
My bloodwork is all clean. There's nothing in it to explain why my body doesn't want to heal. So I must be imagining it, even when the bruises say otherwise.
I've got more than enough proof that I don't sleep, and when I do, it's restless and harsh and full of nightmares. The list to affirm to that is a mile long.
Is it really surprising that no doctor has ever done a sleep study on me?
The most I've been able to get out of a doctor until recently was the confirmation of Raynaud's Syndrome/Phenomenon. I have abnormally cold hands and feet. Even now, my entire body is quite warm, but my hands are icy and ashen, the skin sagging around the bones and tendons. If I try to warm them, they will change colours from red to purple and back again, and I will be in serious pain. Touching ice, or even a cold glass is agony.
My feet do the same thing. Showers are sheer hell. By the time the water is warm enough on my feet, they hurt. Socks only marginally helps. My feet can be cold inside two pairs of socks and in boots.
All the little things add up. My husband was slowly watching me fall apart, and I know even he thought I was crazy for a while. He might deny it, but you know The Look when you get it, particularly if you've seen it time and time again.
The first real help came on a visit to his mother.
You see, my mother-in-law has Fibromyalgia.
Those little things made perfect sense to her. She's lived with them, too.
To be honest, at the time I didn't think much of what she had to say. I'd been told too often that it was all in my head. Here, take this pill and you'll be fine. Here, go see this shrink, this doctor, this ... whatever. There's nothing wrong with you that I can find, so go away.
And the little things kept adding up. Like having to cut all my hair off because I couldn't keep raising my arms above my head long enough to wash it, much less keep it braided so it didn't knot while I slept. I could not raise my arms above shoulder level. I'd get dizzy, they'd feel like they weighed a thousand pounds and it would HURT, oh God, it would hurt.
I've never, NEVER been comfortable with having my blood pressure taken. It can bring tears to my eyes, it's so painful. I get bruises and strange skin tears from cuffs.
Know what?
There's an FMS Trigger Point there. Go fig. You get a gold star.
Hugs became more and more painful. My hips wouldn't always want to work, they'd lock and send bolts of pain down my legs and into my back. My fingers would suddenly start shaking wildly. I'd drop things. I've never been known as clumsy, but that's certainly what I was turning into.
Then a weird series of events managed to turn my world around and give some sanity back to it.
My labor with Thing 2 was relatively normal by all standards, especially compared to the birth of Thing 1.
The next day in the hospital, however, scared all of us.
My bloodwork came back strangely. I started hurting after dinner, severe, sharp shooting chest pains. My blood pressure spiked, 02 levels dropped, and suddenly I was hooked to EKGs with oxygen going and people basically freaking out on me.
The next bloodwork apparently scared them worse. I was taken off food entirely and set up for an ultrasound.
My, look at the gallstone totally blocking the tube. Maybe that's why her liver is starting to fail.
I'd been in the hospital almost a week when they finally told DG he couldn't come in and stay most of the night. He asked why.
"Because she's no longer on the Critical Care list."
Ahem? Oh hell. Yes, they should have told us I was considered a Critical patient. I'm VERY glad they didn't. That would have just been more stress to handle in an already stressful situation.
I think I knew on some level how serious it was, though. Some of you reading this were around during that period, and possibly remember the letter I wrote in the hospital that DG posted for me. Even though they were trying to keep the new mom calm for Thing 2, I knew, and was scared.
Three months and 60 lost pounds later, after Thing 2 was a little more situated, I went into the hospital.
My gallbladder *had* to come out and my tubes had to be tied because I can't take most birth control and having another child probably would have killed me. We did all that at once to minimize side-effects. I still have problems with scar tissue from the gallbladder, and lots of "echo" memory pain.
But this is where the downhill spiral started. I was tired more often, suffered insomnia worse than before, and occasionally hurt for no apparent reason.
My arm was another *had* to. By the time I reached the surgeon, I'd lost all feeling in my hand and it was totally unusable. A knot of tendon near the TP had looped around my ulnar nerve and completely strangled it. They went in, removed the knot (and the nerve and muscles entirely), and totally rebuilt the inside of my arm to try to prevent it from happening again. I have some permanent nerve damage up in the arm itself, and the scar isn't pretty, but I have my hand back. Recovery time was actually shorter and I pushed myself enough that I have full use of my hand without having to endure the abuse of physical therapy.
My immune system joined the "abandon Pooka" bandwagon after this one. I can catch damn near any virus that even looks at me from a distance.
Just in time for my tonsils -- which had been taken out when I was 18 months old -- to decide to make another appearance. They didn't entirely grow back, but a particularly nasty case of strep hit me, and settled into the new growth and BAM. 9 months solid of hell. I had strep a confirmed 4 times during that 9 months, plus pneumonia, and I was never NOT on an antibiotic. Pneumonia and strep really really SUCK when you're an asthmatic.
I developed my new deadly allergy to penicillin during this time, as well as widened my sulfa allergy to all sulfamides and cephalosporins. No antibiotic ever worked. I stayed sick a solid 9 months. I was in the middle of full tonsilitis when they said to hell with it and took them out.
There weren't any ways around them. Each one was sufficiently traumatic on its own to contribute to the fibro, together, a real mess.
This leaves us where we are today:
-I am often very scatterbrained, unable to retain information I've recently heard or read, sometimes unable to concentrate at all without tears and frustration at the inability to do so.
-I am often incapable of holding my children, or playing with them, or even meeting basic care needs.
-There are days when I physically cannot crawl out of bed, even to use the bathroom, without assistance.
-I cannot sleep. I am alternately exhausted and insomniatic (did I just make up a new word?).
-Sometimes it is all so bad that I wish they would find something fatally wrong with me, just so I know that it would be over soon.
The good news is that fibromyalgia won't kill you.
The bad news is that fibromyalgia won't kill you.
This brings me back to the original purpose and point of all my rambling.
You CANNOT do it alone.
Tomorrow, DG and I will have been married for eleven years.
I never could have made it this far without him.
We have been together through the bad, and the worse. We've seen death up close and had too many personal encounters with him, and together we've won past it.
There are days when we truly loathe each other, but beneath it is still what has brought us and kept us together. You just can't survive this much together and have something relatively small tear it apart.
And I could NOT do it alone. Not without him.
Thank you, honey, for eleven years.
You know why I leave "wonderful" out of that. We aren't perfect. We never will be. And neither of us pretend that we are, either.
Thank you for being there, even when I wasn't.
Thank you for being here for us now, even when I can't.
Thank you for trying to close the gaps that I make out of fear.
Thank you for making me hate you every now and then to bring things back into perspective.
Thank you for not letting me run away.
In shorter words: "Eleven years, and we haven't killed each other yet."
I love you.
~pooka
My Junior year of high school, my insomnia and nightmares hit a real peak for me. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't pay attention, my grades slipped. I was miserable. I was also confusing the hell out of everyone. I couldn't sleep, but I was always exhausted and trying to sleep. To me, that made sense. If you can't, you get tired, and you try, but you can't, so you get worse and so on.
Friday night is prime time for high school teens -- no school the next day, and the week is over.
Me, I came home around 3:30, took off my clothes, and crawled in bed. This time, I was so painfully exhausted (everything HURT) that I actually fell asleep.
And stayed that way.
It was around 9 that night when they finally found me. The door to my room had been slightly closed, but open enough that you could see most of the room and that obviously the lights were off. They'd found my books, so they knew I'd at least BEEN home.
No one ever thought of looking in bed.
My boyfriend was in a total panic (I remember him trying not to cry when he found me, yes, HE looked, not my parents), and my parents were, not surprisingly, mad.
I got yelled at for it. By my parents. For being home where I was supposed to be. Hello, Houston? We have a problem.
But I knew then that something really had to be wrong. I wasn't crazy. All the weird aches, weird reactions to medications, the insomnia ... something had to be there.
It took them another 15 years to give it a name.
Fibromyalgia. Fibromyalgic Syndrome. FMS. Fibrositis.
It has a lot of names, but the symptoms are all pretty much the same. Only the severity changes. Each one of us handles the disease differently, each one of us has our own magical combination that will ease it and make it roll over and behave. Not all of us find that combination. Not all of us are taken seriously -- some never are.
It's a disease that affects mostly women, women in the child-bearing "Valium" Stepford years. Think of how long it took pre-menstrual syndrome to even be acknowledged, much less accepted as a reality. In a field where men still dominate, if you can't see it, smell it, or taste it, it's not real. When you can't stab someone with a needle or take an x-ray of it, it's not real.
I faced a lot of that. I faced even more of it before I got to the point where even an idiot could see that something was painfully wrong with me.
I was a hypochondriac. I was just lazy. I just wanted attention.
No, I just wanted to go to sleep and wake up like every normal person on the planet. I wanted to be able to go and run and climb and play without hurting, without knots tearing at my limbs and making them spasm and cramp. I wanted to be able to be with others without catching some virus that someone they were in contact with had, and they only passed it on without becoming sick themselves.
I wanted to be normal, and I never was.
Throw being massively hypoglycemic into the blend, and you get a real mess. My blood sugar was the cause of SO much pain for me and those around me. I would wake up with morning readings of 30 and 40. I remember a reading of 19. Damn near enough to kill a person.
I don't remember a lot of what happened during those swings. I faintly remember a lot of anger, tantrums, hysterics. I remember a lot of bruises from fainting, a lot of laughter and hard looks when I'd pass out in class, or stagger into a doorframe because I was too dizzy to keep my balance. I remember having a lot of arguments with a lot of people, and I know I wasn't even remotely coherent or logical. I just don't remember any of the details. They're lost to me.
I only remember that half an hour or so after someone finally stuffed food in my mouth, I felt better. Logic returned. I'd cry and apologize and never know why.
Cocktail for a maniac. Recipe for a broken heart.
Or classic early fibro symptoms.
The doctors were close, though. They had the right idea over the years, they just never managed to find the right solution. I give them a lot of credit for that. Some of the doctors really did try: Unfortunately, none of the results fit the bill.
I've been tested for lupus more times than the scar on my arm cares to tell. I've been repeatedly tested for rheumatoid arthritis, for Epstein-Barr (mono), Lyme Disease, Multiple Sclerosis.
I've endured wave after wave of miserable tests including a colonoscopy because they were determined for a while that I had Crohn's Disease, or colon polyps, or tumours, or ...
You get the picture.
Only when you start to piece everything together does it begin to make sense.
In the meantime, I watched my self-esteem and confidence dwindle to nothing. *I* knew there was something wrong me, and I knew it wasn't just in my head. There was too much proof that I wasn't crazy, but none of it matched up.
I bruise terribly. I rarely feel an injury, but I will bruise up black and purple and it definitely hurts then. After surgery, (or even my tattoos) I bleed more than I should. I've almost died in childbirth due to massive hemmorhaging. I've had a blood transfusion to keep me from dying.
My bloodwork is all clean. There's nothing in it to explain why my body doesn't want to heal. So I must be imagining it, even when the bruises say otherwise.
I've got more than enough proof that I don't sleep, and when I do, it's restless and harsh and full of nightmares. The list to affirm to that is a mile long.
Is it really surprising that no doctor has ever done a sleep study on me?
The most I've been able to get out of a doctor until recently was the confirmation of Raynaud's Syndrome/Phenomenon. I have abnormally cold hands and feet. Even now, my entire body is quite warm, but my hands are icy and ashen, the skin sagging around the bones and tendons. If I try to warm them, they will change colours from red to purple and back again, and I will be in serious pain. Touching ice, or even a cold glass is agony.
My feet do the same thing. Showers are sheer hell. By the time the water is warm enough on my feet, they hurt. Socks only marginally helps. My feet can be cold inside two pairs of socks and in boots.
All the little things add up. My husband was slowly watching me fall apart, and I know even he thought I was crazy for a while. He might deny it, but you know The Look when you get it, particularly if you've seen it time and time again.
The first real help came on a visit to his mother.
You see, my mother-in-law has Fibromyalgia.
Those little things made perfect sense to her. She's lived with them, too.
To be honest, at the time I didn't think much of what she had to say. I'd been told too often that it was all in my head. Here, take this pill and you'll be fine. Here, go see this shrink, this doctor, this ... whatever. There's nothing wrong with you that I can find, so go away.
And the little things kept adding up. Like having to cut all my hair off because I couldn't keep raising my arms above my head long enough to wash it, much less keep it braided so it didn't knot while I slept. I could not raise my arms above shoulder level. I'd get dizzy, they'd feel like they weighed a thousand pounds and it would HURT, oh God, it would hurt.
I've never, NEVER been comfortable with having my blood pressure taken. It can bring tears to my eyes, it's so painful. I get bruises and strange skin tears from cuffs.
Know what?
There's an FMS Trigger Point there. Go fig. You get a gold star.
Hugs became more and more painful. My hips wouldn't always want to work, they'd lock and send bolts of pain down my legs and into my back. My fingers would suddenly start shaking wildly. I'd drop things. I've never been known as clumsy, but that's certainly what I was turning into.
Then a weird series of events managed to turn my world around and give some sanity back to it.
My labor with Thing 2 was relatively normal by all standards, especially compared to the birth of Thing 1.
The next day in the hospital, however, scared all of us.
My bloodwork came back strangely. I started hurting after dinner, severe, sharp shooting chest pains. My blood pressure spiked, 02 levels dropped, and suddenly I was hooked to EKGs with oxygen going and people basically freaking out on me.
The next bloodwork apparently scared them worse. I was taken off food entirely and set up for an ultrasound.
My, look at the gallstone totally blocking the tube. Maybe that's why her liver is starting to fail.
I'd been in the hospital almost a week when they finally told DG he couldn't come in and stay most of the night. He asked why.
"Because she's no longer on the Critical Care list."
Ahem? Oh hell. Yes, they should have told us I was considered a Critical patient. I'm VERY glad they didn't. That would have just been more stress to handle in an already stressful situation.
I think I knew on some level how serious it was, though. Some of you reading this were around during that period, and possibly remember the letter I wrote in the hospital that DG posted for me. Even though they were trying to keep the new mom calm for Thing 2, I knew, and was scared.
Three months and 60 lost pounds later, after Thing 2 was a little more situated, I went into the hospital.
My gallbladder *had* to come out and my tubes had to be tied because I can't take most birth control and having another child probably would have killed me. We did all that at once to minimize side-effects. I still have problems with scar tissue from the gallbladder, and lots of "echo" memory pain.
But this is where the downhill spiral started. I was tired more often, suffered insomnia worse than before, and occasionally hurt for no apparent reason.
My arm was another *had* to. By the time I reached the surgeon, I'd lost all feeling in my hand and it was totally unusable. A knot of tendon near the TP had looped around my ulnar nerve and completely strangled it. They went in, removed the knot (and the nerve and muscles entirely), and totally rebuilt the inside of my arm to try to prevent it from happening again. I have some permanent nerve damage up in the arm itself, and the scar isn't pretty, but I have my hand back. Recovery time was actually shorter and I pushed myself enough that I have full use of my hand without having to endure the abuse of physical therapy.
My immune system joined the "abandon Pooka" bandwagon after this one. I can catch damn near any virus that even looks at me from a distance.
Just in time for my tonsils -- which had been taken out when I was 18 months old -- to decide to make another appearance. They didn't entirely grow back, but a particularly nasty case of strep hit me, and settled into the new growth and BAM. 9 months solid of hell. I had strep a confirmed 4 times during that 9 months, plus pneumonia, and I was never NOT on an antibiotic. Pneumonia and strep really really SUCK when you're an asthmatic.
I developed my new deadly allergy to penicillin during this time, as well as widened my sulfa allergy to all sulfamides and cephalosporins. No antibiotic ever worked. I stayed sick a solid 9 months. I was in the middle of full tonsilitis when they said to hell with it and took them out.
There weren't any ways around them. Each one was sufficiently traumatic on its own to contribute to the fibro, together, a real mess.
This leaves us where we are today:
-I am often very scatterbrained, unable to retain information I've recently heard or read, sometimes unable to concentrate at all without tears and frustration at the inability to do so.
-I am often incapable of holding my children, or playing with them, or even meeting basic care needs.
-There are days when I physically cannot crawl out of bed, even to use the bathroom, without assistance.
-I cannot sleep. I am alternately exhausted and insomniatic (did I just make up a new word?).
-Sometimes it is all so bad that I wish they would find something fatally wrong with me, just so I know that it would be over soon.
The good news is that fibromyalgia won't kill you.
The bad news is that fibromyalgia won't kill you.
This brings me back to the original purpose and point of all my rambling.
You CANNOT do it alone.
Tomorrow, DG and I will have been married for eleven years.
I never could have made it this far without him.
We have been together through the bad, and the worse. We've seen death up close and had too many personal encounters with him, and together we've won past it.
There are days when we truly loathe each other, but beneath it is still what has brought us and kept us together. You just can't survive this much together and have something relatively small tear it apart.
And I could NOT do it alone. Not without him.
Thank you, honey, for eleven years.
You know why I leave "wonderful" out of that. We aren't perfect. We never will be. And neither of us pretend that we are, either.
Thank you for being there, even when I wasn't.
Thank you for being here for us now, even when I can't.
Thank you for trying to close the gaps that I make out of fear.
Thank you for making me hate you every now and then to bring things back into perspective.
Thank you for not letting me run away.
In shorter words: "Eleven years, and we haven't killed each other yet."
I love you.
~pooka
Saturday, January 19, 2002
Out of Context
Still awake.
Fingernails are still flamable.
Mice can hang upside-down for extended periods of time. This appears to do no damage whatsoever to their little mousey brains -- they're still as utterly butt-stupid on return to your regular upright position.
Carpet should not be kitty toilet paper.
Oh look! Carbon paper!
Tootsie Roll power, such a chocolatey chew.
Tootise Roll, I think I'm in love with you.
"He doesn't wear a zoot suit!"
"It's true. If I really cared, I'd dress like a dead man, too."
For every leap forward, we take three steps back. Progress is only an illusion. Evolution is a curious lie. Now we walk forward into the late past, regressing from humanity to be boiled down into the most primal primitive beast to walk the earth. Violence is not a solution, it's a symptom.
If your life was to accrue finance charges, would you still be in the black?
My Christmas tree is still up. For at least one shining evening, All was calm and Bright with the world. Removal of the tree is a sad task, one I never eagerly embrace.
I think I want to be young again. I'd need different parents, of course, but I want things to be simple. I'd like to have no more to worry about than what jeans go with which sweater, what flavour lipgloss I really liked, who was dating who, and getting homework done.
There's a new Eeyore PEZ dispenser out. I want it. I haven't seen Pooh or Piglet or Tigger, just Eeyore. He's cute. I like my Eeyore.
Still can't find the top to my Eeyore PJs.
Sometimes, you really just don't want to swallow.
Isis is an Isis is an Isis. Loves her, yes we do.
Movie trailer tonight. They've remade "The Time Machine." Lots of remakes these days, Ocean's Eleven, Planet of the Apes, Time Machine, other movies I can't possibly remember the titles to because I'm a doofus. A trend? Sign of more troubled times, searching desperately for some anchor in a sea of insanity.
The moose on the bookshelf is looking at me funny.
"This retro thing is pretty silly. I mean, I'm wearing a snood."
"I was trying not to notice."
Mmm, fun foam. Fun foam. Yessire, I'm having Fun now.
Maybe my life is little more than a cheaply built grafitti wall.
"You gotta help me make a stand.
You just got to see me through another day.
My body's achin' and my time is at hand.
I won't make it any other way."
Sybil is starting to make very scary noises. I'm afraid they're hinting at a meltdown to come. It's a weird low hissing gurgling sound from around the processor/fan side, kinda like the noise soda (especially ginger ale) sometimes make after the bubbles have clung to the sides and then spontaneously broached the surface.
I'm having difficulties with my Ks and Gs. Perhaps they are trying to tell me something.
.
.
.
.
.
Black Hole
Fingernails are still flamable.
Mice can hang upside-down for extended periods of time. This appears to do no damage whatsoever to their little mousey brains -- they're still as utterly butt-stupid on return to your regular upright position.
Carpet should not be kitty toilet paper.
Oh look! Carbon paper!
Tootsie Roll power, such a chocolatey chew.
Tootise Roll, I think I'm in love with you.
"He doesn't wear a zoot suit!"
"It's true. If I really cared, I'd dress like a dead man, too."
For every leap forward, we take three steps back. Progress is only an illusion. Evolution is a curious lie. Now we walk forward into the late past, regressing from humanity to be boiled down into the most primal primitive beast to walk the earth. Violence is not a solution, it's a symptom.
If your life was to accrue finance charges, would you still be in the black?
My Christmas tree is still up. For at least one shining evening, All was calm and Bright with the world. Removal of the tree is a sad task, one I never eagerly embrace.
I think I want to be young again. I'd need different parents, of course, but I want things to be simple. I'd like to have no more to worry about than what jeans go with which sweater, what flavour lipgloss I really liked, who was dating who, and getting homework done.
There's a new Eeyore PEZ dispenser out. I want it. I haven't seen Pooh or Piglet or Tigger, just Eeyore. He's cute. I like my Eeyore.
Still can't find the top to my Eeyore PJs.
Sometimes, you really just don't want to swallow.
Isis is an Isis is an Isis. Loves her, yes we do.
Movie trailer tonight. They've remade "The Time Machine." Lots of remakes these days, Ocean's Eleven, Planet of the Apes, Time Machine, other movies I can't possibly remember the titles to because I'm a doofus. A trend? Sign of more troubled times, searching desperately for some anchor in a sea of insanity.
The moose on the bookshelf is looking at me funny.
"This retro thing is pretty silly. I mean, I'm wearing a snood."
"I was trying not to notice."
Mmm, fun foam. Fun foam. Yessire, I'm having Fun now.
Maybe my life is little more than a cheaply built grafitti wall.
"You gotta help me make a stand.
You just got to see me through another day.
My body's achin' and my time is at hand.
I won't make it any other way."
Sybil is starting to make very scary noises. I'm afraid they're hinting at a meltdown to come. It's a weird low hissing gurgling sound from around the processor/fan side, kinda like the noise soda (especially ginger ale) sometimes make after the bubbles have clung to the sides and then spontaneously broached the surface.
I'm having difficulties with my Ks and Gs. Perhaps they are trying to tell me something.
.
.
.
.
.
Black Hole
Wednesday, January 16, 2002
Giving the Beast a face
Monthly Medications: $140 of copays.
Monthly Office Visits: $40 of copays.
Knowing You Aren't Crazy: Priceless.
I got "lucky" (yeah, right) when I was down in Houston and out with klash.
My arm decided to do one of the Wonder Spasms, the full debilitating FMS blowout. My hand, trembling and quaking, turned purple and went ice cold because the spasm took away full control of my arm.
And Klash and her daughter got to see it happen from the beginning to end.
Times like those when you not only KNOW you aren't crazy, but so does everyone around you, are priceless. And all too rare.
Fibro is so often a faceless demon. You can't see it, smell it, touch it or taste it, but it controls you nonetheless. That lack of solidity makes it a true demon, one of which has managed to convince all too many that it doesn't exist at all.
Proof ... is priceless.
My fibro wasn't too bad until I had to endure multiple surgeries, childbirth, pneumonia, and 5 confirmed cases of strep all within a 4 year span.
I still have nerve damage where my arm was rebuilt, and since it's after the "regeneration" point, I know it's permanent, along with the ugly thick purple scar.
I had my tonsils removed for the second time after enduring 9 very long months of being constantly ill. I lived on liquids, period. I ended up in the ER repeatedly to get shots that would bring the swelling in my throat down so I could even breathe. I developed a violent and deadly allergy to penicillin after 30 years of being able to take it, as well as new allergies to codeine, and I completed the allergies to all forms of sulfa meds.
I've spent too many hours weeping hysterically because I Just Don't Know ... and half the time am too fogged to know what it is that I can't put together. I've had to learn to live with being "Stoopid" now, to live with hearing my husband say "Man, you should have seen her ..."
This is not me. I am not this broken shell. I am not this lost mind.
But if I am not ... who am I?
I am a mother. I have two children who I sometimes cannot even name properly, going through the "Ka, uh, Cha, uh, oh, WHOEVER you are!" stumble to call one onto the rug. I cry inside when I have to tell the eldest that she has to ask her father for help with homework because I simply can't remember HOW to do addition or subtraction at the moment.
I cannot pick up my youngest and cuddle her in my arms because she's too young to understand about avoiding trigger points, and she cries when she realizes she's hurt me again. Too many days I'm unable to hug my children at all, because my skin revolts and even my clothing is painful to wear.
I am a wife who cannot remember the last time we were able to have sex. The agony of after and during can't make up for what small pleasure I could receive. It's no fun for my husband to watch me burst into tears during it because it hurts. He's afraid to touch me at all, never knowing when it will hurt. And then of course it hurts more, because I WANT to be touched ... but even I don't know when it will and when it won't be painful.
I am a writer that has forgotten how to finish a sentence. I begin ... and the little surge that is supposed to connect one thought with another short-circuits and I'm left to stare blankly, wondering what it was that I had set out to accomplish. The story of my life, always to remain incomplete.
I am a woman, and I am so much less so. I cannot love, I cannot feel, I cannot nurture on call, but instead my life is run for me by a beast with no face and an ill-fitting name -- Fibromyalgia.
Fibromyalgia. It, too, is like me, a thing that cannot be easily defined. It is all, and it is none. It is husbands, wives, children, parents, friends. It is sly, subtle, forward. It is control, and it is the loss of the same.
It will never ever go away.
The hardest thing for us to do, when we're in so much pain, when it hurts to even exist, is to remember that WE ARE NOT ALONE.
Sometimes, that makes all the difference in the world.
Monthly Office Visits: $40 of copays.
Knowing You Aren't Crazy: Priceless.
I got "lucky" (yeah, right) when I was down in Houston and out with klash.
My arm decided to do one of the Wonder Spasms, the full debilitating FMS blowout. My hand, trembling and quaking, turned purple and went ice cold because the spasm took away full control of my arm.
And Klash and her daughter got to see it happen from the beginning to end.
Times like those when you not only KNOW you aren't crazy, but so does everyone around you, are priceless. And all too rare.
Fibro is so often a faceless demon. You can't see it, smell it, touch it or taste it, but it controls you nonetheless. That lack of solidity makes it a true demon, one of which has managed to convince all too many that it doesn't exist at all.
Proof ... is priceless.
My fibro wasn't too bad until I had to endure multiple surgeries, childbirth, pneumonia, and 5 confirmed cases of strep all within a 4 year span.
I still have nerve damage where my arm was rebuilt, and since it's after the "regeneration" point, I know it's permanent, along with the ugly thick purple scar.
I had my tonsils removed for the second time after enduring 9 very long months of being constantly ill. I lived on liquids, period. I ended up in the ER repeatedly to get shots that would bring the swelling in my throat down so I could even breathe. I developed a violent and deadly allergy to penicillin after 30 years of being able to take it, as well as new allergies to codeine, and I completed the allergies to all forms of sulfa meds.
I've spent too many hours weeping hysterically because I Just Don't Know ... and half the time am too fogged to know what it is that I can't put together. I've had to learn to live with being "Stoopid" now, to live with hearing my husband say "Man, you should have seen her ..."
This is not me. I am not this broken shell. I am not this lost mind.
But if I am not ... who am I?
I am a mother. I have two children who I sometimes cannot even name properly, going through the "Ka, uh, Cha, uh, oh, WHOEVER you are!" stumble to call one onto the rug. I cry inside when I have to tell the eldest that she has to ask her father for help with homework because I simply can't remember HOW to do addition or subtraction at the moment.
I cannot pick up my youngest and cuddle her in my arms because she's too young to understand about avoiding trigger points, and she cries when she realizes she's hurt me again. Too many days I'm unable to hug my children at all, because my skin revolts and even my clothing is painful to wear.
I am a wife who cannot remember the last time we were able to have sex. The agony of after and during can't make up for what small pleasure I could receive. It's no fun for my husband to watch me burst into tears during it because it hurts. He's afraid to touch me at all, never knowing when it will hurt. And then of course it hurts more, because I WANT to be touched ... but even I don't know when it will and when it won't be painful.
I am a writer that has forgotten how to finish a sentence. I begin ... and the little surge that is supposed to connect one thought with another short-circuits and I'm left to stare blankly, wondering what it was that I had set out to accomplish. The story of my life, always to remain incomplete.
I am a woman, and I am so much less so. I cannot love, I cannot feel, I cannot nurture on call, but instead my life is run for me by a beast with no face and an ill-fitting name -- Fibromyalgia.
Fibromyalgia. It, too, is like me, a thing that cannot be easily defined. It is all, and it is none. It is husbands, wives, children, parents, friends. It is sly, subtle, forward. It is control, and it is the loss of the same.
It will never ever go away.
The hardest thing for us to do, when we're in so much pain, when it hurts to even exist, is to remember that WE ARE NOT ALONE.
Sometimes, that makes all the difference in the world.
Saturday, January 05, 2002
This is why parents go grey early
"Do NOT hit your sister! No, I do NOT care if she hit you first."
"Stop running in the living room!"
"Put the cat down before she bites you."
"Your father is TRYING to sleep in there. Be quiet!"
"Haven't I told you before that we do not throw fireballs at the dinner table?"
"Omnivore does NOT mean that you can take a bite out of your sister!"
"That's it, 2 minutes for high sticking. Put the hockey stick down and get in the corner and you, go get a bandaid and stop blubbering."
"Sorry, Mommy can't hear whining."
"You are going to fall and get hurt if you don't get down from there."
"See, I told you. Now don't climb it again."
"No, you can't levitate your sister and make her go away."
"Put the spellbook down and stop trying to turn your sister into a frog."
"I don't care what spell you're trying to cast, for the last time, I am NOT getting you chicken blood!"
"If you can't play nice, I'm turning the computer off."
"I don't care who had it first, it's mine now."
"How many times do I have to tell you to pick that up?"
"If I have to tell you to stop fighting one more time, both of you go to your room."
"For the last time, cover your mouth when you cough!"
"Do you WANT to be grounded?"
"Stop running in the living room!"
"Put the cat down before she bites you."
"Your father is TRYING to sleep in there. Be quiet!"
"Haven't I told you before that we do not throw fireballs at the dinner table?"
"Omnivore does NOT mean that you can take a bite out of your sister!"
"That's it, 2 minutes for high sticking. Put the hockey stick down and get in the corner and you, go get a bandaid and stop blubbering."
"Sorry, Mommy can't hear whining."
"You are going to fall and get hurt if you don't get down from there."
"See, I told you. Now don't climb it again."
"No, you can't levitate your sister and make her go away."
"Put the spellbook down and stop trying to turn your sister into a frog."
"I don't care what spell you're trying to cast, for the last time, I am NOT getting you chicken blood!"
"If you can't play nice, I'm turning the computer off."
"I don't care who had it first, it's mine now."
"How many times do I have to tell you to pick that up?"
"If I have to tell you to stop fighting one more time, both of you go to your room."
"For the last time, cover your mouth when you cough!"
"Do you WANT to be grounded?"
Tuesday, December 25, 2001
"Some Assembly Required"
DG has discovered words more horrifying than "Some Assembly Required."
"Made by Mattel."
Thing 2 wants her toy. DG sets out to accomodate the Thing.
Half an hour later, he's still trying to remove ... THE PACKAGING. I've seen less restraints in S&M clubs. This might even require power tools.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Zamboni is in cardboard heaven. Boxes! Everywhere! Oh bliss! He has snurfled and flopped and writhed in them all, even the ones that are impossibly too small for him to do it.
Zamboni is a fruitcake. With nuts.
I'm getting "swish and flick"ed by Thing 1.
Thing 2 is trying to make me walk the plank. Aaargh, Matey!
Harley has gotten distracted from her mousey by DG's Eddie the Eagle. She keeps tryin to steal the puck, eh?
Felimid, having grown tired of trying to set the new land speed record, has settled into a perch of dominance over the heathens below. Of course, getting there almost shattered the patio door, since his massive bulk sent the 5' tall cat tree a'rocking.
Oh god, the Things are eating more chocolate.
Oh god. I just discovered that Thing 1 knows most of the words to "15 Men on a Deadman's Chest." I do not want to know how or where she learned this.
No, Mommy does not want to walk the plank.
No, DG cannot come search my treasure chest.
No, Mommy is not going to explain that one to you.
"Made by Mattel."
Thing 2 wants her toy. DG sets out to accomodate the Thing.
Half an hour later, he's still trying to remove ... THE PACKAGING. I've seen less restraints in S&M clubs. This might even require power tools.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Zamboni is in cardboard heaven. Boxes! Everywhere! Oh bliss! He has snurfled and flopped and writhed in them all, even the ones that are impossibly too small for him to do it.
Zamboni is a fruitcake. With nuts.
I'm getting "swish and flick"ed by Thing 1.
Thing 2 is trying to make me walk the plank. Aaargh, Matey!
Harley has gotten distracted from her mousey by DG's Eddie the Eagle. She keeps tryin to steal the puck, eh?
Felimid, having grown tired of trying to set the new land speed record, has settled into a perch of dominance over the heathens below. Of course, getting there almost shattered the patio door, since his massive bulk sent the 5' tall cat tree a'rocking.
Oh god, the Things are eating more chocolate.
Oh god. I just discovered that Thing 1 knows most of the words to "15 Men on a Deadman's Chest." I do not want to know how or where she learned this.
No, Mommy does not want to walk the plank.
No, DG cannot come search my treasure chest.
No, Mommy is not going to explain that one to you.
Wednesday, November 28, 2001
Kids, cats, sack the wives...
Thing 1 leaves for school. Mommy is asleep. Thing 2 is asleep. DG left 15 minutes before she did, will be back after he finishes walking heathens across the street.
Thing 1 does not close the door entirely.
The wind is blowing, it is very cold.
When DG returns an hour later, the door is wide open.
Zamboni is missing.
The other two cats, being far more intelligent, realized that it was way too cold and wet to even consider a trip outside. They are in bed with me, where it's warm.
Through sheer luck, nothing other than the cat is missing.
DG leaves to search for stupid.
Almost an hour later, he's found ... peeking out from the porch next door, dry and cold, but safe. And sheepish. And whining.
Thing 1 will get a talking-to.
Zam is home.
But don't think this will change his mind about the next escape attempt.
---
Thing 2 walks out of their bedroom with a blue plastic steak knife in hand and a maniacal grin on her face.
Thing 2: "Wookit me, I the doctor an I gotta CUT KAIWEY OPEN to see whats wong wiff her!!"
Me: (knowing that Daddy and I both have had surgery and this is a semi-logical conclusion) "Honey, doctors don't always have to cut someone open to find out what's wrong."
Thing 2: "Good ones do! CUT CUT CUT! Kaiweeeeey, come heeeereee!"
Run, Thing 1, Run.
Thing 1 does not close the door entirely.
The wind is blowing, it is very cold.
When DG returns an hour later, the door is wide open.
Zamboni is missing.
The other two cats, being far more intelligent, realized that it was way too cold and wet to even consider a trip outside. They are in bed with me, where it's warm.
Through sheer luck, nothing other than the cat is missing.
DG leaves to search for stupid.
Almost an hour later, he's found ... peeking out from the porch next door, dry and cold, but safe. And sheepish. And whining.
Thing 1 will get a talking-to.
Zam is home.
But don't think this will change his mind about the next escape attempt.
---
Thing 2 walks out of their bedroom with a blue plastic steak knife in hand and a maniacal grin on her face.
Thing 2: "Wookit me, I the doctor an I gotta CUT KAIWEY OPEN to see whats wong wiff her!!"
Me: (knowing that Daddy and I both have had surgery and this is a semi-logical conclusion) "Honey, doctors don't always have to cut someone open to find out what's wrong."
Thing 2: "Good ones do! CUT CUT CUT! Kaiweeeeey, come heeeereee!"
Run, Thing 1, Run.
Saturday, November 10, 2001
Whose kids are these, anyway?
Thing 2: "Daaaaaaddy? Will you PLEASE stop Kaiwey from whining? She is SO bitchy!"
I'm anticipating a Lina fireball any moment.
Thing 2: "Daddy, do you HAVE to go bring Kaiwey home? It's SO much quieter here wiffout her."
---
(door opens, enter the Squealer)
Thing 1: "Mama, Heather accepted a sword fight with a bunch of boys and then she got hurt and so now she's going to come inside, m'kay?"
Keep in mind that Thing 2 will be 5 on Tuesday (dur), and is smaller by far than most 2 year olds.
Thing 2: (she's doing fine, not even crying, until she sees me) "MOMMY!! I was fightin wiff this boy an I was kickin his butt an we was sword fightin an I went WHAM WHAM HIYAH pow an I was kickin his butt (yes, she pointed this out at least twice) an then his brother got mad an he came an HIT me an Oh Mommy lookit my finger!"
So now she's beating up boys to the point that their big brothers have to come defend them from the pint-sized terror.
She, of course, after bandaid, is ready to go back outside.
Thing 1 was bleeding worse than her sister. Apparently she "fell down."
I had to emphasize the point repeatedly with Thing 2 that if she insists on fighting with boys, she's going to get hurt eventually. I think she's ready for round 2. I feel sorry for those boys.
Score:
War Wounds - 1
Sidewalk - 1
Thing 1 - Zip
I'm anticipating a Lina fireball any moment.
Thing 2: "Daddy, do you HAVE to go bring Kaiwey home? It's SO much quieter here wiffout her."
---
(door opens, enter the Squealer)
Thing 1: "Mama, Heather accepted a sword fight with a bunch of boys and then she got hurt and so now she's going to come inside, m'kay?"
Keep in mind that Thing 2 will be 5 on Tuesday (dur), and is smaller by far than most 2 year olds.
Thing 2: (she's doing fine, not even crying, until she sees me) "MOMMY!! I was fightin wiff this boy an I was kickin his butt an we was sword fightin an I went WHAM WHAM HIYAH pow an I was kickin his butt (yes, she pointed this out at least twice) an then his brother got mad an he came an HIT me an Oh Mommy lookit my finger!"
So now she's beating up boys to the point that their big brothers have to come defend them from the pint-sized terror.
She, of course, after bandaid, is ready to go back outside.
Thing 1 was bleeding worse than her sister. Apparently she "fell down."
I had to emphasize the point repeatedly with Thing 2 that if she insists on fighting with boys, she's going to get hurt eventually. I think she's ready for round 2. I feel sorry for those boys.
Score:
War Wounds - 1
Sidewalk - 1
Thing 1 - Zip
Monday, October 29, 2001
Misunderhearings
Thing 2 and I are watching Cartoon Network, and they show a commercial for the Barbie Nail Studio.
Thing 2: "Mommy, how do you get them off?"
Me: "It's just glue, honey, they come off easily."
Thing 2: "You mean you don't gotta use a knife and cut off your fingers and wipe the blood clean so those will stick?"
Now me, I wanna know where the hell she got THAT idea from ......
Thing 2: "Mommy, how do you get them off?"
Me: "It's just glue, honey, they come off easily."
Thing 2: "You mean you don't gotta use a knife and cut off your fingers and wipe the blood clean so those will stick?"
Now me, I wanna know where the hell she got THAT idea from ......
Wednesday, October 10, 2001
Wasn't there, didn't do it, you can't prove anything
It's lies, I tell you, all lies. Don't believe DG, he's just making it up!
Oh. Shit. Wait. You mean he didn't say anything?
Uh. Nevermind, carryon.
Apparently ... and this was after I opened my eyes and realized I'd passed out cold onto my laptop and it was cussing at me at binary ... after I went to bed, DG shifted, and it startled the sleeping me.
Apparently ... I snapped upright and screamed, one of those throaty warpath everyonedies screams, and turned on him. "Feral," and I quote.
Apparently I scared the shit out of him.
And then, some minutes later, without ever focusing on him or answering him, I laid back down and went back to sleep.
*I* don't believe this. *I* don't remember shit. I'd honestly believe he was making it up ... if he didn't look so freakin startled while he was asking me about it.
(Jon says I looked like this every time he woke me up, however, his memory must be faulty and therefore he's not an acceptable witness for the prosecution.)
The leg is HURTING him today. Right on schedule.
He tried getting up, didn't last long, so I had to get up and make sure he was fed so we could dump pain pills into him.
Of course, that means I still haven't gotten nearly enough sleep, so we're working ourselves into some serious fucking sleep deprivation now.
I need an assistant.
Oh. Shit. Wait. You mean he didn't say anything?
Uh. Nevermind, carryon.
Apparently ... and this was after I opened my eyes and realized I'd passed out cold onto my laptop and it was cussing at me at binary ... after I went to bed, DG shifted, and it startled the sleeping me.
Apparently ... I snapped upright and screamed, one of those throaty warpath everyonedies screams, and turned on him. "Feral," and I quote.
Apparently I scared the shit out of him.
And then, some minutes later, without ever focusing on him or answering him, I laid back down and went back to sleep.
*I* don't believe this. *I* don't remember shit. I'd honestly believe he was making it up ... if he didn't look so freakin startled while he was asking me about it.
(Jon says I looked like this every time he woke me up, however, his memory must be faulty and therefore he's not an acceptable witness for the prosecution.)
The leg is HURTING him today. Right on schedule.
He tried getting up, didn't last long, so I had to get up and make sure he was fed so we could dump pain pills into him.
Of course, that means I still haven't gotten nearly enough sleep, so we're working ourselves into some serious fucking sleep deprivation now.
I need an assistant.
Wednesday, October 03, 2001
America: Land of the free, Home of the Carnivore
Frozen dinners are designed with the carnivore in mind.
Look at them.
Look at the vegetarian dishes while you're at it. "Mock meatloaf." "Tofu corn dogs." "Meatless Vegetable Burgers."
90% of them have some sort of Meat Substitute.
There are times when the fibro has me in too much pain and too incoherent to "create dinner." If I want to get fed, I'd better hope there's something easy I can nuke.
And there are lots of things that LOOK good out there.
9 times out of 10, I pick what passes for meat in them out. There's a saucy noodle thing with BIG chunks of carrots and peas in it. Lots of noodles, the sauce is pretty good .... but then there's this CHICKEN in it. Urgh. Pause to pick chicken out. It's mindless, so I can get that part right.
Michelinas has a pretty good stroganoff. I gotta pause to pick the meat out.
I finally found a chicken minestrone (Stouffers) that doesn't make me gag. No, I take it back. I ADORE it. Lots of zucchini (proof that God really exists), and BIG chunks of chicken (not mystery meat), so it's even easy to pick out if I can't stomach it at the time.
Mexican dinners usually aren't as bad about it, by the time they've processed the ground beef THATfar (IF that is indeedy what it truly is) and mixed it with all the goop, there's nothing TO pick out.
And have you ever stopped to pay attention about proportions? "Rice and chicken (turkey, whatever)." You get all this goop, lots of meat, and a bare-assed spoonful of rice. Huh?
Meat, tons, check. Sauce, tons, check. Cool, that means we can skimp on the noodles and veggies, Americans LIKE it this way!
I don't make claims to be a vegetarian. It's not a principle thing. I am firmly convinced that we are mostly carnivorous by nature -- at the very least, true ominvores. There are times when I just oooooooze over a really good steak -- and it better still be mooing on the way to my table. Bloody, please. A good vet could still save it.
But meat just doesn't like my system very well. In anything more than mild doses, it reacts badly with my fibro and then I have to spend the next few days dealing with a total gastrological riot. Dairy is pretty bad about it too, so I must do without cheesy goodness and yummies like ice cream and cheesecake and even milk except for sparingly.
America: Land of the free, Home of the Carnivore.
Look at them.
Look at the vegetarian dishes while you're at it. "Mock meatloaf." "Tofu corn dogs." "Meatless Vegetable Burgers."
90% of them have some sort of Meat Substitute.
There are times when the fibro has me in too much pain and too incoherent to "create dinner." If I want to get fed, I'd better hope there's something easy I can nuke.
And there are lots of things that LOOK good out there.
9 times out of 10, I pick what passes for meat in them out. There's a saucy noodle thing with BIG chunks of carrots and peas in it. Lots of noodles, the sauce is pretty good .... but then there's this CHICKEN in it. Urgh. Pause to pick chicken out. It's mindless, so I can get that part right.
Michelinas has a pretty good stroganoff. I gotta pause to pick the meat out.
I finally found a chicken minestrone (Stouffers) that doesn't make me gag. No, I take it back. I ADORE it. Lots of zucchini (proof that God really exists), and BIG chunks of chicken (not mystery meat), so it's even easy to pick out if I can't stomach it at the time.
Mexican dinners usually aren't as bad about it, by the time they've processed the ground beef THATfar (IF that is indeedy what it truly is) and mixed it with all the goop, there's nothing TO pick out.
And have you ever stopped to pay attention about proportions? "Rice and chicken (turkey, whatever)." You get all this goop, lots of meat, and a bare-assed spoonful of rice. Huh?
Meat, tons, check. Sauce, tons, check. Cool, that means we can skimp on the noodles and veggies, Americans LIKE it this way!
I don't make claims to be a vegetarian. It's not a principle thing. I am firmly convinced that we are mostly carnivorous by nature -- at the very least, true ominvores. There are times when I just oooooooze over a really good steak -- and it better still be mooing on the way to my table. Bloody, please. A good vet could still save it.
But meat just doesn't like my system very well. In anything more than mild doses, it reacts badly with my fibro and then I have to spend the next few days dealing with a total gastrological riot. Dairy is pretty bad about it too, so I must do without cheesy goodness and yummies like ice cream and cheesecake and even milk except for sparingly.
America: Land of the free, Home of the Carnivore.
Tuesday, September 18, 2001
When Cats Err
Zamboni is a very large cat. Zamboni is a very large very FLUFFY Maine Coon cat.
Zamboni decided that while he was sniffing at the table, it would be fun to sit in Thing 2's forgotten waffle plate. Full of syrup.
Now we have to catch the Elusive CactusTailed CowCat, complete with bits of paper and string for camoflague, to either bathe or shave.
Important Notes:
Cats and syrup don't mix.
Thing 2 needs to be retrained.
Laughing your ass off with a sore throat is a Bad Idea.
Bathing a Coon is JPG worthy. Drowned rat, anyone?
Zam has a opossum tail under all that fur. Eeeeww.
Zam does not like baths.
WOW, can he yowl indignantly. Wow, he's loud. Wow, he's mournful.
He even has Harley and Flea seriously upset. Harley tried to come over and give him a consolation bath while I was holding and drying him. Poor kitten about gagged on the mouthful of fur. Zam doesn't particularly allow the other cats to groom him, so this was quite an experience.
All three are now hiding under my futon, plotting the demise of DG.
Zamboni decided that while he was sniffing at the table, it would be fun to sit in Thing 2's forgotten waffle plate. Full of syrup.
Now we have to catch the Elusive CactusTailed CowCat, complete with bits of paper and string for camoflague, to either bathe or shave.
Important Notes:
Cats and syrup don't mix.
Thing 2 needs to be retrained.
Laughing your ass off with a sore throat is a Bad Idea.
Bathing a Coon is JPG worthy. Drowned rat, anyone?
Zam has a opossum tail under all that fur. Eeeeww.
Zam does not like baths.
WOW, can he yowl indignantly. Wow, he's loud. Wow, he's mournful.
He even has Harley and Flea seriously upset. Harley tried to come over and give him a consolation bath while I was holding and drying him. Poor kitten about gagged on the mouthful of fur. Zam doesn't particularly allow the other cats to groom him, so this was quite an experience.
All three are now hiding under my futon, plotting the demise of DG.
Thursday, September 13, 2001
Babes in Fearland
We think that they're too young to understand, that it rolls right past them.
We think that they're not listening.
DG and Thing 1 just left to try to get food -- not that any of us have really eaten at all the last few days.
Thing 2 just came running out of her room in DG's floppy jester's hat and a striped dress, jingling away ... to see only mommy.
Thing 2: "MOMMY! Where's my daddy???????"
She's shaking, eyes wide.
Me: "It's okay, honey, he just went to go get dinner."
Thing 2: "Oh Mommy, I worried. I thought he was dead!"
I hug her, try to soothe the kid. Then there's a pause.
Thing 2: "Where's KAILEY???"
Me: "Honey, it's okay, she went with Daddy. They're all right, I promise."
Thing 2: "Oh good, Mommy. I was SO worried."
I'm trying not to cry.
We think that they're not listening.
DG and Thing 1 just left to try to get food -- not that any of us have really eaten at all the last few days.
Thing 2 just came running out of her room in DG's floppy jester's hat and a striped dress, jingling away ... to see only mommy.
Thing 2: "MOMMY! Where's my daddy???????"
She's shaking, eyes wide.
Me: "It's okay, honey, he just went to go get dinner."
Thing 2: "Oh Mommy, I worried. I thought he was dead!"
I hug her, try to soothe the kid. Then there's a pause.
Thing 2: "Where's KAILEY???"
Me: "Honey, it's okay, she went with Daddy. They're all right, I promise."
Thing 2: "Oh good, Mommy. I was SO worried."
I'm trying not to cry.
Shots in the Dark
Sleep eluded me last night.
No, incorrect. Let me not be guilty of false information, however inane it might be. It's certainly relevant in this case that I be accurate.
While sleep managed to find me, the quality left a great deal to be desired, sporadic and poor as it was. Nightmares stalked the world behind closed eyelids, nightmares that I honestly thought I had put behind me.
And in those nightmares, a gunman with an AK-47 stalked the halls of our hospital. This time, I didn't cancel my appointment for the day. This time, I was there with the infant Thing 1.
This time, my family didn't escape.
I attempted to go to sleep around 1 am or so. Lesson learned for the moment to not even try it without being utterly exhausted. At least then the dreams have to fight overwhelming coma to affect me.
There was a sound, somewhere between 4 and 5 am that had me sitting upright, even more panicked. I hadn't set the alarm last night, but even without that, as I startled out of yet another nightmare, I heard the quiet "snick" of the front door.
DG came very close to getting a baseball bat in the head.
I was grateful that he was home. I know that some of the fear in my dreams came from real enough worries about his safety, but the early presence spawned all new concerns. Why the hell was he home early?
I know he had a good response, (because he couldn't possibly have really told me that "I just didn't want to be there anymore" -- RIGHT dear?) but my brain seems to have misplaced it. I stumbled somewhat dully back to bed.
I shouldn't have been all that surprised when I had what little sleep I might have returned to violently disrupted by the ring of the damn telephone every half hour.
And in between, more shots in the dark.
No, incorrect. Let me not be guilty of false information, however inane it might be. It's certainly relevant in this case that I be accurate.
While sleep managed to find me, the quality left a great deal to be desired, sporadic and poor as it was. Nightmares stalked the world behind closed eyelids, nightmares that I honestly thought I had put behind me.
And in those nightmares, a gunman with an AK-47 stalked the halls of our hospital. This time, I didn't cancel my appointment for the day. This time, I was there with the infant Thing 1.
This time, my family didn't escape.
I attempted to go to sleep around 1 am or so. Lesson learned for the moment to not even try it without being utterly exhausted. At least then the dreams have to fight overwhelming coma to affect me.
There was a sound, somewhere between 4 and 5 am that had me sitting upright, even more panicked. I hadn't set the alarm last night, but even without that, as I startled out of yet another nightmare, I heard the quiet "snick" of the front door.
DG came very close to getting a baseball bat in the head.
I was grateful that he was home. I know that some of the fear in my dreams came from real enough worries about his safety, but the early presence spawned all new concerns. Why the hell was he home early?
I know he had a good response, (because he couldn't possibly have really told me that "I just didn't want to be there anymore" -- RIGHT dear?) but my brain seems to have misplaced it. I stumbled somewhat dully back to bed.
I shouldn't have been all that surprised when I had what little sleep I might have returned to violently disrupted by the ring of the damn telephone every half hour.
And in between, more shots in the dark.
Wednesday, September 12, 2001
Good morning, America
"Good morning, America, how are you ...."
Drained. Crawled into bed somewhere after 4 am. Finally was talked into attempting food around 3ish, I think.
Worrying about DG, standing out at crossing guard. All right, worrying a lot. See, DG is dark, very dark, skin, hair, eyes. So much that especially in Hispanic strong areas, people have walked up to him and started speaking in Spanish, expecting him automatically to understand.
It's not a far leap for some minds to assume he's something else. So I'm worried. In the small town we call home, it's not TOO much of a worry, but elsewhere ... I can't help but worry about my husband.
It struck me some time yesterday evening just how very old are our souls becoming, and at an early age as well.
I was born during Vietnam.
I remember the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the collapse of the USSR, and thinking "It will get better now."
I got married during Desert Storm. My in-laws lived in Saudi at the time. They were issued gas masks and chem gear.
I clearly remember the first WTC bombing. And the Sarin Gas attack in the Japanese subways.
We were stationed at Fairchild when a gunman, ex-AF, walked into the HOSPITAL and opened fire -- on everyone. My husband worked in that hospital. He came home with blood on his uniform. My eldest daughter was born in this hospital. I knew most of the dead. One was my doctor.
The same week, a B52 went down on our base with half the flight command staff on board. My husband was on Search and Recovery when Fairchild AFB lost the BUFF. We distantly saw part of the crash from our front yard. We could see and smell the smoke from our house.
At our next base, we felt the shudder when the Alfred P. Murrah Fed Building was bombed in OKC.
Bosnia. Serbia. Yugoslavia. Israel. Palestine. Northern Ireland. Afghanistan.
I watched yesterday as the World Trade Center fell. As the Pentagon burned.
When is it supposed to get better?
I saw so much anger and hatred yesterday -- both directed, and aimless. After a few of the worst, I kept to reading posts from people that I knew to be, on the average, reasonable and intelligent instead of knee-jerk extremists.
Being an ex-military family -- DG was an instructor for Red Flag, the field hospital school -- as soon as the initial shock was over, he was on the phone, making calls, volunteering if needed. We're far away, but it's instinct. Many of my friends are either military, ex-military, or grew up in military families.
There's a saying about military spouses. If you think the soldiers are tough, look at the ones they leave behind.
We have to pull together. It's a pack instinct to the greatest degree. When one is hurt, we're all hurt and work together to solve it.
There's no other way to survive.
The skies are still silent today. There's not a cloud in the sky. The blue is rich, innocent, forgiving. There are no contrails. There is no roar of engines, no flashing of lights.
It remains an eerie silence.
Drained. Crawled into bed somewhere after 4 am. Finally was talked into attempting food around 3ish, I think.
Worrying about DG, standing out at crossing guard. All right, worrying a lot. See, DG is dark, very dark, skin, hair, eyes. So much that especially in Hispanic strong areas, people have walked up to him and started speaking in Spanish, expecting him automatically to understand.
It's not a far leap for some minds to assume he's something else. So I'm worried. In the small town we call home, it's not TOO much of a worry, but elsewhere ... I can't help but worry about my husband.
It struck me some time yesterday evening just how very old are our souls becoming, and at an early age as well.
I was born during Vietnam.
I remember the fall of the Berlin Wall, and the collapse of the USSR, and thinking "It will get better now."
I got married during Desert Storm. My in-laws lived in Saudi at the time. They were issued gas masks and chem gear.
I clearly remember the first WTC bombing. And the Sarin Gas attack in the Japanese subways.
We were stationed at Fairchild when a gunman, ex-AF, walked into the HOSPITAL and opened fire -- on everyone. My husband worked in that hospital. He came home with blood on his uniform. My eldest daughter was born in this hospital. I knew most of the dead. One was my doctor.
The same week, a B52 went down on our base with half the flight command staff on board. My husband was on Search and Recovery when Fairchild AFB lost the BUFF. We distantly saw part of the crash from our front yard. We could see and smell the smoke from our house.
At our next base, we felt the shudder when the Alfred P. Murrah Fed Building was bombed in OKC.
Bosnia. Serbia. Yugoslavia. Israel. Palestine. Northern Ireland. Afghanistan.
I watched yesterday as the World Trade Center fell. As the Pentagon burned.
When is it supposed to get better?
I saw so much anger and hatred yesterday -- both directed, and aimless. After a few of the worst, I kept to reading posts from people that I knew to be, on the average, reasonable and intelligent instead of knee-jerk extremists.
Being an ex-military family -- DG was an instructor for Red Flag, the field hospital school -- as soon as the initial shock was over, he was on the phone, making calls, volunteering if needed. We're far away, but it's instinct. Many of my friends are either military, ex-military, or grew up in military families.
There's a saying about military spouses. If you think the soldiers are tough, look at the ones they leave behind.
We have to pull together. It's a pack instinct to the greatest degree. When one is hurt, we're all hurt and work together to solve it.
There's no other way to survive.
The skies are still silent today. There's not a cloud in the sky. The blue is rich, innocent, forgiving. There are no contrails. There is no roar of engines, no flashing of lights.
It remains an eerie silence.
Tuesday, September 11, 2001
Christ.
The building is GONE. The south tower has collapsed amid another explosion apparently.
All those lives .....
God.
The second tower has fallen. The World Trade Center is totally gone.
90-odd passengers/personnel on the planes. Thousands in the buildings.
Hundreds of police officers and firemen trying to rescue survivors.
The silence is deafening.
We live 5 minutes from the DFW airport. Airplanes -- and low ones, coming in on approach -- are a 24/7 fact of life.
There is nothing in the air right now but birds, and it is very, very quiet.
The local world has come to a screeching standstill. Things have changed forever, in a very dramatic way. The innocence, the shelter that we lived under is gone.
The grass is still green, children are still playing, and the skies are still blue.
They are also silent.
The innocence of the country is gone, wiped away in flaming moment after flaming, smouldering moment.
It is possible that we will never know the entirety of what has happened. We may never learn the names of all that have lost their lives today. Many of the missing will remain missing, with no body to grieve over, and only memory left in their place. Recovery can never be complete. There will always be guilt, horror, anger and grief.
So many lives lost.
The shoe, as they say, is on the other foot.
What has been Real Life for the rest of the world has now been made real for us as well. We've joined the victims of mass destruction, become the newest children of violence, become another statistic.
Will we cope as well as they have? Will we come together and go on?
Will anger win out? Revenge? 'Justice?'
The dying, I fear, is only beginning.
The building is GONE. The south tower has collapsed amid another explosion apparently.
All those lives .....
God.
The second tower has fallen. The World Trade Center is totally gone.
90-odd passengers/personnel on the planes. Thousands in the buildings.
Hundreds of police officers and firemen trying to rescue survivors.
The silence is deafening.
We live 5 minutes from the DFW airport. Airplanes -- and low ones, coming in on approach -- are a 24/7 fact of life.
There is nothing in the air right now but birds, and it is very, very quiet.
The local world has come to a screeching standstill. Things have changed forever, in a very dramatic way. The innocence, the shelter that we lived under is gone.
The grass is still green, children are still playing, and the skies are still blue.
They are also silent.
The innocence of the country is gone, wiped away in flaming moment after flaming, smouldering moment.
It is possible that we will never know the entirety of what has happened. We may never learn the names of all that have lost their lives today. Many of the missing will remain missing, with no body to grieve over, and only memory left in their place. Recovery can never be complete. There will always be guilt, horror, anger and grief.
So many lives lost.
The shoe, as they say, is on the other foot.
What has been Real Life for the rest of the world has now been made real for us as well. We've joined the victims of mass destruction, become the newest children of violence, become another statistic.
Will we cope as well as they have? Will we come together and go on?
Will anger win out? Revenge? 'Justice?'
The dying, I fear, is only beginning.
.....
Oh. My. God.
Kinda makes you think about that recent Infocom data seizure, doesn't it?
Fuck.
And with passengers on board.
I'm going to go throw up now.
Kinda makes you think about that recent Infocom data seizure, doesn't it?
Fuck.
And with passengers on board.
I'm going to go throw up now.
Friday, August 31, 2001
Packrats Anonymous
DG went through the two HUGE moving boxes that he's stacked by the door to our bedroom for the last two years at last.
He found the grenade again. Go figure.
Oh, right, sorry, DG. A cluster bomb. My bad. At least it didn't roll out of a jacket pocket onto my foot in the closet like it did last time.
And your average issue chemical agent testing kit.
And about 3000 yards of sticky tape.
And a full set of restraints, including leg irons .... I'm considering offering them on EBay if Sorcha doesn't threaten me with death for getting rid of them.
Semi-full surgical tool/dissection kit, including the massive swab hemostats and scapels, and I'm sure there's suture kits around somewhere.
Ammo box or two. MREs that are God-only knows how old. Super Boy Scout Compass thing.
Things that I don't even want to try to identify.
"Honey, do we need .... "
"Honey, can you think of any reason to keep ....."
"Do we have any room for ...."
Dude. Packrat's Anonymous. Try it. Really.
He found the grenade again. Go figure.
Oh, right, sorry, DG. A cluster bomb. My bad. At least it didn't roll out of a jacket pocket onto my foot in the closet like it did last time.
And your average issue chemical agent testing kit.
And about 3000 yards of sticky tape.
And a full set of restraints, including leg irons .... I'm considering offering them on EBay if Sorcha doesn't threaten me with death for getting rid of them.
Semi-full surgical tool/dissection kit, including the massive swab hemostats and scapels, and I'm sure there's suture kits around somewhere.
Ammo box or two. MREs that are God-only knows how old. Super Boy Scout Compass thing.
Things that I don't even want to try to identify.
"Honey, do we need .... "
"Honey, can you think of any reason to keep ....."
"Do we have any room for ...."
Dude. Packrat's Anonymous. Try it. Really.
Friday, August 10, 2001
Jabberjaws
Thing 2 is in a Mood. I blame my Momster entirely.
I let them outside to play when the sprinklers came on, despite the heat warning and the code red air quality alert. Sprinklers, man. Gotta do it.
They didn't want to come in of course.
Thing 2 is now "dressed" (with her still-wet swimsuit under the dress), insisting on riding the hot pink Barbie scooter around the living room. 'No' is some foreign language right now.
Red ropers. Denim dress. Dripping swimsuit. The Wet Look hair. Crocheted jewelry.
And she hasn't stopped jabbering since she woke up.
"Mama, when we woke in the hotel, they had my favorite cereal. CORNFLAKES. For real! Really! And milk, and cereal, and we got a bowl, and we came home and you painted our room so we can go outside and play sprinklers after eating cereal."
I think she's hungry.
Now she has cereal. And she's still talking. Spraying a fountain of Froot Loops everywhere. Duct tape wouldn't even stop it.
Last night she went and went and went till she literally passed out in the middle of the floor.
Today ... God help me.
---
Thing 1: "Wow, those trees are really dark. I bet there are wolves out there that would get me."
Me: "Nah, no wolves, but I'm sure there's a man-eating tree or two."
Thing 1: ::yowls, whines, whimpers -- giggling::
Thing 2: "Ooo, yeah. I wicked. I'll cast a spell and make the trees go eat Kailey. See, here's me casting a spell so they'll GET HER! Eat Kailey, trees!"
Thing 1: ::more yowling, no longer giggling::
Thing 2: "Oh chill OUT. I just teasing you!"
---
"Mamamamamamama, watch Dracuwa!!!"
"WHAT?"
"Mama, I wanna watch Dracuwa 2000."
I cave.
She's rooting for the vampires. She squealed and sniggered when the first robber dies.
"Mama, is Dracuwa gonna show up?"
"Yeah, eventually, hon."
"Good, cause he's COOL!"
She has a stuffed black cat she's named Salem.
She's wearing this burgundy and black choker. With her 'spell book.' And watching Dracuwa 2000. And singing.
Wednesday Addams ain't got nuthin on this kid.
I let them outside to play when the sprinklers came on, despite the heat warning and the code red air quality alert. Sprinklers, man. Gotta do it.
They didn't want to come in of course.
Thing 2 is now "dressed" (with her still-wet swimsuit under the dress), insisting on riding the hot pink Barbie scooter around the living room. 'No' is some foreign language right now.
Red ropers. Denim dress. Dripping swimsuit. The Wet Look hair. Crocheted jewelry.
And she hasn't stopped jabbering since she woke up.
"Mama, when we woke in the hotel, they had my favorite cereal. CORNFLAKES. For real! Really! And milk, and cereal, and we got a bowl, and we came home and you painted our room so we can go outside and play sprinklers after eating cereal."
I think she's hungry.
Now she has cereal. And she's still talking. Spraying a fountain of Froot Loops everywhere. Duct tape wouldn't even stop it.
Last night she went and went and went till she literally passed out in the middle of the floor.
Today ... God help me.
---
Thing 1: "Wow, those trees are really dark. I bet there are wolves out there that would get me."
Me: "Nah, no wolves, but I'm sure there's a man-eating tree or two."
Thing 1: ::yowls, whines, whimpers -- giggling::
Thing 2: "Ooo, yeah. I wicked. I'll cast a spell and make the trees go eat Kailey. See, here's me casting a spell so they'll GET HER! Eat Kailey, trees!"
Thing 1: ::more yowling, no longer giggling::
Thing 2: "Oh chill OUT. I just teasing you!"
---
"Mamamamamamama, watch Dracuwa!!!"
"WHAT?"
"Mama, I wanna watch Dracuwa 2000."
I cave.
She's rooting for the vampires. She squealed and sniggered when the first robber dies.
"Mama, is Dracuwa gonna show up?"
"Yeah, eventually, hon."
"Good, cause he's COOL!"
She has a stuffed black cat she's named Salem.
She's wearing this burgundy and black choker. With her 'spell book.' And watching Dracuwa 2000. And singing.
Wednesday Addams ain't got nuthin on this kid.
Tuesday, July 31, 2001
What Colour is Estrogen?
I can tell you what colour mine isn't -- pussy power pink.
After staring at an entire wall of that colour, I decided that I had somehow failed a vital test in Grrlyness. Boy, was it pink. Really pink. Really bright pink. Really girly fun pink.
Wow. That is seriously ... seriously ... Pink. We're talking John Cougar "Pink Houses" - "Paint the mother piyunk!" pink.
Pink. Pink in ways that seriously threaten testosterone. Pink in ways that could make a little boy curl into a fetal ball and weep for his mother. "Usul, we have pink the likes of which God has never seen." "Houston, that's an affirmative, we have Pink!"
Pink. Nothing in nature comes in this shade. Well, there was that one spider, but it was his own fault for climbing back into an area I'd previously prepped, and that wasn't nature but Darwin at work.
Christ. I've been sucking down too many paint fumes.
A wall and a door are completed in Petunia Pink. A door is done in Cornflower. The side of the room that will be Cornflower hasn't been scrubbed and primed yet.
DG has pretended to scrub one wall, and moved some furniture. He sat around and watched me put the primer on one door and the wall earlier. I asked him why he was just sitting and watching.
"You didn't tell me I could do anything else."
Stare.
I suppose I asked for this. After all, I blindly decided to embark on a detailed home improvement project with a man whose entire idea of spring cleaning consists of shoveling all the piles on his desk onto the floor to be kicked around for the next year until it's time to relocate them again.
I consider standing over him with a paint stick and a scowl until he scrubs the wall right and primes it. I know this won't work. I have no idea what will work, but I do know that isn't it.
So I take a break, ponder why it seems like there's a big hairy pink caterpillar creeping its way across my face, and consider going back in there and finishing the work by myself.
Wow. Um, I didn't know caterpillars had that many eyes. Or feet. Or tentacles.
And every damn one of them is pink.
Alice, move over.
After staring at an entire wall of that colour, I decided that I had somehow failed a vital test in Grrlyness. Boy, was it pink. Really pink. Really bright pink. Really girly fun pink.
Wow. That is seriously ... seriously ... Pink. We're talking John Cougar "Pink Houses" - "Paint the mother piyunk!" pink.
Pink. Pink in ways that seriously threaten testosterone. Pink in ways that could make a little boy curl into a fetal ball and weep for his mother. "Usul, we have pink the likes of which God has never seen." "Houston, that's an affirmative, we have Pink!"
Pink. Nothing in nature comes in this shade. Well, there was that one spider, but it was his own fault for climbing back into an area I'd previously prepped, and that wasn't nature but Darwin at work.
Christ. I've been sucking down too many paint fumes.
A wall and a door are completed in Petunia Pink. A door is done in Cornflower. The side of the room that will be Cornflower hasn't been scrubbed and primed yet.
DG has pretended to scrub one wall, and moved some furniture. He sat around and watched me put the primer on one door and the wall earlier. I asked him why he was just sitting and watching.
"You didn't tell me I could do anything else."
Stare.
I suppose I asked for this. After all, I blindly decided to embark on a detailed home improvement project with a man whose entire idea of spring cleaning consists of shoveling all the piles on his desk onto the floor to be kicked around for the next year until it's time to relocate them again.
I consider standing over him with a paint stick and a scowl until he scrubs the wall right and primes it. I know this won't work. I have no idea what will work, but I do know that isn't it.
So I take a break, ponder why it seems like there's a big hairy pink caterpillar creeping its way across my face, and consider going back in there and finishing the work by myself.
Wow. Um, I didn't know caterpillars had that many eyes. Or feet. Or tentacles.
And every damn one of them is pink.
Alice, move over.
Monday, July 30, 2001
Painting With Cats
Using hot water to clean a metal-edged paintbrush means ... never having to feel the deep slices in your fingers until it's too late to realize you're being cut.
Ow.
I think I shall be writing a new list entitled: "How to Paint with the Assistance of Your Cats."
Get paint can ready. Find your work tray, and the can opener.
Steal can opener back from cat.
Open Can. Prepare to transfer paint.
Get cat out of paint can.
Get paint foot and nose prints off the furniture. Chase down and clean cat.
Pick up spilled gallon paint can. Find second cat.
And third cat.
Bathe. See instructions on how to bathe cat. Figure out how to get a gallon of paint out of a longhaired cat.
Shave cat.
Visit ER.
Tear out carpet that received the rest of the paint.
Get new paint, try again.
Have everything ready and in one place this time. Make sure opener is on a leash so cat can't steal it.
Open can, transfer paint.
Remove cat's paw from tray. Clean.
Get bandaids.
Finally get paint set up. Get chair.
Fight cats for chair.
Get new chair.
Start painting. Get cat out of paint tray.
Follow the trail of pawprints. Decide you didn't need carpet anyway, and the floor might as well be painted too.
Clean cat.
Return to painting. Pick three pounds of cat hair out of not-yet-dry paint.
Find cat. Clean. Get bandaids.
Decide to try a power system.
Shave cat, after scraping it off the ceiling.
Move.
Ow.
I think I shall be writing a new list entitled: "How to Paint with the Assistance of Your Cats."
Get paint can ready. Find your work tray, and the can opener.
Steal can opener back from cat.
Open Can. Prepare to transfer paint.
Get cat out of paint can.
Get paint foot and nose prints off the furniture. Chase down and clean cat.
Pick up spilled gallon paint can. Find second cat.
And third cat.
Bathe. See instructions on how to bathe cat. Figure out how to get a gallon of paint out of a longhaired cat.
Shave cat.
Visit ER.
Tear out carpet that received the rest of the paint.
Get new paint, try again.
Have everything ready and in one place this time. Make sure opener is on a leash so cat can't steal it.
Open can, transfer paint.
Remove cat's paw from tray. Clean.
Get bandaids.
Finally get paint set up. Get chair.
Fight cats for chair.
Get new chair.
Start painting. Get cat out of paint tray.
Follow the trail of pawprints. Decide you didn't need carpet anyway, and the floor might as well be painted too.
Clean cat.
Return to painting. Pick three pounds of cat hair out of not-yet-dry paint.
Find cat. Clean. Get bandaids.
Decide to try a power system.
Shave cat, after scraping it off the ceiling.
Move.
Sunday, July 29, 2001
Karma Chameleon
Parents left with the kids, DG and I started making plans.
We left the apartment to get food, then head out to pick up the paint and paint supplies for the Things bedroom. Give em a real surprise to come home to.
Only, when we got back to the car, it was Dead. Deceased. Not even a click.
Karma Point 1: I got AAA. We called for a tow truck that cost us nothing.
Karma Point 2: It wasn't HOT. The sun wasn't overhead, we were in shadow, and it was relatively comfortable.
Karma Point 3: We weren't in the middle of nowhere. In fact, we were on main street, right in front of an address and between two major cross-streets. Easy to find.
BIG Karma Point 4: No Things. The kids didn't have to wait in the heat or be bored or cranky.
So actually, DG and I didn't have a bad time at all while waiting.
Guy gets there, goes to try to jump the car and see if it's the battery. Well, it works. Briefly.
It was most definitely the battery. The heat had cracked the damn thing so that the terminal BROKE OFF.
Karma 5: We weren't moving when it snapped.
Well, what the heck. AAA tow drags us to WalMart. We get new battery, we go home.
Karma 6: We HAD the money to do it.
All right, so our battery blew up. This sounds like a bad point, right?
Newp. Surprisingly enough, neither that WalMart nor any in the area carried the right size and style. Had been out for a week or so. Apparently there's been a HUGE run on the things, and the factory can't keep up.
We weren't the only ones in there at that same exact time looking for the same battery, either.
So, they got one that worked with the car, did the work yadda yadda.
The only REAL problem with the entire thing was that the money used for the battery was the money intended to paint the kids' room. No idea what we're going to do now, but that's right out.
But we're all home, we're all safe, and the car works.
The battery was going to die anyway. We'd been having a few problems as it was. The moment that it chose to breathe its last was crucial.
Now, if I could just stop breaking my fingernails ....
We left the apartment to get food, then head out to pick up the paint and paint supplies for the Things bedroom. Give em a real surprise to come home to.
Only, when we got back to the car, it was Dead. Deceased. Not even a click.
Karma Point 1: I got AAA. We called for a tow truck that cost us nothing.
Karma Point 2: It wasn't HOT. The sun wasn't overhead, we were in shadow, and it was relatively comfortable.
Karma Point 3: We weren't in the middle of nowhere. In fact, we were on main street, right in front of an address and between two major cross-streets. Easy to find.
BIG Karma Point 4: No Things. The kids didn't have to wait in the heat or be bored or cranky.
So actually, DG and I didn't have a bad time at all while waiting.
Guy gets there, goes to try to jump the car and see if it's the battery. Well, it works. Briefly.
It was most definitely the battery. The heat had cracked the damn thing so that the terminal BROKE OFF.
Karma 5: We weren't moving when it snapped.
Well, what the heck. AAA tow drags us to WalMart. We get new battery, we go home.
Karma 6: We HAD the money to do it.
All right, so our battery blew up. This sounds like a bad point, right?
Newp. Surprisingly enough, neither that WalMart nor any in the area carried the right size and style. Had been out for a week or so. Apparently there's been a HUGE run on the things, and the factory can't keep up.
We weren't the only ones in there at that same exact time looking for the same battery, either.
So, they got one that worked with the car, did the work yadda yadda.
The only REAL problem with the entire thing was that the money used for the battery was the money intended to paint the kids' room. No idea what we're going to do now, but that's right out.
But we're all home, we're all safe, and the car works.
The battery was going to die anyway. We'd been having a few problems as it was. The moment that it chose to breathe its last was crucial.
Now, if I could just stop breaking my fingernails ....
Friday, July 06, 2001
Proof Pain is Mental
DG: (outside with Things) Heather? Why are you bleeding?
Thing 2: Bweeding? I not bweeding!
DG: Uh, yes you are.
Thing 2: I not bweeding. Hrmpfh.
DG: Look at your leg. You're bleeding. What did you do?
Thing 2: Bweeding? AAAAAHHHHHH!!! I'm bweeding! I'm dying! Daaaaadddddyyyyyy!
Thing 2: Bweeding? I not bweeding!
DG: Uh, yes you are.
Thing 2: I not bweeding. Hrmpfh.
DG: Look at your leg. You're bleeding. What did you do?
Thing 2: Bweeding? AAAAAHHHHHH!!! I'm bweeding! I'm dying! Daaaaadddddyyyyyy!
Saturday, June 30, 2001
If I had a box just for wishes ...
Threw away a box of memories today.
Hadn't opened them since we moved here 3 years ago. Boxes were in the way. Screw it. Opened em up first, though. Got to remember, and say goodbye.
Trinkets from ex's, reminders of family best forgotten, broken items I fixed and refixed and could never part with before, little goofy inside jokes. Some hard reminders of hard times in a few.
I am an admitted packrat. Today, I stuffed the packrat in a box and sent her out with the trash.
In some ways, clutter can be comforting. My desk, my futon, my "living space" is surrounded by bookshelves stuffed to overflow. Little gadgets and gizmos inclined to promote thought and creativity. Comfort. My cave.
Three large boxes.
And I feel more accomplished than melancholy over the loss. I hadn't opened the boxes in three years. They were distant memories. In all, there were very few that I decided I could not live without.
It's progress. But there are still more boxes ahead.
Maybe one of these days, I'll get to those skeletons in the closet, and banish them for good.
Hadn't opened them since we moved here 3 years ago. Boxes were in the way. Screw it. Opened em up first, though. Got to remember, and say goodbye.
Trinkets from ex's, reminders of family best forgotten, broken items I fixed and refixed and could never part with before, little goofy inside jokes. Some hard reminders of hard times in a few.
I am an admitted packrat. Today, I stuffed the packrat in a box and sent her out with the trash.
In some ways, clutter can be comforting. My desk, my futon, my "living space" is surrounded by bookshelves stuffed to overflow. Little gadgets and gizmos inclined to promote thought and creativity. Comfort. My cave.
Three large boxes.
And I feel more accomplished than melancholy over the loss. I hadn't opened the boxes in three years. They were distant memories. In all, there were very few that I decided I could not live without.
It's progress. But there are still more boxes ahead.
Maybe one of these days, I'll get to those skeletons in the closet, and banish them for good.
Thursday, June 21, 2001
Katie KaBoom
There is a tantrum of Biblical Proportions going on in the Thing's bedroom.
I've not heard NO this much since either of them first learned the word as a baby.
Dogs miles away are cowering and howling in pain.
Linda Blair just called with the number for her exorcist.
Glass is shattering. My ears are bleeding.
It's gone from mere tantrum to Academy Award performance.
And now they're both crying. And screaming. And howling.
Warning, Houston. Situation approaching Critical Mass. Evacuate, evacuate. Proceed to the nearest exits by any means necessary. Run for your lives.
If you think I'm going to wade into the middle of it, you're crazy.
Looking for a bomb shelter, humming "Katie KaBOOM" .....
.... and this one isn't even a teenager yet.
I've not heard NO this much since either of them first learned the word as a baby.
Dogs miles away are cowering and howling in pain.
Linda Blair just called with the number for her exorcist.
Glass is shattering. My ears are bleeding.
It's gone from mere tantrum to Academy Award performance.
And now they're both crying. And screaming. And howling.
Warning, Houston. Situation approaching Critical Mass. Evacuate, evacuate. Proceed to the nearest exits by any means necessary. Run for your lives.
If you think I'm going to wade into the middle of it, you're crazy.
Looking for a bomb shelter, humming "Katie KaBOOM" .....
.... and this one isn't even a teenager yet.
Saturday, June 09, 2001
Posting on the net...
... anywhere there will ever be an audience larger than one.
1) Debate the issue, not the poster.
2) Never point out that someone is debating the poster instead, for this maketh you a target.
3) Read. Write. Re-read. Re-read. Repeat. THEN post.
4) When posting on a controversial subject, expect someone to disagree.
5) When someone disagrees, do not immediately take it as a personal attack. They are disagreeing with your idea, with your opinion, your fact. They do not automatically think that you suck and should be slowly spoon-fed to rabid wolves (or given to Morax for his birthday, whatever). Even if the poster DOES think that you suck and should be slowly spoon-fed to rabid wolves, disagreeing with you is not always a personal attack.
6) See Point 1.
7) See Point 2.
8) Wear asbestos underwear.
9) Be open. Be honest. If you're making a personal attack, good God, say so. Don't mince words. Be specific. Be brutal. Get it over with. Then delete it and act like an adult. Walk away, or post something that adheres to Point 1.
10) Realize when the Horse Is Dead.
11) When dealing with a Repeat Offender ... don't. You're just asking for it, and deserve what you get. Be realistic.
12) Know when to give up and walk away. Most of the time, they won't even notice you've left the thread until there's no one left to bite.
13) "My uncle's sister's cousin's brother's friend that knows a guy that lived next door to someone that saw it happen" is a Non-Answer, and does not deserve a response. Should you feel the need to respond, feel free to do so in kind. After all, your "father's uncle's grandmother's cousin that once went out with the guy that lived next door to the other guy" is just as much of an expert in the field.
14) See Point 10.
15) When you start taking yourself too seriously, keep in mind that there's at least one other person in the world that doesn't take you seriously at all. Take it as a hint. P.T. Barnum was right. So was Darwin. Think about it.
16) See me? This is me walking away. Practice it a few times yourself. Make it your friend.
I'm walking away now .......
1) Debate the issue, not the poster.
2) Never point out that someone is debating the poster instead, for this maketh you a target.
3) Read. Write. Re-read. Re-read. Repeat. THEN post.
4) When posting on a controversial subject, expect someone to disagree.
5) When someone disagrees, do not immediately take it as a personal attack. They are disagreeing with your idea, with your opinion, your fact. They do not automatically think that you suck and should be slowly spoon-fed to rabid wolves (or given to Morax for his birthday, whatever). Even if the poster DOES think that you suck and should be slowly spoon-fed to rabid wolves, disagreeing with you is not always a personal attack.
6) See Point 1.
7) See Point 2.
8) Wear asbestos underwear.
9) Be open. Be honest. If you're making a personal attack, good God, say so. Don't mince words. Be specific. Be brutal. Get it over with. Then delete it and act like an adult. Walk away, or post something that adheres to Point 1.
10) Realize when the Horse Is Dead.
11) When dealing with a Repeat Offender ... don't. You're just asking for it, and deserve what you get. Be realistic.
12) Know when to give up and walk away. Most of the time, they won't even notice you've left the thread until there's no one left to bite.
13) "My uncle's sister's cousin's brother's friend that knows a guy that lived next door to someone that saw it happen" is a Non-Answer, and does not deserve a response. Should you feel the need to respond, feel free to do so in kind. After all, your "father's uncle's grandmother's cousin that once went out with the guy that lived next door to the other guy" is just as much of an expert in the field.
14) See Point 10.
15) When you start taking yourself too seriously, keep in mind that there's at least one other person in the world that doesn't take you seriously at all. Take it as a hint. P.T. Barnum was right. So was Darwin. Think about it.
16) See me? This is me walking away. Practice it a few times yourself. Make it your friend.
I'm walking away now .......
Friday, May 04, 2001
Stray Thoughts
... One size does NOT fit all.
(Bonus brownies for anyone else that remembers it)
Thing 2 is pretending to throw up into a Halloween bucket. She's going to make it happen at this rate.
I don't think I'll ever buy a desktop computer again. Laptop is the only way for me.
My monster gets here tomorrow. The house looks like a bomb was dropped on it, and the kids won't help. Will Not. I'm trying to use the presents the monster is bringing as a bribe for them to work. Ain't helping.
I still want a Chia Penis.
There is an awful ache crawling down the back of my neck from my skull. This is the headache only Zebutal could handle, only, my doc won't give me any meds. Grr.
Clover, Green Grass, and Tomato Vine ... heady, rich, earthy, and I don't have to scald myself in the sun to enjoy them.
I should have practiced shouting the names of the Things before we named them. I'm getting really tired of hearing them repeated time after time.
If you're lost you can look and you will find it ......
I want to be held. I want to be enveloped in strong loving arms and told that it's going to be all right. I want someone to make me believe it. I don't want to face this alone anymore.
My monster is coming. Can't sleep, clowns will eat me. I'm already stuttering, I'm already a child again, I'm already crawling into my shell, quiet and lost and fearful. I just want her to go away.
My grandparents are dying by the day, and now my monster expects me to support her in facing it.
Rich and spicy, a sting at the nose. Tomato Vine. God, I love this smell. Makes me remember itchies from picking okra and squash, the buzz of locusts and the sweettart bite of berries straight from the vines, thorns in my fingers and all.
Chocolate Cream Oreos. I like them better, not as sweet. I can eat the whole thing, instead of just parts. Amy thinks I'm a heathen for picking the chocolate ones.
I don't really like Chocolate Fudge PopTarts.
I can see regular Oreo shells discarded all over the living room. DG must have left them where Thing 2 could reach the cookie bag. Damn.
I miss my friends. I miss having friends around me. I miss the physical social interaction. I miss going places and doing things with them.
I'm lonely.
I don't want to be a mother. Where did I go wrong? Where did I NOT go wrong?
Bring me the hockey stick. It's Butt Season.
I'm still lonely.
(Bonus brownies for anyone else that remembers it)
Thing 2 is pretending to throw up into a Halloween bucket. She's going to make it happen at this rate.
I don't think I'll ever buy a desktop computer again. Laptop is the only way for me.
My monster gets here tomorrow. The house looks like a bomb was dropped on it, and the kids won't help. Will Not. I'm trying to use the presents the monster is bringing as a bribe for them to work. Ain't helping.
I still want a Chia Penis.
There is an awful ache crawling down the back of my neck from my skull. This is the headache only Zebutal could handle, only, my doc won't give me any meds. Grr.
Clover, Green Grass, and Tomato Vine ... heady, rich, earthy, and I don't have to scald myself in the sun to enjoy them.
I should have practiced shouting the names of the Things before we named them. I'm getting really tired of hearing them repeated time after time.
If you're lost you can look and you will find it ......
I want to be held. I want to be enveloped in strong loving arms and told that it's going to be all right. I want someone to make me believe it. I don't want to face this alone anymore.
My monster is coming. Can't sleep, clowns will eat me. I'm already stuttering, I'm already a child again, I'm already crawling into my shell, quiet and lost and fearful. I just want her to go away.
My grandparents are dying by the day, and now my monster expects me to support her in facing it.
Rich and spicy, a sting at the nose. Tomato Vine. God, I love this smell. Makes me remember itchies from picking okra and squash, the buzz of locusts and the sweettart bite of berries straight from the vines, thorns in my fingers and all.
Chocolate Cream Oreos. I like them better, not as sweet. I can eat the whole thing, instead of just parts. Amy thinks I'm a heathen for picking the chocolate ones.
I don't really like Chocolate Fudge PopTarts.
I can see regular Oreo shells discarded all over the living room. DG must have left them where Thing 2 could reach the cookie bag. Damn.
I miss my friends. I miss having friends around me. I miss the physical social interaction. I miss going places and doing things with them.
I'm lonely.
I don't want to be a mother. Where did I go wrong? Where did I NOT go wrong?
Bring me the hockey stick. It's Butt Season.
I'm still lonely.
Tuesday, April 24, 2001
Warning: Curves Ahead
Perhaps instead the warning should read, "No Curves Allowed."
Those of a delicate nature would be advised to skip over this. I feel a rant coming on, sing it sister, hallelujia.
Bras.
I'll wait for the booing and hissing to die down.
Bras. There's that ugly word again. When you're my size, you can't go without one. I'm a Very Big Girl. Most of it is in my chest. I'm a 40-42 J cup. Big Girl.
Circus Freak big. I'm a monster.
No? You disagree?
Go shopping. Search the net. Search your local malls.
Find me ONE bra that is less than $30.00. Find me a GOOD one that's less than $40.00.
I'll be here waiting when you've finally given up in frustration and want to strangle someone. See, I'm already at that point.
A smaller woman can walk into Walmart and walk out, spending 30 bucks and carrying away 2-4 bras. I can't get one for that.
I have fibromyalgia. I can't wear underwires. I bruise. I blister. It's very unpleasant. Go ahead, find a soft cup bra big enough to fit me that's affordable. Find me a sleep bra, or a sports bra that will actually fit.
Forget it.
It's worse because my breasts are way too large, and the rest of me is much smaller. If I wore a 50 something band size, I'd be easier to fit.
I'm frustrated. I'm annoyed. I'm depressed. I want to be comfortable, dammit, and not have my kids starve to death because I dared to buy a new bra.
My last "new" bra is over 4 years old. I've bought a few since, and they never fit right. All too small. I was desperate. I won't waste the money again. I'm tired of maybes and almosts and not quites.
I want a bra that fits, dammit, and I don't want to have to sell a limb to get it.
Those of a delicate nature would be advised to skip over this. I feel a rant coming on, sing it sister, hallelujia.
Bras.
I'll wait for the booing and hissing to die down.
Bras. There's that ugly word again. When you're my size, you can't go without one. I'm a Very Big Girl. Most of it is in my chest. I'm a 40-42 J cup. Big Girl.
Circus Freak big. I'm a monster.
No? You disagree?
Go shopping. Search the net. Search your local malls.
Find me ONE bra that is less than $30.00. Find me a GOOD one that's less than $40.00.
I'll be here waiting when you've finally given up in frustration and want to strangle someone. See, I'm already at that point.
A smaller woman can walk into Walmart and walk out, spending 30 bucks and carrying away 2-4 bras. I can't get one for that.
I have fibromyalgia. I can't wear underwires. I bruise. I blister. It's very unpleasant. Go ahead, find a soft cup bra big enough to fit me that's affordable. Find me a sleep bra, or a sports bra that will actually fit.
Forget it.
It's worse because my breasts are way too large, and the rest of me is much smaller. If I wore a 50 something band size, I'd be easier to fit.
I'm frustrated. I'm annoyed. I'm depressed. I want to be comfortable, dammit, and not have my kids starve to death because I dared to buy a new bra.
My last "new" bra is over 4 years old. I've bought a few since, and they never fit right. All too small. I was desperate. I won't waste the money again. I'm tired of maybes and almosts and not quites.
I want a bra that fits, dammit, and I don't want to have to sell a limb to get it.
Wednesday, April 11, 2001
Once Upon a Starry Night
... there was a lonely, scrawny, fey little thing that had a penchant for getting "lost." Oh, she knew where she was, but no one else was ever able to find her when she had to get away. There were legends about her ability to vanish, jokes about the fey creature's ability to teleport, even when being watched. I'm still reminded of these legends, every blue moon.
One rare lonely night, when she had the car to herself, she drove off into the middle of the woods in her pajamas. Her goal was to seek out a particular field where the stones had been carefully brought in and laid according to ancient pattern, all by the hands of men that knew the proper songs.
Still in her pajamas, she parked the car out of site of the stones, and stepped into the circle.
The moon was full. The stars were out in their full glory. This field was used for this purpose quite often, blankets laid on the ground as friends sat together and watched the dance in the skies.
This night, she was alone.
The stars danced for her, private performance for the little lost fey, and she for them, feeling not like a fool, but free -- and freedom was a rare elusive beast to her, teasing, and never caught. For the time being, the burdens were set aside, the darkness cast away and given back to the moonlight.
I'd like to find that girl again, wherever she is inside me, and dance one more time, for the night.
One rare lonely night, when she had the car to herself, she drove off into the middle of the woods in her pajamas. Her goal was to seek out a particular field where the stones had been carefully brought in and laid according to ancient pattern, all by the hands of men that knew the proper songs.
Still in her pajamas, she parked the car out of site of the stones, and stepped into the circle.
The moon was full. The stars were out in their full glory. This field was used for this purpose quite often, blankets laid on the ground as friends sat together and watched the dance in the skies.
This night, she was alone.
The stars danced for her, private performance for the little lost fey, and she for them, feeling not like a fool, but free -- and freedom was a rare elusive beast to her, teasing, and never caught. For the time being, the burdens were set aside, the darkness cast away and given back to the moonlight.
I'd like to find that girl again, wherever she is inside me, and dance one more time, for the night.
Friday, March 16, 2001
Blank Pages
Tell a simple machine that '2+2=4', and the machine will log it away in memory, and from that point forward, '2+2 will always =4' until such time as new stimuli is added.
Tell a sentient organism that '2+2=4', and he will ask you 'why'?
The day that your computer begins to ask you 'why' upon receiving new data is the day you've lost your position. Welcome to the world, little brother. You're now an AI.
Stimuli. It all revolves around stimuli. It's how we learn. Kept in a blank, dark box, no contact with anyone or anything, even a sentient organism cannot learn. There must be some sort of data input for learning to take place.
As a programmer, you are the stimuli, the computer the student. The moment the machine learns to ask 'why', the situation is reversed. Until then, the computer is like a blank page of paper, capable only of receiving stimuli and input, then reacting accordingly. Paper can process just as well as a computer, because they're both dependant on the mind of the one utilizing them.
The blank page theory is also dependant on yet other stimuli, yet another series of 'whys'. 'Why' is the programmer telling the machine to perform this function, 'why' is the writer committing these words to paper, 'why' is the artist turning the blank space into a canvas. A simple machine accepts the change without question. A blank page accepts the change without question. They're incapable of being stimuli directly, in most cases.
There are precious few in the world that embrace stimuli in every bit of creation. These are the few that see every blank page, every virgin expanse of paper as a challenge to be met. The space must be filled. How few? Try this.
Find a relatively busy sidewalk, outside of a business is perfect. You will require several sheets of blank white paper (spares in case, trust me on this). A bit of sticky tape is a bonus, so that the page remains where it is, without being subject to wind and human motion.
Set the page on the ground. Step away. Leave it alone. Sit back and watch.
Count twenty organics that pass by. You won't need any more than that.
See how they react to that page. Watch just how many completely ignore its presence. These are the cases where you might have to switch the page out. Footprints negate the experiment, since the page is no longer blank.
Who tries to pick it up and see what it says? Who tries to just throw away the trash? Who, if anyone, tries to make some use of it?
Do you want to be disappointed now and be told just how many of your subjects will show no reaction to the page whatsoever?
It's simply a page. It has no 'why'.
Sometimes, I feel like that blank page.
Tell a sentient organism that '2+2=4', and he will ask you 'why'?
The day that your computer begins to ask you 'why' upon receiving new data is the day you've lost your position. Welcome to the world, little brother. You're now an AI.
Stimuli. It all revolves around stimuli. It's how we learn. Kept in a blank, dark box, no contact with anyone or anything, even a sentient organism cannot learn. There must be some sort of data input for learning to take place.
As a programmer, you are the stimuli, the computer the student. The moment the machine learns to ask 'why', the situation is reversed. Until then, the computer is like a blank page of paper, capable only of receiving stimuli and input, then reacting accordingly. Paper can process just as well as a computer, because they're both dependant on the mind of the one utilizing them.
The blank page theory is also dependant on yet other stimuli, yet another series of 'whys'. 'Why' is the programmer telling the machine to perform this function, 'why' is the writer committing these words to paper, 'why' is the artist turning the blank space into a canvas. A simple machine accepts the change without question. A blank page accepts the change without question. They're incapable of being stimuli directly, in most cases.
There are precious few in the world that embrace stimuli in every bit of creation. These are the few that see every blank page, every virgin expanse of paper as a challenge to be met. The space must be filled. How few? Try this.
Find a relatively busy sidewalk, outside of a business is perfect. You will require several sheets of blank white paper (spares in case, trust me on this). A bit of sticky tape is a bonus, so that the page remains where it is, without being subject to wind and human motion.
Set the page on the ground. Step away. Leave it alone. Sit back and watch.
Count twenty organics that pass by. You won't need any more than that.
See how they react to that page. Watch just how many completely ignore its presence. These are the cases where you might have to switch the page out. Footprints negate the experiment, since the page is no longer blank.
Who tries to pick it up and see what it says? Who tries to just throw away the trash? Who, if anyone, tries to make some use of it?
Do you want to be disappointed now and be told just how many of your subjects will show no reaction to the page whatsoever?
It's simply a page. It has no 'why'.
Sometimes, I feel like that blank page.
Monday, February 19, 2001
Acute Viral Gastroenterits. Tummy Flu. Whee.
I'm still not back in my own skin. This is a really unpleasant and creepy feeling. College and late high school were very very good to me ... I had my fair share of drug use. I NEVER felt like this. Not good.
4 baths, 3 changes of sleeping venue, at least 3 changes of sleeping clothes (including the total loss of them at one point), and I still can't comfortably sit still. Replace sit with a number of other words, like sleep/stand/slouch/lay down, etc, and you get the picture.
First shot they put in my IV was a painkiller. I still don't understand this one. The majority of pain was from the massive stomach upheaval when some group of collective dumbasses brought huge smelly bads of Wendy's food into the ER waiting room. I should have upchucked on them. Then, from the doc poking around on me.
Of course, at least it did help with all the multiple BPs they took. I've got blood blisters from the damn cuff. Why the fuck do they always insist on slapping a cuff on the arm that had the surgery? I am SO sensitive. Assholes.
IV. Three x-rays. Urine sample (which is just always fucking fun when you're dehydrated). Blood tests, which he took through the heplock -- and then wondered why it was going so damn slow. Shoulda barfed on him, too. Oh, and buddy? "As little adhesive as possible because I'm allergic to it" does NOT mean "lets wrap tape all the way around her wrist for the IV tubing." Asshole. The nurse that took it out had to cut the stuff off me.
I only know one of the three things they shot into my IV along with the saline, and that was the standard Phenergan that I had to ASK for -- I'm barfing, HELLO -- but they happily shot me up with a painkiller that is still totally fucking with me over 12 hours later.
I don't feel good.
Okay, I'm not technicolour power yarking anymore ... but the dizzy out of body thing I've got going on is far worse in many many ways.
Ptooey.
I'm still not back in my own skin. This is a really unpleasant and creepy feeling. College and late high school were very very good to me ... I had my fair share of drug use. I NEVER felt like this. Not good.
4 baths, 3 changes of sleeping venue, at least 3 changes of sleeping clothes (including the total loss of them at one point), and I still can't comfortably sit still. Replace sit with a number of other words, like sleep/stand/slouch/lay down, etc, and you get the picture.
First shot they put in my IV was a painkiller. I still don't understand this one. The majority of pain was from the massive stomach upheaval when some group of collective dumbasses brought huge smelly bads of Wendy's food into the ER waiting room. I should have upchucked on them. Then, from the doc poking around on me.
Of course, at least it did help with all the multiple BPs they took. I've got blood blisters from the damn cuff. Why the fuck do they always insist on slapping a cuff on the arm that had the surgery? I am SO sensitive. Assholes.
IV. Three x-rays. Urine sample (which is just always fucking fun when you're dehydrated). Blood tests, which he took through the heplock -- and then wondered why it was going so damn slow. Shoulda barfed on him, too. Oh, and buddy? "As little adhesive as possible because I'm allergic to it" does NOT mean "lets wrap tape all the way around her wrist for the IV tubing." Asshole. The nurse that took it out had to cut the stuff off me.
I only know one of the three things they shot into my IV along with the saline, and that was the standard Phenergan that I had to ASK for -- I'm barfing, HELLO -- but they happily shot me up with a painkiller that is still totally fucking with me over 12 hours later.
I don't feel good.
Okay, I'm not technicolour power yarking anymore ... but the dizzy out of body thing I've got going on is far worse in many many ways.
Ptooey.
Friday, February 16, 2001
Theowho?
I don't know what I am. Eclectic Catholic, perhaps. I've touched the Other World, so to speak. There is No One Truth. My faith is a wide and generously forgiving creature, touching points of knowledge from everything I've absorbed and incorporating it into something distinctly my own.
I still wear a little gold cross. It's hanging not all that far from the pentacle tattooed on my hip, or the Eye of Horus that will eventually be on my lower back and part of a larger blended vision of combined Faith.
I believe in Free Will, only to the extent that we are allowed to make certain choices within the threads of our pattern. The keystones, the laylines, the basic warp of our lives, our Destiny, is pre-ordained. The weft in between is where we're allowed to make the most of how our Fate is woven.
Too much "wrong" can happen to those using Free Will to the very best extremes for any other course of belief. If Free Will was so effective, then logicially speaking, the life of that Good Child would always flow along the same comfortable lines of Will.
But Bad Things happen. No matter what choices we make, there's always what seems to be a "wild card" thrown in that tosses our lives out of our chosen path. It's no wild card, it's Fate, and it's guiding back towards the path Destiny intended.
Fate, you see, is not a fickle mistress. Fate is true balance. There is neither good, nor evil, nor right or wrong. The Wheel spins equally, and the Fate of one is balanced by the Fate of another. Fate chooses without bias, through that single half-blind eye that the Sisters of one mythology share.
It's the turn of a card, the fair lot drawn while another gains the short straw. Someone must win, someone must lose. Life works that way. There can never be one extreme without the other.
In the end, everything balances out.
In perspective, it may seem unfair. Cast your lot beside that of another, and see how he feels. Or another. Or another. Tally up the good and bad amongst you, the life of total hardship of one to the fairy tale life of another.
Black and White become Grey.
I still wear a little gold cross. It's hanging not all that far from the pentacle tattooed on my hip, or the Eye of Horus that will eventually be on my lower back and part of a larger blended vision of combined Faith.
I believe in Free Will, only to the extent that we are allowed to make certain choices within the threads of our pattern. The keystones, the laylines, the basic warp of our lives, our Destiny, is pre-ordained. The weft in between is where we're allowed to make the most of how our Fate is woven.
Too much "wrong" can happen to those using Free Will to the very best extremes for any other course of belief. If Free Will was so effective, then logicially speaking, the life of that Good Child would always flow along the same comfortable lines of Will.
But Bad Things happen. No matter what choices we make, there's always what seems to be a "wild card" thrown in that tosses our lives out of our chosen path. It's no wild card, it's Fate, and it's guiding back towards the path Destiny intended.
Fate, you see, is not a fickle mistress. Fate is true balance. There is neither good, nor evil, nor right or wrong. The Wheel spins equally, and the Fate of one is balanced by the Fate of another. Fate chooses without bias, through that single half-blind eye that the Sisters of one mythology share.
It's the turn of a card, the fair lot drawn while another gains the short straw. Someone must win, someone must lose. Life works that way. There can never be one extreme without the other.
In the end, everything balances out.
In perspective, it may seem unfair. Cast your lot beside that of another, and see how he feels. Or another. Or another. Tally up the good and bad amongst you, the life of total hardship of one to the fairy tale life of another.
Black and White become Grey.
Thursday, December 07, 2000
To sleep...
I'd like to live in a temperate zone, I think .... with mild summers and winters and a lack of the temperature changes that cause me to ache so badly.
I'd like to sit on a dock, dangling my feet into the cool water below and listen to the dragonflies buzzing and the frogs croaking while watching the sunset, just once more, and know that it was my place to be.
I'd like to curl with my friends around a fire once again and add my voice to their songs that rise into the night with each spark from the flames, riding the updrafts into a single, joyous melody.
I'd like to dance barefoot on the sands to the sounds of steel drums, hand in hand and heart in heart with people whose only cares of the moment are for living the music.
I'd like to walk the misty moors and lay in the heather, to chase sheep and climb hills and breathe in the air of my ancestral home.
To sleep, perchance, to dream.
I'd like to sit on a dock, dangling my feet into the cool water below and listen to the dragonflies buzzing and the frogs croaking while watching the sunset, just once more, and know that it was my place to be.
I'd like to curl with my friends around a fire once again and add my voice to their songs that rise into the night with each spark from the flames, riding the updrafts into a single, joyous melody.
I'd like to dance barefoot on the sands to the sounds of steel drums, hand in hand and heart in heart with people whose only cares of the moment are for living the music.
I'd like to walk the misty moors and lay in the heather, to chase sheep and climb hills and breathe in the air of my ancestral home.
To sleep, perchance, to dream.
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