I haven't posted for some time. I could say that I have been feeling
better, but that would be dishonest. No, what I have really been doing
is waiting. Mostly I've been waiting for my sister-in-law to be happily
married. But I've been waiting for other things, too. I've been
waiting to set some short and medium and long-term goals. I've been
waiting to write out that ever-elusive bucket list. I've been waiting
to see if I'd feel better on my own without having to go back to the
doctor and deal with the poking and prodding and stabbing and testing.
I've also been thinking. And talking. And thinking some more. I've
been thinking about who I am and what I truly want to accomplish. I've
been thinking about what is important and what I can let go. I've been
thinking about my friends and acquaintances and family. I've even been
thinking about those of my readers that I've never met. I've thought
about wills and finances and endings. I've thought about hopes and
dreams and I've realized quite a few things - some of which surprised
me.
Finally, I couldn't manage not knowing some sort of solid number. So I
gave up on waiting this thing out. I know the signs of anemia by now.
I've lived with it in one form or another all through my life. The
blood transfusions last year and early this year didn't do any lasting
good. Of course I was still bleeding then. But I've stopped bleeding
now, so there's no logic to why my hemoglobin levels would continue to
fall. The IV iron didn't do any lasting good, either. But I told
myself that it was pre-surgery and the drop after surgery was to be
expected. That's true. It is. What's not to be expected is for the
levels to continue to drop long after the surgery is over and the scars
are all that remain. So I went from having that magic number get up to
12 (still not close to the 30+ we'd like to see, but out of the
single-digit danger zone) to an 11 just before the start of the fall
semester. I'm now a month away from graduation and the numbers continue
to fall. Immediately prior to my sister-in-law's wedding (October
30th, the day before our 10th anniversary) I dropped back into single
digits with a 9. They re-tested because they were so sure they'd messed
up the test. I get that a lot.
The wedding was beautiful and I am glad that I went. My new brother is a
good man and my sister-in-law did right to wait for so long until she
found the one that was a perfect fit. The wedding also made me realize
how worn out I was. The wheelchair was my friend by the time the
wedding day arrived. But it was more than that.
The ice cravings are returning. The dark patches on my face stand out
in vivid relief as do the circles beneath my eyes. The headaches are
rarely interrupted. The restless legs are back in full force... as is
the insomnia. I'm experiencing episodes of confusion again and that
very unsettling feeling that comes from knowing that I know something,
that tip-of-the-tongue word or phrase or idea, and having it slip away
as though it never existed. I am once again having to read books two
and three times just to follow the basic plot. I am terrified that I
will get to my final exams and have no idea what any of them are asking.
The latest test had me at an 8.5. Down half a point in two weeks. That
was a week ago. If this trend continues I'll be at 7 by graduation.
6.5 by the new year. 5 by my birthday. 4 in March. The expectation is
that sometime after this point my body will go into crisis mode. As my
hemoglobin continues to drop, my oxygen saturation level will fall, my
heart will struggle to pump harder to keep me going and will either give
out or slowly give up. I expect that there will be pain involved.
Don't mistake my analytical explanation for a lack of concern, an
absence of fear or peaceful acceptance. Well, maybe there's some
element of peaceful acceptance. I know what I am unwilling to do to
sustain my life. I am unwilling to have marrow samples taken. I am
unwilling to have any more transfusions or iron IV infusions. I am
unwilling to go through chemo or radiation treatments.
What does that leave? Well, I'm using supplements that may enable me to
maintain a level of 5-6. I'm regulating my food consumption. I'm
meditating and utilizing self-healing methods. I'm controlling my pain
primarily through visualization techniques augmented by the occasional
tylenol or ibuprofen.
I'm trying not to let fear or panic control me. I refuse to let this
illness keep me from accomplishing the things that are most important to
me. I'm working with my professors to let me write my final papers a
little early - and perhaps take my final exams early - while I retain
the majority of my faculties. I am setting goals and working toward
them. Not just long term goals, but those ever-important medium and
short-term goals as well.
Right now my goal is to graduate. I will be the first in my family with
a BA. So many of my brothers started college and fell just short of
their degrees... I need to show them that it can be done. I need to
show myself that it can be done.
After that, my goal is to see my son in person again. It's been almost a
year and I miss him. I'd like to go visit him in Louisiana, then go up
to Missouri to see my mother and two oldest brothers. It's been too
long.
Another goal is to get an online business started - something that my
husband will be able to continue regardless of my outcome. That one is
in the works, it just needs a little push to get it going.
I joke and say that my long-term goal is to go to Burning Man in 2012,
but that isn't entirely accurate. It would be fun, I'm sure, but
honestly what I really want is to experience that sort of freedom. To
live in a way that doesn't leave a physical trace. To give freely. To
love wholly. In fact, I hope I already do those last two.
So, for a little summation. The best guess is that I'm experiencing
some sort of chronic hemolytic anemia. The marrow just isn't doing it's
job correctly anymore - after years of being under horrific stress, I
kind of don't blame it for giving it up as a lost cause. I'm not
looking for sympathy or pity. I'm not trying to come off as heroic. I just want to live as normally as possible for as long as possible.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
when did all of this happen?
It's been a little stressful around here lately. And by stressful, I mean that I've been sick again. Sick as in gastro-intestinal distress coupled with an unhealthy dose of blood leaving my body through various orifices.
For some reason, that word looks like it should be pluralized as "orifi" but maybe that's just me.
The illness means that I missed another day of school which has me bummed a little. What irritates me more, however, is that one of my professors decided that we should have a spiffy little writing assignment due on Tuesday and chose today (Sunday) to send out an email reminding everyone -- or surprising the heck out of those of us who missed last Thursday. The assignment isn't difficult. It's simply annoying. The syllabus says two papers, two exams, a few note-taking and posting assignments and occasional reading quizzes. I realize that the instructor thinks of these little surprise writing assignments as reading quizzes. I just can't agree with him on this point. Don't call writing assignments "quizzes" when you also hand out actual quizzes which are done during class. I guess it's just one more thing to put on my "don't do this" list for when I'm finally teaching a class of my own.
Meanwhile, September snuck up on me again this year. September holds such diverse holidays as Peter's Mum & Dad's anniversary, Peter's Dad's deathday, his sister's birthday, his dad's funeral anniversary and his birthday. Of those, I'm most concerned about the birthdays. The rest, well, they happen and we deal with them as they come. But birthdays. Birthdays get me every time. Peter's sister is awesome. I love her beyond belief. She's a strong, independent woman. And being a strong, independent woman, there's not much she needs or wants that she cannot get for herself. Birthday present. I could go with the typical card and a gift card, but I'd rather do something / get something for her that she will remember and enjoy. She's older than I am by five months. It shouldn't be so difficult to come up with ideas.
To top that off, Peter's birthday comes just two days later. I definitely have no clue what to get him. I'm thinking of making him an outfit. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's what I'll be doing for him. It might not be on time... but it will be special. Still, it adds to the stress level.
And then it hits me. September already. Next month is October. October. Easily my favorite month during the year. I mean it has Samhain / Hallowe'en. Definitely my favorite holiday. Which also happens to be our anniversary. Ten years, this year. How will we be celebrating? Well, we won't. That's a little harsh -- let me explain. On our anniversary we will be driving back from Miami because Peter's sister is getting married on the 30th. We'll be leaving Friday, cooking for the family and friends Friday night, meeting all of her fiance's family Saturday, going to the wedding Sunday and driving back Monday. Tuesday I will be back in Tallahassee at school. No time to celebrate.
Did I mention that we're driving down with Peter's Mum? And seven chihuahuas? This is the difficulty of having four-legged furred family members. It should make for an interesting ride, though. We'll be staying at the home of a lady who has moved out (mostly) to live with her significant other... a friend of Peter's sister. It's very sweet of her to let us use her home for the weekend. Part of my stress has been trying to arrange either puppy-sitting or accommodations that allow seven dogs.
Oh, and having a mouse jump on my head whilst in the bathroom on Saturday? That was stressful, too.
For some reason, that word looks like it should be pluralized as "orifi" but maybe that's just me.
The illness means that I missed another day of school which has me bummed a little. What irritates me more, however, is that one of my professors decided that we should have a spiffy little writing assignment due on Tuesday and chose today (Sunday) to send out an email reminding everyone -- or surprising the heck out of those of us who missed last Thursday. The assignment isn't difficult. It's simply annoying. The syllabus says two papers, two exams, a few note-taking and posting assignments and occasional reading quizzes. I realize that the instructor thinks of these little surprise writing assignments as reading quizzes. I just can't agree with him on this point. Don't call writing assignments "quizzes" when you also hand out actual quizzes which are done during class. I guess it's just one more thing to put on my "don't do this" list for when I'm finally teaching a class of my own.
Meanwhile, September snuck up on me again this year. September holds such diverse holidays as Peter's Mum & Dad's anniversary, Peter's Dad's deathday, his sister's birthday, his dad's funeral anniversary and his birthday. Of those, I'm most concerned about the birthdays. The rest, well, they happen and we deal with them as they come. But birthdays. Birthdays get me every time. Peter's sister is awesome. I love her beyond belief. She's a strong, independent woman. And being a strong, independent woman, there's not much she needs or wants that she cannot get for herself. Birthday present. I could go with the typical card and a gift card, but I'd rather do something / get something for her that she will remember and enjoy. She's older than I am by five months. It shouldn't be so difficult to come up with ideas.
To top that off, Peter's birthday comes just two days later. I definitely have no clue what to get him. I'm thinking of making him an outfit. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's what I'll be doing for him. It might not be on time... but it will be special. Still, it adds to the stress level.
And then it hits me. September already. Next month is October. October. Easily my favorite month during the year. I mean it has Samhain / Hallowe'en. Definitely my favorite holiday. Which also happens to be our anniversary. Ten years, this year. How will we be celebrating? Well, we won't. That's a little harsh -- let me explain. On our anniversary we will be driving back from Miami because Peter's sister is getting married on the 30th. We'll be leaving Friday, cooking for the family and friends Friday night, meeting all of her fiance's family Saturday, going to the wedding Sunday and driving back Monday. Tuesday I will be back in Tallahassee at school. No time to celebrate.
Did I mention that we're driving down with Peter's Mum? And seven chihuahuas? This is the difficulty of having four-legged furred family members. It should make for an interesting ride, though. We'll be staying at the home of a lady who has moved out (mostly) to live with her significant other... a friend of Peter's sister. It's very sweet of her to let us use her home for the weekend. Part of my stress has been trying to arrange either puppy-sitting or accommodations that allow seven dogs.
Oh, and having a mouse jump on my head whilst in the bathroom on Saturday? That was stressful, too.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
night terrors and day dreams
I had such high hopes that things would settle down once I managed to get back into the school groove. Either I've not found that groove yet, or I have, and things are just refusing to fall into place.
Some good things have occurred. I've reconnected, albeit briefly, with a handful of old friends. I have a small wardrobe of wigs - three so far - that I can rotate through as the mood strikes and I've encountered less embarassment from the shaved head than I expected during those days when a wig is just too uncomfortable or too much of a hassle. I found wig stands - but more on that project in a bit. I'm keeping up with my classes and it should be a relatively stress-free semester, all things considered. I'll be writing a total of six 5-7 page papers - no research, two annotated bibliographies (in lieu of actually writing a research paper) and will be taking three midterms and three finals. Other than the random smattering of "reading quizzes" - which are generally announced ahead of time and are brain-numbingly simple and straightforward - that's it - that's all I have to complete in order to receive the next document in the series of wall-hangings.
I keep looking at my syllabii and wondering when the 16 page research paper is going to appear... or the 10 page essay with sources... or the journal with weekly entries... but no, nothing shows up, and I'm left wondering just what exactly I'm supposed to be learning this semester. Patience, perhaps? Tolerance? How not to bang one's head repeatedly against hard objects out of frustration with an instructor who insists on treating 4000 level students as though they are freshmen? The up-side of that was the reading quiz last class - he handed out expo markers and turned us loose on the whiteboard to draw "sketches" of what we'd read. English majors. Drawing things. Hilarity ensues. Along with "how many stick figures does it take..." jokes. One comment from the crowd: "Is it bad that my first impulse was to write words instead of drawing something?" A response: "Oh, crap! I put words on mine!"
We are English majors. We use words. Get over it.
I felt a little bad for the group that came to do a presentation about FSU's international programs. 90% of our class are graduating seniors, 5% are first semester seniors (neither group can study abroad as you have to have classes the following semester on the home campus)... and the other 5% had a marked lack of interest. Our only question to them? "Do you have to be studying abroad in order to use the passport services?" The answer: "No. Anyone enrolled at FSU can get a passport through our office and it's the same price as it would be going through regular channels, only more convenient because we're right here on campus." (Can't you just see the perky little grin?)
Oh, and the instructor embarassed the crud out of one of our classmates - by pointing out that she was a "celebrity" for having been on the cover of the prior international programs catalogue. He had a copy of the catalogue. He held it up and showed everyone. The girl tried her best to melt down into her desk. It didn't work. I felt bad for her.
Back to times not changing.
I'm still getting very little sleep. Not because I'm not going to bed. I get to bed at a very reasonable hour for the most part. But when I sleep, I've been having horrific nightmares. Nightmares that are so vivid that they snap me awake. Yet when I fall asleep again I'm right back in the dream, only rewound a little. I ended up with over twenty endings to the last one of these dreams (two nights ago). And last night, when I finally fell asleep again, I added another half-dozen more endings to the same dream. Enough is enough! How many times can I be in a car, flipped over on its roof, in a lake, sinking? How many ways are there to die/survive this scenario? I can name 26, just off the top of my head. Sometimes an infant was involved. Sometimes there were people standing on the bank. Sometimes there were alligators. Or more specifically one alligator. One giant albino alligator with the attitude of a vengeful god. I was never driving. I was always in the passenger seat. The driver was always the same. She sometimes lived, sometimes died, sometimes got attacked by the alligator, sometimes got tossed back into the water by the people on the shore. Sometimes the people on the shore stole the baby. Sometimes there was no baby and I died looking for it. Sometimes I knew there was no baby and died saving the driver. Sometimes everyone lived. Sometimes I fought the alligator. Once. Just once. I let the alligator win. Let it. I was done. I'd had enough of the dream. I was well beyond the point where I recognized -inside the dream world- that I was dreaming, again, of the same scene. And I just let the alligator win. I felt the clench of the jaws around my midsection. I felt the air escape my lungs and the water enter as the 'gator did the death roll with my suddenly lifeless form. I felt the scrape of branches as the 'gator tucked me into his larder. I was dead, but alive, gone, but there, and the driver was safe on the bank (no baby this time around) and the car slowly settled down to the bottom of the lake and I saw that, too. And when I stopped fighting, and let things play out... the dreams finally stopped and allowed me to sleep. I remember feeling a little sorry for the 'gator, because when the car settled down, it blocked the entrance to the larder... and after all that work, he wouldn't even be able to get to me later on.
Moving on.
I ordered "Salt" again. This will be my third attempt to get the novel from this major online retailer of books and sundry items. Some may recall my first attempt, which ended in a 6-week wait for them to email me saying they didn't have the book after all, followed by an email three days later saying they recommended I buy "Salt" based upon my other selections. I tried. They told me it was out of stock. I wrote them, demanding to know why they recommended I buy a book that was out of stock. They told me (in an automated email) that the recommendation emails are automated. I told them their automation needed some fine-tuning to make it link up with their inventory. I used nice words. I didn't actually type "Bless your heart." But I thought it. Oh, I thought it. UPS tells me that my shipment should arrive sometime today. It is currently "out for delivery"... the company tells me that both "Salt" and "The White Witch of Rose Hall" are included in the parcel. We shall see.
Meanwhile, I've tried my hand at ordering underwear online. Ok, it started with a search for "lunch lady bras" because I can't find anything that fits correctly. I'm a big lady and I need a big bra. You wouldn't think it to see me - because for the last 5 years or so I've been strapping the girls down with too-small sports bras. It's time for a little freedom. I've ordered a set of "foundation" garments as well. Ones designed for those of us with ample curves and voluptuousness. Here's hoping they fit. USPS says they're in Jacksonville today - which means they should be here tomorrow. The foundations are a standard brief-style panty and a tank-style camisole top. I'm not looking for miracles. I'm looking for something to smooth out some of the bulges when I go to my sister-in-law's wedding in October. And, in order to get the free shipping, I added something pretty and frivolous to the order - a midnight blue nightgown. It looks... cool and swishy and comfortable and sexy all at once. Strange that I go through these phases of total body acceptance followed by a desire for constrictive undergarments which tends to end in frustration and disappointment before coming full circle to body acceptance again. Maybe if the unders that I found actually -fit- I would be able to break the cycle.
I was asked, rather bluntly, why I didn't just lose the weight if it made me so unhappy. Sure, let me wave my magic wand and have that happen. Have tried. Am trying. Heck, I even do a weigh-in every week and write the result on the bathroom mirror as a constant reminder. I've tried the many small meals a day thing, I've tried eating once a day, I've tried meal replacements, supplements, and portion control. I've tried programs where they send you the food. I've stuck with plans for 6 months to years hoping for results. I've been small once since my son was born. I made it down to a size 10 using that aforementioned program. Yes, I consider that "small." I looked like I was dead. My cheeks were hollowed, my eyes sunk in with dark circles and I was miserable. Within months I was climbing back up the weight-gain ladder. Still, I've no desire to be that small again. I'm in the midst of a plan that rewards me for pounds lost. I've made it to the first reward, a sketchbook, and am working toward the second, a lovely scarf. So yeah, I am losing the weight. It just takes time. Meanwhile, don't begrudge me the joys (or the heartaches) of foundation garments. And just wait, naturally slender people, one day your metabolism will catch up with you.
How did this turn from a nightmare and back-to-school rant to one about weight-loss? Oh well, love me anyway.
Some good things have occurred. I've reconnected, albeit briefly, with a handful of old friends. I have a small wardrobe of wigs - three so far - that I can rotate through as the mood strikes and I've encountered less embarassment from the shaved head than I expected during those days when a wig is just too uncomfortable or too much of a hassle. I found wig stands - but more on that project in a bit. I'm keeping up with my classes and it should be a relatively stress-free semester, all things considered. I'll be writing a total of six 5-7 page papers - no research, two annotated bibliographies (in lieu of actually writing a research paper) and will be taking three midterms and three finals. Other than the random smattering of "reading quizzes" - which are generally announced ahead of time and are brain-numbingly simple and straightforward - that's it - that's all I have to complete in order to receive the next document in the series of wall-hangings.
I keep looking at my syllabii and wondering when the 16 page research paper is going to appear... or the 10 page essay with sources... or the journal with weekly entries... but no, nothing shows up, and I'm left wondering just what exactly I'm supposed to be learning this semester. Patience, perhaps? Tolerance? How not to bang one's head repeatedly against hard objects out of frustration with an instructor who insists on treating 4000 level students as though they are freshmen? The up-side of that was the reading quiz last class - he handed out expo markers and turned us loose on the whiteboard to draw "sketches" of what we'd read. English majors. Drawing things. Hilarity ensues. Along with "how many stick figures does it take..." jokes. One comment from the crowd: "Is it bad that my first impulse was to write words instead of drawing something?" A response: "Oh, crap! I put words on mine!"
We are English majors. We use words. Get over it.
I felt a little bad for the group that came to do a presentation about FSU's international programs. 90% of our class are graduating seniors, 5% are first semester seniors (neither group can study abroad as you have to have classes the following semester on the home campus)... and the other 5% had a marked lack of interest. Our only question to them? "Do you have to be studying abroad in order to use the passport services?" The answer: "No. Anyone enrolled at FSU can get a passport through our office and it's the same price as it would be going through regular channels, only more convenient because we're right here on campus." (Can't you just see the perky little grin?)
Oh, and the instructor embarassed the crud out of one of our classmates - by pointing out that she was a "celebrity" for having been on the cover of the prior international programs catalogue. He had a copy of the catalogue. He held it up and showed everyone. The girl tried her best to melt down into her desk. It didn't work. I felt bad for her.
Back to times not changing.
I'm still getting very little sleep. Not because I'm not going to bed. I get to bed at a very reasonable hour for the most part. But when I sleep, I've been having horrific nightmares. Nightmares that are so vivid that they snap me awake. Yet when I fall asleep again I'm right back in the dream, only rewound a little. I ended up with over twenty endings to the last one of these dreams (two nights ago). And last night, when I finally fell asleep again, I added another half-dozen more endings to the same dream. Enough is enough! How many times can I be in a car, flipped over on its roof, in a lake, sinking? How many ways are there to die/survive this scenario? I can name 26, just off the top of my head. Sometimes an infant was involved. Sometimes there were people standing on the bank. Sometimes there were alligators. Or more specifically one alligator. One giant albino alligator with the attitude of a vengeful god. I was never driving. I was always in the passenger seat. The driver was always the same. She sometimes lived, sometimes died, sometimes got attacked by the alligator, sometimes got tossed back into the water by the people on the shore. Sometimes the people on the shore stole the baby. Sometimes there was no baby and I died looking for it. Sometimes I knew there was no baby and died saving the driver. Sometimes everyone lived. Sometimes I fought the alligator. Once. Just once. I let the alligator win. Let it. I was done. I'd had enough of the dream. I was well beyond the point where I recognized -inside the dream world- that I was dreaming, again, of the same scene. And I just let the alligator win. I felt the clench of the jaws around my midsection. I felt the air escape my lungs and the water enter as the 'gator did the death roll with my suddenly lifeless form. I felt the scrape of branches as the 'gator tucked me into his larder. I was dead, but alive, gone, but there, and the driver was safe on the bank (no baby this time around) and the car slowly settled down to the bottom of the lake and I saw that, too. And when I stopped fighting, and let things play out... the dreams finally stopped and allowed me to sleep. I remember feeling a little sorry for the 'gator, because when the car settled down, it blocked the entrance to the larder... and after all that work, he wouldn't even be able to get to me later on.
Moving on.
I ordered "Salt" again. This will be my third attempt to get the novel from this major online retailer of books and sundry items. Some may recall my first attempt, which ended in a 6-week wait for them to email me saying they didn't have the book after all, followed by an email three days later saying they recommended I buy "Salt" based upon my other selections. I tried. They told me it was out of stock. I wrote them, demanding to know why they recommended I buy a book that was out of stock. They told me (in an automated email) that the recommendation emails are automated. I told them their automation needed some fine-tuning to make it link up with their inventory. I used nice words. I didn't actually type "Bless your heart." But I thought it. Oh, I thought it. UPS tells me that my shipment should arrive sometime today. It is currently "out for delivery"... the company tells me that both "Salt" and "The White Witch of Rose Hall" are included in the parcel. We shall see.
Meanwhile, I've tried my hand at ordering underwear online. Ok, it started with a search for "lunch lady bras" because I can't find anything that fits correctly. I'm a big lady and I need a big bra. You wouldn't think it to see me - because for the last 5 years or so I've been strapping the girls down with too-small sports bras. It's time for a little freedom. I've ordered a set of "foundation" garments as well. Ones designed for those of us with ample curves and voluptuousness. Here's hoping they fit. USPS says they're in Jacksonville today - which means they should be here tomorrow. The foundations are a standard brief-style panty and a tank-style camisole top. I'm not looking for miracles. I'm looking for something to smooth out some of the bulges when I go to my sister-in-law's wedding in October. And, in order to get the free shipping, I added something pretty and frivolous to the order - a midnight blue nightgown. It looks... cool and swishy and comfortable and sexy all at once. Strange that I go through these phases of total body acceptance followed by a desire for constrictive undergarments which tends to end in frustration and disappointment before coming full circle to body acceptance again. Maybe if the unders that I found actually -fit- I would be able to break the cycle.
I was asked, rather bluntly, why I didn't just lose the weight if it made me so unhappy. Sure, let me wave my magic wand and have that happen. Have tried. Am trying. Heck, I even do a weigh-in every week and write the result on the bathroom mirror as a constant reminder. I've tried the many small meals a day thing, I've tried eating once a day, I've tried meal replacements, supplements, and portion control. I've tried programs where they send you the food. I've stuck with plans for 6 months to years hoping for results. I've been small once since my son was born. I made it down to a size 10 using that aforementioned program. Yes, I consider that "small." I looked like I was dead. My cheeks were hollowed, my eyes sunk in with dark circles and I was miserable. Within months I was climbing back up the weight-gain ladder. Still, I've no desire to be that small again. I'm in the midst of a plan that rewards me for pounds lost. I've made it to the first reward, a sketchbook, and am working toward the second, a lovely scarf. So yeah, I am losing the weight. It just takes time. Meanwhile, don't begrudge me the joys (or the heartaches) of foundation garments. And just wait, naturally slender people, one day your metabolism will catch up with you.
How did this turn from a nightmare and back-to-school rant to one about weight-loss? Oh well, love me anyway.
Monday, September 5, 2011
aware of the awareness
One of my friends posted this status earlier today: "
Awareness data for this month, and all the rest of them, can be found at this nifty location: Awareness Data List.
I'm still not changing my status.
Awareness data for this month, and all the rest of them, can be found at this nifty location: Awareness Data List.
I'm still not changing my status.
Monday, August 29, 2011
serpentine
It finally happened, just as I've been dreading since last year. The conversation started innocently enough.
Peter: Hey, honey? Do you know where I put my glove?
Me: Glove? No. Why do you need... oh.
And it hit me... there's another snake in the house. Dangit.
Peter: Oh, here it is.
He dons the glove.
Wait a second, he's going into the guest bathroom. The same guest bathroom I'd just been rummaging in trying to find my composition books for class on Tuesday. The same guest bathroom that is, I now realize, chock full of snakey hiding places.
Me: Where is it?
As I try to see around him in the tiny space.
Peter: There. I lifted the toilet lid and it was just hanging out there on the seat.
On the seat. The seat. This fellow had nestled his snakey self in multiple draping coils along the back of the toilet seat near the hinge. Lucky thing it was toward the back when Peter lifted the lid.
Peter grabs the awkwardly positioned snake. I have retreated to my desk.
And then I hear Peter quietly talking to the snake.
Peter: You cheeky bastard!
Me: What happened?
Peter: He bit me.
Me: What can I do?
Peter: Reassure me that it's not poisonous.
And without even getting a closer look at the snake, I respond calmly.
Me: It's not poisonous.
I look closer, confirming that it's the same type of snake we've been finding all year and repeat again that it's not poisonous. Peter brings it out into better light, unhooks its fang from his finger and gets a better hold. I look again.
Me: No, definitely not poisonous.
Of course, inside I'm freaking out, thinking I -could- be wrong. I could have misidentified the thing. There might, right now, be venom coursing through Peter's veins. Oh geez, what if I'm wrong?
Peter: Ok. Going to go release him then.
Me: I'm going with you.
Thinking, just in case you pass out and I have to drag your toxin-filled body to the ER.
Peter gets to the end of the driveway, gives the snake a not-so-gentle toss up into the branches of a pine tree about 20 feet away.
Me: Nice distance.
We watch the snake as it casually makes its way along the branch to the trunk of the tree. We return to the house before it can get down and exact further revenge.
Peter: I was ready to just hang onto the thing and have you drive me to the ER, you know. Bet they wouldn't have kept me waiting long with Mr. Slithers in my hands.
Me: How are you feeling?
Peter: Hmm? Oh, fine.
Me: You. Our bathroom. Now.
I rinse the area under running water, which has the effect of taking away the minuscule drops of blood and removing all traces of the shallow bite. But I insist on a soap-and-water wash. Then rinse it with alcohol.
Peter: It's fine. Itches a bit, but it's fine.
Me: I'm going to peroxide it.
Peter: It's fine.
Me: I am going to peroxide it and you are going to let me because you have just been bitten by a freaking SNAKE.
Peter lets me pour hydrogen peroxide over his fingers - no bubbling occurs.
I douse it in alcohol again and finally let him escape from my semi-frantic wound care of his now nonexistent wounds.
So. It finally happened. Snake number six managed to get a bite in before being removed. We figured it out, though. The way Peter had to grab the critter is what got him into trouble. Usually he can go for the tail and tease them out from their hidey-holes, but this time it was curled up and he had to go straight for the head. In a cramped space, that's difficult to do.
He's fine, by the way. No redness, no swelling, no itching after the first few moments.
I'm fine, too. But I'm steering clear of that bathroom for... maybe forever.
Peter: Hey, honey? Do you know where I put my glove?
Me: Glove? No. Why do you need... oh.
And it hit me... there's another snake in the house. Dangit.
Peter: Oh, here it is.
He dons the glove.
Wait a second, he's going into the guest bathroom. The same guest bathroom I'd just been rummaging in trying to find my composition books for class on Tuesday. The same guest bathroom that is, I now realize, chock full of snakey hiding places.
Me: Where is it?
As I try to see around him in the tiny space.
Peter: There. I lifted the toilet lid and it was just hanging out there on the seat.
On the seat. The seat. This fellow had nestled his snakey self in multiple draping coils along the back of the toilet seat near the hinge. Lucky thing it was toward the back when Peter lifted the lid.
Peter grabs the awkwardly positioned snake. I have retreated to my desk.
And then I hear Peter quietly talking to the snake.
Peter: You cheeky bastard!
Me: What happened?
Peter: He bit me.
Me: What can I do?
Peter: Reassure me that it's not poisonous.
And without even getting a closer look at the snake, I respond calmly.
Me: It's not poisonous.
I look closer, confirming that it's the same type of snake we've been finding all year and repeat again that it's not poisonous. Peter brings it out into better light, unhooks its fang from his finger and gets a better hold. I look again.
Me: No, definitely not poisonous.
Of course, inside I'm freaking out, thinking I -could- be wrong. I could have misidentified the thing. There might, right now, be venom coursing through Peter's veins. Oh geez, what if I'm wrong?
Peter: Ok. Going to go release him then.
Me: I'm going with you.
Thinking, just in case you pass out and I have to drag your toxin-filled body to the ER.
Peter gets to the end of the driveway, gives the snake a not-so-gentle toss up into the branches of a pine tree about 20 feet away.
Me: Nice distance.
We watch the snake as it casually makes its way along the branch to the trunk of the tree. We return to the house before it can get down and exact further revenge.
Peter: I was ready to just hang onto the thing and have you drive me to the ER, you know. Bet they wouldn't have kept me waiting long with Mr. Slithers in my hands.
Me: How are you feeling?
Peter: Hmm? Oh, fine.
Me: You. Our bathroom. Now.
I rinse the area under running water, which has the effect of taking away the minuscule drops of blood and removing all traces of the shallow bite. But I insist on a soap-and-water wash. Then rinse it with alcohol.
Peter: It's fine. Itches a bit, but it's fine.
Me: I'm going to peroxide it.
Peter: It's fine.
Me: I am going to peroxide it and you are going to let me because you have just been bitten by a freaking SNAKE.
Peter lets me pour hydrogen peroxide over his fingers - no bubbling occurs.
I douse it in alcohol again and finally let him escape from my semi-frantic wound care of his now nonexistent wounds.
So. It finally happened. Snake number six managed to get a bite in before being removed. We figured it out, though. The way Peter had to grab the critter is what got him into trouble. Usually he can go for the tail and tease them out from their hidey-holes, but this time it was curled up and he had to go straight for the head. In a cramped space, that's difficult to do.
He's fine, by the way. No redness, no swelling, no itching after the first few moments.
I'm fine, too. But I'm steering clear of that bathroom for... maybe forever.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
(don't) panic!
It's 5am and I'm minding my own business, clicking away at a game on Facebook. It's dark outside. Periodically I'm making an attempt at walking puppies. The weather is mild. A bit warm for still-dark-morning, but not overly humid. No thunder or lightning. No rain. No wind.
I mention the weather because suddenly...
...the room goes DARK!
30 seconds of pitch black. Computer: off. Kitchen light: off. Fan: off. Fridge: off. Absolute silence reigns.
And then it's light again. Computer starts to reboot.
And I think: "I should get a candle ready. Just in case."
Ah, there's the beautiful candle lamp on the kitchen counter (because it hasn't found a home yet) I'll just move it to Peter's desk and light the candle. Just in case.
So I go over to the counter and move the lamp. I go back to the counter and look for a lighter. Or matches. Nothing.
I check the tool drawer. Because who doesn't put a box of matches or a couple of lighters in their tool drawer? Nothing.
For good measure, I check the hot-pad drawer. Lots of birthday candles. No matches. No lighter. Found the beaters for a mixer we no longer own. But no incendiary devices.
What the heck, I'll check the other drawers. Cooking tools: Nothing. Silverware: Nothing.
I'm in a bit of a panic now.
There's nothing on the shelf in the living room because we've just redone the living room.
There's nothing on my altar because, well, I'm a slacker and don't have the altar back up completely yet. Besides, I don't keep matches or a lighter on the altar, anyway.
How can I be living in a Pagan household and NOT have anything handy to light a fire?
Bathroom. There are votive candles in the bathroom. Surely there are matches. I rummage. I search. None.
Finally, on a shelf just above my eye level, I find a lighter.
And I remember a late-night conversation with Peter. Several weeks ago I wanted a candlelit bath to soothe my headache and help me sleep. The lighter was his solution to the "no matches in the matchbox" problem.
It's ok. I have a lighter and a candle and if the power goes out again, I'll have light.
Let me just light the candle. Just in case.
Click. Nothing.
Click.
Nothing.
Shake. Liquid noises. Ok.
Click.
Nothing.
Notice that the clicking part of this particular lighter is split in two. What? Hmm.
Click the tiny edge portion.
FIRE!
And in my exuberance at figuring out what is apparently a child-safe lighter, I manage to burn myself with said lighter.
But the candle is lit. Just in case.
Just in case another freaking squirrel farts on the power line causing a blackout of half the grid serviced by our local co-op.
(That's the only thing I can imagine that may have caused the earlier interruption in service.)
I mention the weather because suddenly...
...the room goes DARK!
30 seconds of pitch black. Computer: off. Kitchen light: off. Fan: off. Fridge: off. Absolute silence reigns.
And then it's light again. Computer starts to reboot.
And I think: "I should get a candle ready. Just in case."
Ah, there's the beautiful candle lamp on the kitchen counter (because it hasn't found a home yet) I'll just move it to Peter's desk and light the candle. Just in case.
So I go over to the counter and move the lamp. I go back to the counter and look for a lighter. Or matches. Nothing.
I check the tool drawer. Because who doesn't put a box of matches or a couple of lighters in their tool drawer? Nothing.
For good measure, I check the hot-pad drawer. Lots of birthday candles. No matches. No lighter. Found the beaters for a mixer we no longer own. But no incendiary devices.
What the heck, I'll check the other drawers. Cooking tools: Nothing. Silverware: Nothing.
I'm in a bit of a panic now.
There's nothing on the shelf in the living room because we've just redone the living room.
There's nothing on my altar because, well, I'm a slacker and don't have the altar back up completely yet. Besides, I don't keep matches or a lighter on the altar, anyway.
How can I be living in a Pagan household and NOT have anything handy to light a fire?
Bathroom. There are votive candles in the bathroom. Surely there are matches. I rummage. I search. None.
Finally, on a shelf just above my eye level, I find a lighter.
And I remember a late-night conversation with Peter. Several weeks ago I wanted a candlelit bath to soothe my headache and help me sleep. The lighter was his solution to the "no matches in the matchbox" problem.
It's ok. I have a lighter and a candle and if the power goes out again, I'll have light.
Let me just light the candle. Just in case.
Click. Nothing.
Click.
Nothing.
Shake. Liquid noises. Ok.
Click.
Nothing.
Notice that the clicking part of this particular lighter is split in two. What? Hmm.
Click the tiny edge portion.
FIRE!
And in my exuberance at figuring out what is apparently a child-safe lighter, I manage to burn myself with said lighter.
But the candle is lit. Just in case.
Just in case another freaking squirrel farts on the power line causing a blackout of half the grid serviced by our local co-op.
(That's the only thing I can imagine that may have caused the earlier interruption in service.)
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
emotional turmoil equates to physical distress
I have such rage within me at this moment that I cannot speak. I have trembling in my extremities and my vision is blurred. My intestinal fortitude is being sorely challenged.
Why? What has cause this distress in one who normally maintains at least an outward semblance of calm?
As with most things, this rage-inducing event is the culmination of the rock-strewn pathway I've been navigating today.
Today started with some alarming physical issues. The leg of the infamous jellyfish sting refused to bend at the knee this morning - and absolutely resisted bearing weight of any kind. I graciously spent the morning abed, with hopes of improvement.
No such luck. At least not for several hours. At this point, nearly 24 hours later, I can finally bend the knee and have learned a somewhat awkward shuffle that allows me to walk from point A to point B with only moderate discomfort.
But that was only the first boulder in the path.
Suwannee County turned out to vote today on a single issue. Should the county remain dry or permit the sale of alcoholic beverages? And if yes to wet, should these beverages be available only in packages or should they be available in drinkable form from eateries and bars and such? Overwhelmingly Suwannee County voters turned out to declare they wanted to be able to give their tax dollars to their home county rather than having to drive to adjacent locales in order to purchase their poison of choice. I voted wet, all inclusive. As did my spouse. As did his mother. As did over 7,000 voters. Wet won.
While at the voting place, I was mistaken for a man. Maybe it was my hat? Or the dragon-print t-shirt? Or the grey jersey mid-calf length yoga pants? Or the yoga shoes? Whatever it was, boulder number two quite clearly addressed me as "Sir." Not once, but twice. The first time I shrugged it off. The second time I stopped, looked at her with what must have been an odd expression and watched as realization dawned that I am not, in fact, a Sir. She stumbled through an apology. I smiled and nodded and agreed that no harm was done.
We had a lovely dinner and made our way home. Granted we encountered several other drivers intent on killing us, but we made it through. I'll call them rock number three.
Once home, and once the election results were posted, boulder number four came rolling in my direction. I, my spouse and my mum-in-law, along with the other 7000+ voters who said "Yes" today were called "FOOLS" (emphasis is most definitely not mine) by a friend of mine. Although I think we've managed to finally agree to disagree on this issue (as we have on so many others), it has put a rather nasty ding in our relationship. And the buildup of stress is taking its toll on my body. Intestinal distress. An upswing in joint pain. That hazy glaze to my vision that means my heart is not behaving itself.
All of that means I need to calm down. Slow down. Maybe meditate a little. At the very least I need to do something I enjoy to take my mind off the pain.
I enjoy writing. I've been working on The Sequel, an apt working title for the sequel to my first novel. Things have been going well lately and I've been churning out some rather good quality work. I'm a half-dozen chapters in, have the outline set for the rest, all the character descriptions are done and tonight, the muse was working overtime. My fingers were itching to type.
And then I opened the file.
For reasons unknown to me, the current version of Word insists on making its own decisions as to font, font size, paragraph spacing, blocking and will not - not even when I muck about with the actual internal files - will not accept any alteration to this strangely set default. I don't think it's too much to ask to have 12 point Times New Roman set at single space with no blocking when I open a new document. Apparently Word believes otherwise. I've solved this dilemma somewhat by making a template file which I open when I am going to start a new document.
Tonight, Word had a new trick up its sleeve. I opened my work-in-progress file to find that the entire thing had been reformatted to the strange Word default. What the heck? Ok, staying calm. Select all. Reset the settings. Save. There, all better.
Except it wasn't.
It wasn't all better because it was gone.
Completely gone.
The file. The folder. Gone.
Not in the recycle bin. Not saved somewhere strange. Just gone.
Virus scan... negative.
Virus scan from an online source... negative.
Virus scan from a different online source, just in case... negative.
I tentatively opened a different file. A letter I'm in process of writing to my aunts. The formatting was fine. I saved. I looked for and found it again. It opened just fine.
Ok, am I paranoid? Where the heck is my book?
Breathe.
Looking again. Well, the "writing" folder is back. Whew! But wait. It only contains the original novel and some publishing notes.
Continuing to look.
And... wait, let me look in the original novel folder ...
Jackpot. Well, sort of. The who's who is there. The outline is there. But the entire file for The Sequel is gone.
That's not entirely true. There IS a file. But when I open the file, it is a blank page. With the default Word settings.
Microsoft, you mock me, and I have RAGE.
Unfortunately, that rage is making me harf uncontrollably, shake violently and whimper with pain. Don't get mad, your body will get even.
Why? What has cause this distress in one who normally maintains at least an outward semblance of calm?
As with most things, this rage-inducing event is the culmination of the rock-strewn pathway I've been navigating today.
Today started with some alarming physical issues. The leg of the infamous jellyfish sting refused to bend at the knee this morning - and absolutely resisted bearing weight of any kind. I graciously spent the morning abed, with hopes of improvement.
No such luck. At least not for several hours. At this point, nearly 24 hours later, I can finally bend the knee and have learned a somewhat awkward shuffle that allows me to walk from point A to point B with only moderate discomfort.
But that was only the first boulder in the path.
Suwannee County turned out to vote today on a single issue. Should the county remain dry or permit the sale of alcoholic beverages? And if yes to wet, should these beverages be available only in packages or should they be available in drinkable form from eateries and bars and such? Overwhelmingly Suwannee County voters turned out to declare they wanted to be able to give their tax dollars to their home county rather than having to drive to adjacent locales in order to purchase their poison of choice. I voted wet, all inclusive. As did my spouse. As did his mother. As did over 7,000 voters. Wet won.
While at the voting place, I was mistaken for a man. Maybe it was my hat? Or the dragon-print t-shirt? Or the grey jersey mid-calf length yoga pants? Or the yoga shoes? Whatever it was, boulder number two quite clearly addressed me as "Sir." Not once, but twice. The first time I shrugged it off. The second time I stopped, looked at her with what must have been an odd expression and watched as realization dawned that I am not, in fact, a Sir. She stumbled through an apology. I smiled and nodded and agreed that no harm was done.
We had a lovely dinner and made our way home. Granted we encountered several other drivers intent on killing us, but we made it through. I'll call them rock number three.
Once home, and once the election results were posted, boulder number four came rolling in my direction. I, my spouse and my mum-in-law, along with the other 7000+ voters who said "Yes" today were called "FOOLS" (emphasis is most definitely not mine) by a friend of mine. Although I think we've managed to finally agree to disagree on this issue (as we have on so many others), it has put a rather nasty ding in our relationship. And the buildup of stress is taking its toll on my body. Intestinal distress. An upswing in joint pain. That hazy glaze to my vision that means my heart is not behaving itself.
All of that means I need to calm down. Slow down. Maybe meditate a little. At the very least I need to do something I enjoy to take my mind off the pain.
I enjoy writing. I've been working on The Sequel, an apt working title for the sequel to my first novel. Things have been going well lately and I've been churning out some rather good quality work. I'm a half-dozen chapters in, have the outline set for the rest, all the character descriptions are done and tonight, the muse was working overtime. My fingers were itching to type.
And then I opened the file.
For reasons unknown to me, the current version of Word insists on making its own decisions as to font, font size, paragraph spacing, blocking and will not - not even when I muck about with the actual internal files - will not accept any alteration to this strangely set default. I don't think it's too much to ask to have 12 point Times New Roman set at single space with no blocking when I open a new document. Apparently Word believes otherwise. I've solved this dilemma somewhat by making a template file which I open when I am going to start a new document.
Tonight, Word had a new trick up its sleeve. I opened my work-in-progress file to find that the entire thing had been reformatted to the strange Word default. What the heck? Ok, staying calm. Select all. Reset the settings. Save. There, all better.
Except it wasn't.
It wasn't all better because it was gone.
Completely gone.
The file. The folder. Gone.
Not in the recycle bin. Not saved somewhere strange. Just gone.
Virus scan... negative.
Virus scan from an online source... negative.
Virus scan from a different online source, just in case... negative.
I tentatively opened a different file. A letter I'm in process of writing to my aunts. The formatting was fine. I saved. I looked for and found it again. It opened just fine.
Ok, am I paranoid? Where the heck is my book?
Breathe.
Looking again. Well, the "writing" folder is back. Whew! But wait. It only contains the original novel and some publishing notes.
Continuing to look.
And... wait, let me look in the original novel folder ...
Jackpot. Well, sort of. The who's who is there. The outline is there. But the entire file for The Sequel is gone.
That's not entirely true. There IS a file. But when I open the file, it is a blank page. With the default Word settings.
Microsoft, you mock me, and I have RAGE.
Unfortunately, that rage is making me harf uncontrollably, shake violently and whimper with pain. Don't get mad, your body will get even.
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