Sometimes Life is a Series of WTF Moments

      My sleep has been wayyy off lately.  Most of it has been due to pain, stress, and stress headaches.  Forcing myself to stay up to watch a mini movie series didn't help.  It did, however, come in handy last night.  As I was watching Frasier trying to get to sleep, I kept hearing something outside the back door.  There's a damn junk pile under the deck that was supposed to be taken out of there last year, but I kept being told "it'll get done.. I have it taken care of... don't worry about it, I have someone coming to get it..etc." Any time I brought it up or found someone to haul the crap away for a decent price.  I'm not talking garbage like kitchen garbage.  I'm talking like busted furniture, a few old cages.. junk like that.  And an upside down, 3 floored rat condo.  I kept meaning to put it in one of our sheds because the cage was in good condition just in case we ever decided to buy a few rats again, until I noticed that the bottom of the cage looked like a meteor or bowling ball had been dropped through it a few weeks ago.  I was curious, but didn't give it much thought.
     I didn't hear anything from the mutt upstairs, but I grabbed my bat and my flashlight and went over to the door to investigate.  There were several baby raccoons using the junk pile as their own personal playground!  Great.  Just what I needed--a jungle gym for baby raccoons on the other side of a screen door WITH A HOLE IN IT!!  (Keep in mind the door leads into my office and on the other side of my office wall is my bedroom).  They were kinda cute and didn't seem to be bothered by my spying, but the ginormous momma raccoon wasn't too happy to see me as she came out of hiding.  And by ginormous?  I mean about the size of my dog, but shorter and fatter.  Much, much fatter--and with sharp teeth, beady eyes, and sharp claws.  Odds are, they've made a home in the junk pile.  Lucky me.  As if playing dodge squirrel on my way to the store yesterday wasn't enough, right?
    So I close and lock the door just to make sure I don't wake up to any uninvited guests and wake up to another stress headache this morning.  I wasn't entirely sure it was a stress headache until I was driving down a highway and laughing at this kid in a Mazda sports coupe trying to race a Corvette through traffic.  (I don't think I need to say who won THAT race), but as I turned onto an interstate, I found myself in a race with a REALLY hot guy in a BMW.  We were neck and neck for awhile, weaving in between cars and tractor trailers for awhile, but in the end, I beat him..I knew I loved my little supercharged Blue for a reason!  I found myself turning up the radio and settling into pace with the guy at a speed that may or may not have gotten our licenses yanked on the spot if we were caught when out of nowhere this late 90s Dodge Durango comes flying past us!  I swear, if there was one of those thought bubbles that popped up between that guy and me when we looked at each other, "WTF!?!" would have been on it.  I glanced over again and saw he was laughing just as hard as I was. But he had to get off at the next exit and mine was coming up shortly.  Then I realized my headache was gone and while I was still in a lot of pain, I found it was easier to ignore for those 20+ minutes.  It was like I was transported back to my old street racing days again, except I generally avoided racing on highways (except once, just to prove a point to a co-worker).
     I stopped at the grocery store on my way home and get stuck in traffic on one of the back roads.  By then, the radio wasn't as loud and I had both windows wide open.  I look out the passenger side to see a doe standing on the side of the road near my car.  Before I realize it, she saunters over to my car and sticks her head in my window!  It was a deer, so I was far from frightened, but I'm just sitting there, stuck in traffic, thinking "what the HELL? There's a deer... in.my.car." I just sat there stunned as she calmly sniffed around my seat, took a quick look up at me, then spotted the bag of groceries on the floor.  With the loaf of bread I had just bought mom on top.  I'm still sitting there staring at this animal with this kind of what the fuck? going through my mind, but realize that if I don't come home with the bread, mom's going to be a bit upset, deer theft or not.  "Um, doe?  That's not yours... In case you haven't noticed, you're kinda in the woods and well, there's plenty of food for you out there, so could you please leave my groceries alone?  Please?"  Then I realize I'm sitting there, in traffic, trying to reason with a DEER!  Not just a deer, but one who just wandered up to my car and decided to poke around.  The craziest part?  I think she understood me.  Seriously.  She lifted her head up, stared at me for a few seconds, backed her head out of my car (I'm pretty sure she nodded at me, but I might have been imaging things) and just walked away.
    Sometimes you just have to laugh at the sheer absurdity of what gets thrown across your path in life.  And when entertaining wtf kind of things don't happen?  There's always self entertainment.

The Evil Migraine Hamster Strikes Again

    After the "Magical Morphing Migraines" turned into complex migraines, I sort of started a journal.  I admit that I didn't need a journal to recognize the warning signs of these migraines, regardless of what my neurologist, internist and soon-to-be fired rheumatologist (still haven't quite gotten around to that yet, but still undecided if I like the new one yet, either) have diagnosed the latest migraines as.  I confuse words, forget simple things (think of it like brain fog x1000), and a host of other signs that I stupidly ignore until the migraine hits.  I've been fortunate enough to be put on a control medication to keep the nasty buggers at bay.  Until now.  My insurance company also does not cover the medication without having to go through a circus act (because it costs almost $400 for 6 tiny pills with no generic alternative--so no, it's not a matter of an insurance company watching it's bottom line over its patients well being, is it? Didn't think so.)  Now to the hat trick--until last night, I would get all of the classic 5,000 symptoms (yes, an exaggeration, but it feels like it, so bite me) of a complex migraine minus the whole feeling like your head is going to explode feeling, which was pretty bad, but tolerable, considering I ran out of the migraine medication and plenty of ways to combat everything but the phantom smells.
      I'll return to last night in a moment.  I began noticing that before a migraine I start craving 2 things: salt and sugar.  Also, weather changes seem to bring on these migraines.  Whether salt or sugar are triggers, I'm not sure, but that's at least something I can figure out which, if either/neither/or both are triggers (considering the amount I tend to crave and give into), but if the weather is a trigger, well, I'm screwed.  There's only so many things I CAN control and the weather isn't one of them.  I mean, I'm good, but not that good. 
    I was supposed to return to my newest rheumatologist yesterday.  Except with the excessive heat and humidity, my pain levels and swelling have almost literally brought me to my knees.  From what I was told at my last appointment, I was supposed to be going in for a few tests that would require me to remove my jewelry.  I found myself up at 3am, with my hand wrapped in ice packs, frozen water bottles, and even in the freezer trying to bring the swelling down in a desperate attempt to get my prayer ring off because my hands were that swollen and it was kinda cutting off the circulation to my finger.  Didn't work, except to at least make my hand numb enough not to care.  I had to call and cancel my appointment because I still couldn't get my rings off, I was too exhausted to drive over an hour and a half there, spend a few hours to take the tests, get the results, drive home, etc., I was in pain with a cold front approaching and lack of sleep, and it was just one of those days, but did learn that the doctor didn't schedule a single test.  I'm a little ticked, because if he thinks he's going to schedule an appointment to review test results, have me return for more tests, schedule me to return to review those scan results and so on (at $50 a visit plus the tests) he's out of his damned mind.  I'm desperate for a diagnosis, but not THAT desperate.  It takes a radiologist 10 minutes to interpret an X-ray and not much longer for CT, MRI, and other scan results. 
      I settled in to watch part 2 of the Hatfield & McCoy movie and all of a sudden it struck like lighting--yep.  A full blown, screaming, blinding, deafening migraine.  I didn't even make it upstairs to the bathroom to vomit.  I only made it out the back door it hit so fast.  And no rescue meds left.  I chewed a nausea pill, one of my "big boy" pain pills,  grabbed a few ice packs, and prayed for the best.  I could've just smashed my head into a wall for all the good it did (though the nausea pill did some good).  Then I remembered I used to always keep at least one or two spare pills in the zipper pocket in my purses... and they're all in the plastic totes under my bed.  I'm usually pretty good at cleaning out my purses, but what if... and I found myself scrambling under the bed, pulling out empty purse after empty purse praying I forgot just one pill and JACKPOT!!! I found 4 in 1 purse that expire in 3 months! In less than a half hour I finally started to feel human again, even if I did have to get up at 4am to clean up the mess before the mutt thought she hit the mother lode of chew toys. 
    So it looks like I'll be begging the rheumatologist for a few samples tomorrow, making another appointment with the neurologist, and preparing for a battle with the insurance company to explain for the umpteenth time that yes, I have tried medication A, B, C, D, E, F, AND G, no, they have NOT worked, which is why I need the expensive medication instead of it's cheaper predecessors.  Or they can pay the several thousand dollars for the ER trip when I'm forced to put my head through a concrete wall the next time a migraine like last nights hit.  But hey, it's up to them.  They're the experts with degrees in business and well, my doctors are just the morons with medical degrees, right?

Manic Monday Thoughts

     So it's Monday, Memorial Day, and life should return to normal tomorrow.   I have to mention just how many people (and the media) take for granted what this weekend is all about--remembering why this is a holiday weekend.  It's to remember and honor our veterans past and present.  If it wasn't for their courage and bravery, we would not have the freedoms and the country we have today.  It's not about good sales, having an extra few days off of work to drink and stuff ourselves full of food at bbqs with friends, family, and neighbors (unless you're actually celebrating our veterans), and it's not the "unofficial start of summer."  Okay.  Rant over.
   So I'm sitting here, still trying to get comfortable, swollen up like the Michelin Man, waiting for my skin to explode, in pain, and melting.  And trying to keep my growing anxiety under control.  I honestly haven't the slightest clue what I'm going to do this summer.  If I wasn't so allergic to mold, I'd be hiding at the bottom of my semi-walk in closet with my super furry mutt because even with the dampness, it's surprisingly cool in there.  (Looks like I will be going to the hardware store this week for Damp Rid or some other moisture absorbing product for those hard to reach places the dehumidifier can't reach down here).  But that's only one solution.  It was hot and it was HUMID this weekend.  And not only was my pain level through the roof, so was my joint swelling.  The dehumidifer we have is decades old, an electricity sucker, extremely loud, and even though it does a so/so job of dehumidfying, it has a major downside:  it emits serious heat.  I looked online for stand alone air conditioners that don't have to be installed in windows and they aren't cheap.  I'm talking average of $400 not cheap.  But they're not just air conditioners, they're also dehumidifers (that don't have to be emptied--double bonus!) and they're relatively quiet.  It's definitely a more sane idea than saving as much money as I can and staying in a motel all summer.
    It's just money that I really don't have to spend on something I do need, even if it's for a few months out of the year.  Add that to medical bills I have yet to receive, things that keep breaking around here (if you can think if it, it's either broken, or about to break), and my upcoming doctors appointments.  I'm not new to tests by any means.  It's just kind of scary in a way.  Basically tomorrow, I get my lab results and X-ray results (radiation), then another round of questions, a quick physical, and at the very least a bone density scan.  I know it's a relatively quick and very painless procedure, but it's more radiation exposure.  I'm not sure how my doctor is going to do the gallium scan yet, as it takes several hours from the time I'm injected with radiation until I'm stuck into a tube and scanned for inflammation, tumors, and infection (i.e. MORE radiation).  It's a bit nervewracking to think about.  And a lot to absorb.  It's not like I haven't had nuclear tests before, but this is different.  It's one thing to know I'm sick, but to be tested this aggressively makes it feel real.  And it's kind of unnerving.

On a Slightly Different Note (& By Special Request)

   As most know by now, I am a co-admin/moderator for a Facebook page that helps others with "invisible illnesses" as well as helps loved ones, friends, family members learn what these illness are and help them try to understand what life is really like for us to live with these illnesses.  We also help raise awareness of these illnesses with conjunction with several other pages. I was asked a few days ago by someone who is kind of part of our community how a homeless person "gets" mentally ill (mental illness is also included in our realm of the "invisible").  I explained that no one "gets" mentally ill, but sometimes one can become homeless as the result of their illness.   The same holds true for many illness.  I would also fully respond to their question in one of my blogs after doing more research into it (even though I thought I knew how to answer it, but at the risk of plagiarizing myself, I'd go back through previous research, do a bit more digging, and, well, here it is).  A few things worth noting:  It is a little on the long side because I wanted to do the topic justice instead of just glossing over it, I made a few assumptions before I started the research and was shockingly proved wrong (never assume people!), and if any of my professors just happen to read this, it's not properly cited, but all of my references are found at the bottom of the page. 
     As I stated before, people don't "get" or "catch" a mental illness like you would the flu or a common cold.  It's something that's built into your genetic code, but just because someone might be genetically predisposed to a mental illness does not guarantee that they will develop one during their lifetime.  Other factors play into it such as their environment and social surroundings (think biopsychosocial model).  As far as I could find out, there aren't any genetic tests to find out who has a predisposition to what, but think of it this way (an analogy from a former psychology professor)--if someone has a genetic predisposition to schizophrenia and knows it, the LAST thing they're going to want to do is LSD or any other mind altering drug.  Sure, they may have a few fantastic trips, but odds are, there will be that one trip that triggers the disease (the gun is loaded [genes], the person is playing Russian roulette by using drugs like that, and eventually, the bullet will fire).  That's just a simplified example, but it doesn't always happen that way.  It would be like saying every child of an addict or alcoholic becomes one themselves.
       The age of onset also varies.  The most common ages for most mental illnesses are during adolescence and post-adolescence because that's when the body's hormone levels are changing the most. 
     This is where my research got a bit interesting.  In the United States, the national average (and I checked out over 2 dozen studies, but only cited one here) population of mentally ill homeless is only about 200,000 people.  I expected the numbers to be much higher considering the number of homeless in our nation.  In doing further research, I discovered why the numbers are so low: about 10% of our prison population have some form of mental illness.  This leads to what is known as a criminal/mental revolving door policy.  While an inmate is serving their time, they receive the help he or she needs and begin to get better.  Unfortunately, once released from jail or prison, that person does not have the resources to continue with their treatment and fall back into their old ways (or find a way to be sent back to prison on purpose).  I rarely insert my opinions when doing research, but out of all the psychological research and papers I have ever written, I found this the most surprising and saddening.
    There is also another revolving door in place and it's not just in our country, but in other countries as well.  It involves insurance companies and their coverage of mental health.  It's easier to pay out for psychotropic drugs than it is to pay for hospitalizations or therapy sessions.  In some cases, the only solution is medication, but in some, temporary medication in combination with hospitalization followed by therapy works.  Or medication with therapy.  Or just therapy.  But what happens too often is patients with severe forms of mental illnesses begin to feel like they are fine, stop taking their medications (or insurance denies coverage), end up hospitalized and are released too soon (again, the result of insurance and not the trained medical staff).  While taking medication is up to the patient, the decision about who needs what and how important it is and whether it should happen should be the doctor's choice, not the insurance company.  The sad fact is, too many patients are not receiving the quality of care they deserve as the result of a company's bottom line instead of a human beings well being.  The result of which in many cases leads a patient into and out of hospitals on a regular basis.

Faraone, S. V., Tsuang, M. T., & Tsuang, D. W. (2001). Genetics of mental disorders: what practitioners and students need to know. (1 ed.). Guillford Press.

http://www.jsonline.com/news/opinion/meeting-mental-health-challenge-k05haqq-154259065.html

http://www.nytimes.com/1991/03/21/opinion/to-stop-mental-health-s-revolving-door.html

Brampton, S. (2008). Shoot the damn dog: A memoir of depression. New York, NY: W.W. Norton & Company.

Another Daily Lesson--Or More

   After yesterday's X-rays, I did manage to get at least some of the shopping I needed done.  I just wish I could remember what I needed (and bought) from the local health and beauty store. Other than cookies, that is.  I bought some Danish butter cookies for mom (one of her favorites) and a small bag of those chocolate wafer cookies for me, since they were on sale.  I did pop into the fashion store next to it because I felt like buying a new purse.  I'm back to wanting a smaller purse again as opposed to the larger ones I've come to use over the past few years.  Of course there wasn't anything I liked either on sale or not that wasn't covered in logos, obnoxious patterns, or bright colours that you couldn't miss from 10 miles away.  Except, of course, a few beautiful larger bags.  One was a Nine West black leather bag, the other was a Michael Kors leather bag.  As much as I'm against the whole brand name, stuff collecting, must have the latest-shiny-new-because-it's-cool thing, I also have my weaknesses (like shoes and purses, but I tend to buy them on sale, on clearance, or as cheap as possible..not that it makes it really any better).  But those purses were also depressing at the same time.  A year ago, I would have bought either one without a second thought for several reasons:  I didn't have several medical bills coming in the mail for who knows how many hundreds of dollars (I'm not sure if my blood work is going to be included in the bills, or if they're going to be billed as part of the office visits since these are new specialists and all doctors bill differently, especially specialists), I would definitely returning to school in the fall and my textbooks, notebooks, and laptop would fit perfectly in either of the bags if I didn't feel like using my backpack (another sad reality: if my body didn't decide to wage a no holds bar, all out war against itself, I would have graduated last week), and, well, I could have come up with several uses for either purse.  So I went back to my car and stopped for some much needed Starbucks.  Double bonus--I learned they brought back the coconut mocha frappaccino.  So I bought a scone for myself and my mom, and a piece of lemon pound cake for my mom (she's too underweight and I'm trying to bribe her with her favorite treats in order to help her gain weight). 
    Then as I was home enjoying my cup of frozen awesomness, I realized something--I'm stress eating again.  My migraines are becoming more frequent and more intense, my symptoms aren't easing, my pain is increasing, my newest specialist is waging her own war against my body until she confirms a diagnosis (translation: test after test after test, both blood and every scan you can think of) so that I can try to get some semblance of my life back instead of this hell, worrying about my own family and their health (too long of a story to go into, but let's just say that while most of us have inherited some awesome intelligence genes, the physical/health end of the gene pool seems pretty shallow), and the million other things going on.  And without realizing it, I slowly slipped back into eating my way through it.  It took years for me to break the habit and I started again late last fall, realized what I was doing, and fought like hell to stop at the beginning of this year.  In the process, I also lost 35lbs.  So now I have to start over again to break the habit and it's NOT an easy one to break, even when you do realize what's happening.  I just have to find something else to keep my mind occupied when I find myself wanting cookies or ice cream (or the oh so dangerous coconut mocha frappuccino!) Glad I found my mom's old Art Explosion disks, a website to work on, and a pretty good sized personal library in my office..that should keep me busy for a little while.  I hope. 

My Circus Audition

    I decided yesterday that I was finally going to break down and get those stupid X-rays done today, since my appointment with the new rheumatologist is Tuesday, it's a holiday weekend, and well, I'm running out of time and excuses.  It's not that I haven't had X-rays done before, so I know they don't hurt (HA!) it's just that, well, as much as I want a diagnosis, I dread the thought of another test/scan and another bill.  And after my 3am wakeup call/debacle, I probably should've gone tomorrow.
    I must've had a serious leg cramp or spasm during the night and managed to kick over the half full cup (and by cup, I mean the ginormous plastic McD's cup) of Crystal Light) on my night stand at 3am.  At first I wasn't going to deal with it because what was it going to ruin?  Sealed plastic containers of vitamin and prescription bottles?  Water my bamboo plant?  (like I haven't spilled worse into it by now) Lotions?  Meh.  I had just put laundry away, so the drawers are actually closed!  Not worth getting out of bed and dealing with it.  I'll clean it up in the morning.  Then I remember that my cell phone is on the night stand.  And my laptop is leaning against it.  Dammit.  Lucky for me, I actually managed to kick the cup, iced tea and all, into my trash can!  I couldn't make a shot like that again if I tried, but it did of course mean that something was going to go wrong, only because that's how my luck works.  (Did I mention one of my parakeets escaped again before I went to bed?.. yeah...the blue one is the little smarta** who loves to test my patience)

    So I finally wake up for real this morning and the coffee pot I threatened yesterday again isn't pouring coffee.  I get ready to finally get these stupid X-rays over and done with.  I figure I'll go, get them done, stop at the local health and beauty store for a few things, treat myself to Starbucks, and get my nails done before I go home.  What I didn't expect was just how painful X-rays could be.  Before today, I could almost build an entire skeleton (minus maybe 1 or 2 bones) out of all the X-rays I've ever had of myself.  Seriously... I'm THAT accident prone.  Why I don't glow in the dark is beyond me.  But when it came time to do my hip X-rays, I swear, it felt like I was auditioning for the latest Cirque du Soleil!  There are just certain ways humans should not, cannot, and DO NOT bend, people!  Having an inherited/genetic defect in my hips definitely doesn't help.  It just means that it's that much easier to dislocate my hips--something I desperately tried to explain to the technician and didn't get out in time.  Lucky for her, she put her hand on my hip when I couldn't/wouldn't move my leg the way she needed me to and felt my hip dislocating before it completely dislocated.  Then when I was handed the disk with the X-rays on them, I discovered the imaging place now puts them in sealed envelopes.  I wouldn't know what to look for, or what I'm looking at if there was a problem, but I've always found it kinda cool to look at my insides.  I mean, it's me...just from the inside.  Turns out, people actually go online, look up what abnormal scans are supposed to look like, and actually forge their own scans to receive disability!  The f*ck? Now I have to wait until next week to see what I had to go through a damn circus audition for...

Some Days Should Be Spent in Bed

     Lately I've been trying to create my own to-do lists to make sure I accomplish something(s) every day.  I spent most of the weekend waiting for a migraine to hit, but decided last night I was going to create a moderate (but totally doable list) to accomplish today.  I had to do a bit of shopping for the house, get a few X-rays done of my hands, knees, hips, and neck (for my rheumatologist), and take my mother to get our nails done.  There were a few other small items that didn't take much energy or thinking, but they weren't make it or break it type things if they didn't get done.  Of course I woke up to the twinges of a headache and phantom smells--another migraine.  I don't get the head splitting part because of a seizure medication to control cluster-type headaches, but I get every other symptom.  It just made this morning a bit more sluggish than most mornings.  And with a cold front coming through, my joints ached a bit more than usual.  Naturally, as I was about to take a shower, a thunderstorm rolled in, so I had to wait for it to pass, putting me just a bit behind schedule, but not too far behind.
     I finally got out of the house and all I wanted was an iced coffee.  Except when I ordered my coffee, I realized my wallet was in my car.  Oops.  On my way out to the car, I start hearing thunder in the distance and debate whether I should stop back at the house to grab the dog (she HATES thunder storms), but figured it was too far off and would probably pass south, so she'd be fine.  A half mile from my house, I thought a telephone pole or tree exploded a few hundred feet in front of my car.  I'm pretty sure slamming on the brakes and covering my face are NOT what you're supposed to do in such situations, but it's not every day lightning strikes in front of you, right?  I found the first place to turn around to get the dog before I came home to find the house destroyed.  By now, I'm REALLY late.  I'll stop at the store on my way back, no big deal. 
      For once I'm glad to be stuck behind an oversized tractor trailer on my way back home because the township decided to resume it's half-assed road construction.  There were parts of the road that looked as if they tested the pavement-eating machine just because they can, but neglected to warn drivers about it.  Lucky for me and my tiny little car, the truck hit it first.  I'm talking about a 3" drop in the pavement with NO warning.  Can you say totaled car?  Then I finally reach the construction site to be cut off by a dump truck with no lights (thankfully I was only doing 15 mph) and I'm trying to navigate through the wrong side of the road with no flagger and hoping no one is coming up the other way and the machine operators are at least somewhat paying attention.  NOT fun.  These guys have NO clue what they're doing.  There's no organization, no rhyme or reason where they're working, how they're working, or what they're doing, and when working on such blind curves, someone is going to end up seriously injured.  (Not to mention serious damage to vehicles from parts of the road they've torn up away from sites they haven't touched without even so much as a cone to warn them). 
    We finally get home, get settled in for a bit, my joint pain is slowly but steadily increasing and I'm trying to put off pain medication.  Then the mutt decides to take that moment when my mom is untangling her outside to run from the yard.  It's not hard to catch her.  You don't run after her because she thinks it's a game. I can count on 1 hand the number of times she's done this since we took her in.  She never runs more than 2-3 houses up, but if I get in my car and drive up the street, she hops right in my car.  It's kind of a game to her.  Except when I stepped to the end of my driveway, I noticed someone speeding down the street towards us.  I yelled for my dog and ran a few steps towards her (the car wasn't slowing down) and out into the middle of the street to slow the car down.  To my utter shock, the car NEVER slowed down and actually AIMED at my dog!  Lucky for her, she dove into my neighbors driveway.  I was in shock that someone would actually do that with a witness!  Then the scumbag proceeded to speed down the street and aimed their car at ME!  I tried to step out of the way, but it was one of those WTF moments.  First they try to run over my dog, but then they try to run over ME?  Who the hell does that? I ran to my car to get my dog and got us into the house afraid the psycho would try to get us again, because who the hell tries to run over someone's dog in front of them, then tries to run over the dog's owner?  Seriously?  I'm still in shock.  But if there was ever a day to say to hell with it and stay in bed, today was definitely one of those days.  I figure tomorrow has to be better.  And the dog won't have a chance to get off her leash for a long time.... and that psychopath is caught.

The Magical Morphing Migraines

     Since I first got too sick to work, it took less than a year to learn the hell that are migraines.  I've had killer headaches since I started menstruating (which I learned was one of many signs of some menstrual disorder or another, I can't remember the name of it, but I had to be put on birth control because of it) then headaches that made those headaches feel like a picnic when I broke my neck and did other damage in a car accident.  So anytime I heard someone say they had a migraine or saw those stupid Excedrine migraine commercials "if you've had one, you know these things are for real!" I never really understood how awful they were.  Until I started having them.  And they made any other headache I'd ever suffered seem like sprained finger or a stubbed toe.  Even worse were the first few migraine medications.  They did get rid of the migraines, but holy rebound headaches, Batman!  The pills, nasal sprays.. I refused to try the injections.... I hate needles, but if 2 or 3 other forms of one medication didn't work, how would stabbing myself with the same medication bring about a different result?  After several failed attempts, I found one that worked.  And not only did it work, but 3 out of 4 times I didn't get drowsy, had no rebound headaches, and could carry on in less than a half hour as if the migraine never happened.  Keeping a journal never did seem to yield any pattern to them (except for stress and certain weather patterns).  Then they started to fade away. 
      Enter the first migraine-morph.  After day 3 of hell, my ex took me to the ER.  I could barely hear or see out of one side of my head.  My eye was tearing, my pupils were 2 different sizes, noise, light, sound made everything a million times worse, the slightest bit of excitement (my phone ringing or a text message tone) made it worse, and it felt like the rodent in my head that's supposed to keep my mind working decided to go on a murderous, destructive rampage on one side of my head.  The hospital thought I was having some kind of stroke or seizure it was that bad.  Luckily it wasn't, but I had to turn my bedroom into a sensory deprivation chamber and be fed a steady diet of pain killers, tranquilizers, and migraine medications just to keep it at a dull roar until it passed (which was a little over 2 weeks).  It was early spring.  The same thing happened in the late fall.  And again early in following spring.  I had been referred to a neurologist by then and immediately sent for a CT scan.  He suspected I was suffering from something called cluster headaches and a CT scan would confirm it.  Naturally, the scan came back negative, but he put me on a low dose of an anti seizure medication that should have helped control them, but only the next spring would tell.  Of course the headaches came back, but not nearly as bad.  I did find a not-so-medical solution to solving the cluster-like headaches, though.  I tripped and fell flat on my face in a concrete parking lot, breaking my nose and giving myself a mild concussion in the process, but I no longer had a headache :D!  My neurologist couldn't help but laugh, but wasn't too pleased at the same time.  Causing 2 injuries to solve 1 problem isn't quite a solution, even if it did work.  But he changed the dose of my pills and it worked great for 18 months.  I went through three whole "headache seasons" without so much as a twinge (and not even a migraine!).  Until the generic came out.  But even then, it was just a tiny little twinge.  As if to let my body know "hey!  I'm here!" but not even bad enough to take a Tylenol.  So when I went in for my checkup, I mentioned it to him and it turns out that there were quite a few articles about the generic not being as strong as the brand name and he changed the doseage and I haven't had a problem since then.  And I certainly can't complain. (Nor will I!)
    Now enter morph #3.... Yep!! ANOTHER morph.  I think that little gerbil/hamster/rodent, whatever that little critter that's been running in between my ears is back to being bored and came up with a new idea on how to torture my poor head.  Because he came up with yet a new form of migraine/cluster/headache hell... With the first migraines, I dealt with some light and sound sensitivity, but my head felt like it was going to explode.  The clusters (it's easier to just call them clusters because every single symptom BUT the CT scan matched perfectly) kept me held hostage in a sensory deprivation chamber for weeks essentially deaf, dumb, and blind.  Now I'm dealing with complex migraines (at least according to 4 specialists, now).  Except the only symptom I don't have is the headache itself.  I smell horrible things that aren't there (from rotting garbage, bad BO, vomit, animal urine... nothing anyone should ever have to smell even if it WAS there), I lose my peripheral vision on one side of my head, hearing loss and blurred vision on the same side, see auras, nausea, and the 1000 other symptoms that come along with complex migraines.  So I was started on another medication to get those under control.  I should know in a few weeks if it works. Except I forgot the one small side effect of fighting migraines--the limp doll effect when it's done.  I spent almost all day today feeling like road kill.  I was just too exhausted to even care how much pain I was in.  I sat down to turn on the news and passed out with the tv remote in my hand.  But that damn hamster is at it again... I imagine it looks something like this:

Cute, but evil.....

Animals Gone Wild

      I don't know what I would do if I ever took in an animal that was normal.  Seriously.  From a half naked macaw that used to call people "asshole" (she was half naked as the result of abuse[birds pluck their breast feathers when under stress and after awhile, the damage is permanent and the feathers don't grow back, so she looked like a Purdue chicken with wings and a feathered head]), a mouse that wouldn't come out to play unless you bribed her with 1/2 a munchkin from work, to a dog that would eat anything and everything from an expensive rug, wallets (except cash, ID, and credit cards), to entire medication bottles and tubes with exception of the words "do not eat," I should not be surprised in the least that even though our house is pretty low on the critter count compared to the last few years, we have anything but normal critters. 
     Let's start out with my serial killing hamster Darwin.  If it was just one sister, she would just be a murdering bitch, or possibly a rough housing, overly playful little dwarf.  But 2 dead sisters?  No, that's serial killing material.  Especially when you take into consideration the God awful screams that came from that tiny little cage during the fights over their over-sized food bowl.  I considered naming her after any number of the infamous serial killers, but that would just be too creepy.  Darwin sounds less creepy and considering the fights were always about food and treats, (and she did survive 3 days in this house out of her cage without being caught by the dog), it does sort of fit.  Even for a serial killing dwarf.
     Most of you have heard plenty of stories of my back talking circus dog.  As she tore apart my bedroom garbage this morning--emptying the contents into a hamper full of CLEAN laundry to get at a bit of treat I threw out last week... yet she's pissed at ME for washing her bedding.  Yes, she actually threw a temper tantrum when I finally let her back down here and discovered that her bedding was clean.  Go figure. 
     And last year, I took in a pair of parakeets from my mentor/friend.  They've been temporarily moved down here because they started fighting and screaming almost non stop from the time the sun came up until the sun went down, all day every day.  The male bird did learn that if he went to the bottom of the cage and flapped his wings, he could get my dog to pounce on the cage thus scaring the hell out of the female. So until we finish clearing out the sun room, they're down here.  And for the most part, they're pretty quiet.  He even warns me when the mutt is trying to sneak down the stairs by dinging the bell in his cage once.  But now both of them are pissed off at me.  I had to clean their cage out today, which isn't anything new and takes all of 5 minutes.  It was when I opened the door to fill their food dish things went very awry.  I had the door open for all of 3 seconds when he decided to make the great escape--into my basement.  I'd been dealing with a migraine from hell all day, my joints started to ache more as the day went on, and there's this damn parakeet perched on a window sill on top of a pile of boxes making kissy noises and laughing at me because he knows my achy, fat ass doesn't stand a chance of getting to him.  Until my mom tossed a towel down to me.  One shot and he was caught.  And had to listen to his partner yell at him for the next few hours because there was no treat stick in their cage.  Oops... And my mom casually mentions that my neighbor's finches (or canaries, I can't remember which) are starting to nest and if they have baby birds, we have first pick... (keep in mind one bird's name is Lucifer, and the other's name is Satan... because their little baby birds might almost be normal if one came into this house, right?)

Rain (and Brain) Fog

   Just the title should give you a clue here.  This is going to be one of those blogs that may or may not be long, but has several points and is most likely going to be all over the place.  (So don't say I didn't warn you, but I can at least say this... there is at least some useful stuff in here if you don't get too lost).
      Aside from finally being taken seriously after years of dealing with whatever the hell this disease is (Badyl for now), having blood test after blood test (I've lost track how many vials and pages of results in the last 4 months alone), and finally finding a doctor who is determined to not only make me glow in the dark with the amount of imaging scans, but refuses to give up until she finds a diagnosis (insert HUGE sigh of relief here, especially when she calmly but confidently explained that my symptoms and lab reports all indicate conclusively that this falls squarely into the field of rheumatologist and she IS a rheumatologist, so that means she WILL find out what this is and WILL NOT give up on me), my anxiety has slowly started to creep up while oddly enough, my depression has stabilized.  It's still pretty bad, but it hasn't gotten any lower.  But I'll take it. 
      I've also reconnected with a few old friends and made a few awesome ones along the way through all of this.  In addition, I've had plenty of time to think as a way to keep my mind off the fact that my body seems to hate me and have been slowly (and with no particular time or pattern) deleted people from my life.  Kind of like how you "unfriend" someone on Facebook, except instead of just clicking a button on a computer screen, this is a bit more permanent.  And I've begun to think about life goals.  Short term and long term, but they're more generic than anything.  Then I came across this oddly titled, funny (hysterical fits more than funny) little book--Let's Pretend This Never Happened.  And things kind of changed. 
     Like anyone else, I've had my share of problems.  From inner demons, family problems, problems with friends, and health problems.  Some people get lucky and the worst health problems they ever deal with is the common cold or the occasional hellish flu.  Or really bad allergies.  The same thing can be said about inner demons, family problems, friends... it's all about perspective.  But in reading her book, (which I'm still sore from laughing), I realized something else.  Well, a few things actually.  It's really all about perspective.  Someone might feel that whatever they're going through is the worst thing in the world--like the world that they know is falling apart at the seams.  Yet to you or me, we might see it as nothing or overreacting.  We're not in that person's shoes and we have no right to judge them.  I also learned that friends are one of life's most precious gifts and something to never be taken for granted.  They don't hold grudges.  They can (and are) brutally honest with you, are there when you need them the most (which goes both ways), and know the real you, but stick by your side anyway.  (I'm leaving the family lesson out for several reasons.. that's a whole other blog)
     I also learned that it's okay to be yourself.  I've always been told that it doesn't matter what others think or say about you.  I've tried to tell myself that, but I fail most of the time.  Except after reading her book, I'm no longer afraid to be who I am.  Flaws, illnesses, potty mouth, high intelligence, strong opinions, loud mouth, word vomit, screwed up sense of humor and all. 
      (As I'm convinced that there is a monster somewhere in or near my house.  My hoodies, lighters, and plastic hampers have been disappearing, so the only thing I can think of is it's setting my hoodies on fire with my lighters, and dropping the flaming sweatshirts into the stolen hampers).  I live in a state full of Superfund sites, rumored to have at least one monster roaming around in a dense forest, but living in the middle of the woods and all that are constantly being torn down for "pop & fresh" condo developments, parking lots, Wal-Marts (because everyone knows Wal-Mart just HAS to build a damn store every 10 miles) and strip malls, I wouldn't rule anything out... especially since the area in general has a statistically higher than average inbreeding rate (not quite as high as say.. West Virginia, but compared to other areas, it's still higher than normal).  And ironically?  This once very rural area is now being destroyed because wealthy city dwellers have lost their appetite for suburbia hell and want to move out into the country, but don't want to leave behind the conveniences of city and country living.  The dumbasses.  But before I go off on several angry tangents and tirades about them, I'll just end it here.  And try to figure out which book to read next...   So many choices.

One Doc, Two Doc, Three Doc... Four Doc....(Damn)

      Yes, this sounds like something straight out of Dr. Seuss.  Except it's more like six drs by now, but 2 I'm not counting. And it's my life. One was a GP who assumed it was just a virus (given the circumstances and the time frame, I probably would have, too).  The other was/is just an egotistical moron with his head up his arse who found a diagnosis years ago and has blindly and stubbornly clung to it ever since, regardless of physical and scientific data right in front of his face (so I don't count  that one either).  So the official number stands at 3, with one to be scheduled asap.  I'm wondering if there isn't some kind of record for this out there.  Seriously.  There must be.  This just isn't normal.
    I started with my neuro because I learned that they can treat fibromyalgia (the asshole's diagnosis) and because I knew it wasn't, but I trust his judgment.  He found other anomalies that the asshole never thought of when every time I turned around I had Lyme Disease again.  So it seemed a logical place to start.  Doc One.  After reviewing recent labs, taking a quick look at me, and almost falling on my face in his exam room, he referred me to a colleague, suspecting either a tick born disease or something autoimmune.  Doc Two. 
    So I go see Doc Two and he tests for every known tick disease out there (holy sh*t I had no CLUE there were so many and just how many humans can get!!!) and a few other random things.  I'm in even more pain, my hands are working less, and I'm worse than I was when I saw Doc One.  He writes me out 2 scripts--which I grill him extensively on because I hate medications and I especially hate taking medications without knowing what's wrong with me.  (It's kind of like throwing pasta at a wall... throw enough at the wall over time and eventually something will stick because it's done theory.  Who cares if the patient has a diagnosis?  They have meds that work, right?  WRONG!!  I want to know what's wrong and why before you want me to swallow, inject, ingest, etc. something....unless it's a pain medication and I'm in serious pain.)  No tick diseases.  Visit 2 brings a few extra tests and a few ideas, but another "I know it's not this, this, or this, but it's out of my specialty, so I want you to go see...."
    Enter Doc Three!!!  Cool doctor.  Asks a million questions, goes through all the labs I had in my files (which I realize I'm missing a LOT over the past decade), does a physical, and sits down for a talk.  First, I need more labs done (like I didn't see THAT coming).  Then she explains the dozen or so other tests she's going to run.  Don't ask me what they are because I don't have a clue.  It all sounded like something out of Star Trek and I'm not entirely convinced that at least half of them won't leave me glowing in the dark by the end of these tests, but hey, if glowing in the dark produces answers and a diagnosis, I'll glow in the damn dark.  Not to mention how cool would THAT be?  Except it would suck playing Manhunt or hide and go seek... And I'd have to get some special ID or something to get through security checkpoints and stuff.  Thorough is a serious understatement with this doc.  I never did get a lecture about my smoking, even when asked about it, but then she drops the referral to another doctor in my lap about my lungs.  Damn.  That's why.  Having asthma, smoking (it's my only vice, so shush), and being referred to a pulmonologist... yeah.  I'm going to hear more than the basic "you know smoking's not good for you, right?" lecture.  But I know she's playing it safe and she wants to make sure that whatever-the-hell-this-is has nothing to do with my lungs or vice-versa.  Makes sense.  But the lung doc makes Doc Four.  And based on some of the questions she asked when it came to what tests I have (in this case, haven't) had since my diagnosis of asthma forever ago, the tests don't sound fun.  Star trekkie, glow in the dark tests sound  interesting (especially to the science geek in me), but the lung tests sound scary and downright sadistic. But it looks like I'll just have to suck it up and deal.  No pun intended. 

Sunshine, Blessings, Mother's Day, and Perspective

      It's been cloudy, damp, and rainy for almost 2 weeks.  Finally Friday afternoon, the sun came out.  And with it, the lawn mowers and every form of lawn maintenance equipment you can possibly think of.  This year, allergies have been the worst I can recall and that's saying something.  Usually, I just get a cough and a bit of post nasal drip (which is what causes the cough).  I finally had to break down and take my contact lenses out because nothing would relieve my itchy eyes, leaving me blind as a bat most of this weekend.  (I can read a book without my glasses and depending on the website I'm looking at, I don't need them, but I have a nasty habit of putting my glasses down and forgetting where I put them--like now). 
     I finished up the Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy (excellent!) and read Jenny Lawson's Let's Pretend This Didn't Happen (A Mostly True Memoir) just for a quick, mindless read.  It was far from mindless, but it didn't require much thinking either.  It was, however probably one of the most painful books I've ever read.  Not painful in the way that it totally sucked, but painful in the way it was so hysterical, I laughed through 3/4 of the book that my ribs, sides, and back actually ached by the time I finished it.  I've giggled or laughed at a few books in the past, but I've NEVER actually had to put a book down to get myself under control from laughing so hard or because I found myself either unable to breathe from laughing, or had tears streaming down my face from laughing.  It was THAT good.  And totally worth the price (A little over $20 in hardcover).  I'll review it more fully in a later blog, but I couldn't resist. But seriously, buy. this. book.  NOW. :)
    But today is Mother's day, so I'm going to put off everything else to the side to get to the real point of this blog.  Many people are blessed to be raised by one mother (or grandmother, aunt, or a female in their life when something happens to their mother for any number of reasons), but I realized today that I was quadruply blessed in growing up.  I had my mother, her best friend (with whom I've always called my aunt considering they're as close as sisters), my grandmother, and my great-grandmother (Babci, as we all called her.  I know it's not spelled right, but that's how she always spelled it for me).
     No matter what I did, all four of these amazing women stood behind me and each in their own ways.  My mother's support was/is unwavering (as everyone mentioned here is), but she never thought twice to put me back in place the second I stepped out of line.  (Which growing up, was pretty often.  Being the world's worst liar didn't help me any, either.  She hardly ever had to ask, she just knew.)  And there will never be a way to properly thank or repay her for that.  It's one of many reasons why I'm still living in the basement, why I try not to get pissed and argue with her (emphasis on try, but we're too similar in too many ways, and I'm too similar to my father as well, so sometimes it's just unavoidable, especially when we've been in pain for days, hardly anything is getting done around here, and that whole bitchy side effect of pain medication, so yeah, it can get more than a bit ugly... even the dog runs for cover)  Except lately, we seem to do things based on who feels better during the day around here. It's kind of like flipping a coin--or comparing who feels what and how bad to divide and conquer what needs to be done immediately versus what can be put off for a bit.  Things like the the toilet, the sink, kitchen counters, dishes... those don't wait.  As long as the sanitary basics are covered, we'll do small bits and pieces while we're up moving around (like picking something up off a table and putting it away where it belongs, throwing useless crap away, etc. until one of us is up for a slightly bigger project.) Sadly, it's usually her until I find a diagnosis and a treatment that works.  But we're always there for each other, regardless of what's going on. 
    My aunt was (and still is, even with several hundred miles between us) much the same way.  Except she never had a problem calling me out when I was being a dumbass or an asshole (or insert any name here depending on the situation).  Not to mention a good old fashioned ass kicking when it was needed (no, she wasn't physically abusive... she just cut straight through the crap and told things as they were, when they were, and gave me a chance to explain what I did wrong, where I went wrong, why, what I learned from it, and what I would/could do, should I be stupid enough to find myself in that situation again).  She's also become a very treasured confidante as I've grown older and I find myself in a situation I'm not entirely sure how to handle.  She doesn't judge, but rather she listens as an unbiased (mostly) observer who knows me as well as I know myself and helps me either work through things on my own or comes up with several solutions to help me.  And gives me advice for future (or present, especially when I'm being an over emotional, panic stricken mess) reference.  I pretty much grew up fearing 3 things:  God, and it was a tie for 2nd--my mom and my aunt.  It was hard to say who could kick my arse faster, or who would find out what dumbass stunt I'd pulled first.  She was also by biggest role model growing up.  Her career (management/upper management) and lifestyle choice (living by herself and on her own terms instead of settling for a man and settling down for one that seemed "okay" because of the status quo) and her willingness to work as hard as she needed to in such a male dominated field with a very palpable glass ceiling I found (and still do) to be the most awesome thing a woman could do.  I still do. You don't just walk into these huge corporations and find jobs that high up without proving yourself as a woman, even if you work 2-3 times harder than your male colleagues, knowing you make less money for more work unless you can prove you have what it takes (or dress like you should be working on a street corner, which was not her style--she'd rather prove herself and wipe the floor with you.  It's far more gratifying crushing your ego.)   It also solidified my resolve to become a mechanic.  (Keep in mind, we're talking the 1980s/early 1990s here and while I run the risk of paraphrasing or plagiarizing here, but if you were born after 1987 or so, you most likely have NO clue wtf I'm talking about, so just skip down to the next paragraph).
     My Babci had a very strong influence on my life.  It wasn't until years after she passed away from one of the most horrific forms of cancer that I began to realize just how much of an influence she was. She was a very stubborn Polish woman with unwavering convictions and opinions that could not be changed no matter what facts were presented in front of her.  I grew up hearing her advice, which was almost endless.  She never had much to say about the way that I dressed (I was perfectly content with jeans, a t-shirt, a flannel shirt, sneakers, a hockey or football jersey, or anything that was comfortable to play around in--well, I shouldn't say she never did... I'm sure she did, she just didn't say it to my face.  Or if she did, she didn't say it in English).  When I was old enough to wear makeup, it had been mentioned on several occasions that "ladies should always look presentable when they leave the house, but too much makeup made them look like (I don't remember the word, but it was in Polish and I'm sure it wasn't a very nice word).  The same rule (minus the Polish word) applied to my hair.  My hair has always been a constant battle since I HAD hair.  It's thick, it's curly, and no matter what I do, it does whatever it feels like unless I feel like spending a fortune on hair products and stylists.  So 99% of the time, it's pulled back in an elastic. (At some point in her life, she went to the beauty parlour every week to get her hair done, but it was always cut short and styled, BUT, she had a closet full of the same identical wigs she wore everywhere.  Even had one on every door knob when she moved into her apartment in the event of company, so she always looked presentable regardless of what she was wearing.  I've honestly considered doing the same quite a few times myself.  She definitely had something in that idea) I should also take a few extra minutes to make myself look better because if I look better, I'll start to feel better--even on a bad day.  I should pray every day and be a "good girl (Catholic)."  And Vaseline is to her what Windex is to that family in "My Big Fat Greek Wedding."  It can fix, clean, help, and cure just about everything!  (And she's not too far off the mark with that one, actually).  There are a few things that you need to know about this amazing and influential woman.  She became a widow before I was born, but never even looked at another man, nor did she care to.  My great grandfather was the only one for her.  Period.  She was VERY old school.  From keeping the house clean to going to the butcher every day to make sure her husband and the family had a hot meal and fresh meat every night for dinner.  She was also the perfect hostess to countless political dinners at their house.  She knew her place, what she was supposed to do and did it.  But when my great grandfather passed away, she became one of the strongest, most self-sufficient women I knew.  And you never dared to contradict her.  She lived her life on her terms, and no one elses.  Even right up until the end.  Yes, she conceded on a few things, but it was because she knew there wasn't another option.  Also, as I mentioned, she was very old-school.  You didn't need a huge house, fancy cars, or the latest of whatever was "in" at the time to prove you had money.  Having extra pounds and weight meant health and wealth.  It meant that you could afford to feed your family--and feed your family good food--and a LOT of it.  And you couldn't say no when she "asked" you to take another helping.  Ever.  And real ladies don't curse or swear.  At least in English.  Using another language (in her case, Polish), was acceptable since we were in America.  And do whatever you could to avoid playing cards with her--she cheats.  Not in a card counting or card marking way.  She'd "forget" the rules, or make up rules as she went along.  And my personal favourite?  She shot straight from the hip.  She said what was on her mind, because, quite frankly, who's going to beat up an old lady?    My mother and I aren't much better... but who's going to beat up a tiny whisp of a woman, or be stupid enough to start a fight with me?  Not that I've considered it, but I know we definitely got THAT genetic trait from her.  It wasn't until the past few years that her absence has felt like a giant void and I've found myself realizing just how valuable all of her advice was and have slowly begun to follow it.  Especially the promise she made me make her on her death bed.  I had a tattoo made on my wrist as a constant reminder of that singular moment.
      Then there's my maternal grandmother.  Another tiny slip of a woman, except she's not 100% Polish.  She's a 100% Irish Catholic, so you can imagine THAT clash when she was introduced to my Babci.  But at least she was Catholic, so it wasn't ALL bad then.  I plan on going down there with my mom this week because it's been just too long since I've been to the house, but I admit I'm terrified about what I'm going to see since she's been sick lately.  She's stubborn (Yes, I know... I'm screwed.  3 out of 4 grandparents and 1 parent stubborn as a mule and I already know once I dig my heels into something, short of tying me to the back of a Mack Truck, I'm not budging [and still maybe not even then])  She worked for years to help make ends meet raising my mother and her siblings, plus kept a spotless house, plus always made sure dinner was served hot and on the table by the time my grandfather was home from work.  She was the one who had a problem with my tomboy choices.  Girls should wear skirts, dresses, nice shoes, act like little ladies, wear pink, and stay clean.  Everything I wasn't.  But neither was my mom.  You could dress me up like a doll all you wanted, but give me 2-3 minutes and I'd be in the dirt, the mud, be up in a tree, or found climbing on something--pretty much everything opposite of what she vainly tried to get me to be.  But she loved me (and still does) anyway.  I am who I am and she respects me even more for not changing that (even though pink, purses, shoes, and a few girlie outfits have slowly started to grow on me over the years and I know she's VERY happy about that). 
       I was raised by four very strong, independent, beautiful women.  With all of their differences, they are also very similar.  None of them have ever shied away when the tough times hit, but rather their strengths showed through.  I can honestly say that I wouldn't be half the woman I am today without even one of them in my life (even if I was too stubborn, young, and stupid enough to think I knew it all as they tried to give me very helpful advice then), and for that, there are no words to describe the love and respect I not only feel for them (and the loss of one), but the loss of words I have as to how grateful I am to have had them in my life--nagging, unsolicited advice, arse kicking, and all.  

Jolly Green Bitch

     I've read several articles and books that have said dogs have the vocabulary of a toddler. (Cats, however, have a much smaller vocabulary, by the way) I'm pretty sure that there are certain words throughout their lives that they definitely remember.  I've often imagined scenes akin to the Charlie Brown teacher kits "wahwahwahwhatreatwhahwahwahwah...." and such when talking to my dogs.  I know my dog definitely knows (and dreads) the word "vet."  And after Friday's debacle, she knew this morning she was going...
      I expected any number of tricks to get out of it.  I set my alarm with more than enough time to hit the snooze button a few times if I needed it, have a cup of coffee, shower, combat any stalling tricks on her part, and make it there on time, since I was taking her before I picked my mom up from dialysis.  It was only her yearly physical and distemper shot..nothing big.  I didn't need the snooze button (bonus), got up, half expected a trashed house (stalling tactic #1), and was surprised to see everything was intact.  I found her curled up trying to blend into the sofa.  I just pretend I didn't see her as I poured my coffee, went back to my room, and turned the local news on to watch the weather and traffic (more rain.. yuck!)  I started to get my stuff together to go in and take a shower, sat back down to finish my coffee, when I heard her coming into my room.  Suddenly she was trying to be super cuddly and mushy.  (Ah!  There was stall tactic #1!)  But I had to get in the shower, as I went from having plenty of time to that fine line between right on time/running late.  I couldn't have been in the bathroom more than ten minutes.  I came out to find the house trashed.  And in the middle of the chaos sat the dog.  I rushed into my room to get ready (she followed me, sitting in my doorway watching calmly), grabbed my purse, rand back upstairs, and rushed around to clean up the mess.  I swear I heard her laughing at me.  She knows I'll never leave the house a mess for mom to come home to.  I finally get everything cleaned up, grab her harness and leash and the damn harness is twisted and tangled.  Now I KNOW she's laughing at me!  AND we're running late.  Grrr...
     I manage to make it to the vet with 1 minute to spare and she starts the shaking, whiny panting thing she does every time we go.  There are 2 women sitting in the reception area with these tiny little pet carriers oohing and aahhing at how cute my dog is.  I'm assuming the tiny blanketed critters in the carriers were kittens based on my dog's reactions, because she gave a cursory sniff and gave them a pretty wide berth.  Then in comes a beautiful red pit bull with golden eyes.  Of course my short, stout little porker starts barking at him.  Like any good pit, he puts up with it to a point then face palms my dog.  The owner and I start laughing.  I'm still trying to pull my dog away and tell her "knock it off, he'll have you for lunch, you moron." Then apologize to his owner.  He laughs it off, but the receptionist is clearly afraid of a dog fight and ushers us into an exam room.  An in comes the Jolly Green Bitch.
       She's a vet tech who easily clears 6', over 350lbs, and barely waits for the door to close before she lays into me about my "prejudice against pitbulls," (keep in mind, I still cry thinking about my pit bull a year later), why harnesses are bad for dogs like mine... she weighs my dog (just shy of 50lbs by now) and how my dog is fat, needs to lose weight (insert incredible will power NOT to make a crack at her weight), and basically making me sound like the world's worst dog owner.  Halfway into another one of her nasty, I'm doing this wrong lectures, I throw her out of the room.  15 minutes later, the vet actually comes in.  I tell her I want it clear that that woman is to never come near my pets or me ever again and tell her what had happened.  The vet didn't really look all that shocked. 
     Of course my dog is still in panic mode, but she lets her exam her, pet her, and even draw blood and bandage her. She doesn't take the slightest notice when she gets her shot. We go over a few vaccine recommendations and suggestions about how to get her to stop barking so much. Of course, on the way out, she's limping with her big, purple polka dotted bandage like she had a broken leg instead of blood work, but hey, she's not barking, so if she wants to be overly dramatic and pathetic, that's fine.  Of course as I'm paying the bill, she spots another dog and is off barking and bouncing again (the injured leg forgotten)... at least until the vet comes around to hand me her flea and tick medicine than it's like "oh yeah, I'm hurt..limp, whine, ow... limp, whine, ow.. oh yeah "bark!"... Oops.
     The entire car ride she lays down and whines like I was tortured her and when my mom got in the car, she kept trying everything she could to show her her poor, bandaged leg.  Of course, she only limped anytime my mom looked at her as we walked into the house (bounded and jumped around when my mom's back was turned).  And the usual routine of jumping on the bed next to my mom to wait for the rest of my mom's roll, except to shove her bandage in my mom's face just to make sure my mom saw... the whole "look what she did to me while you were gone!!"  The second my mom saw it, she tried to chew it off her leg.  Then proceeded to swallow the roll whole, run through the house, and pretend that the vet never happened... I dread going back in a few weeks for her next vaccines.   At least I won't have to deal with the Jolly Green Bitch from now on. 

Fuzzlemutt

      Yes, my dog does actually have a name other than pain in the ass, demon, puppy, dammit (sometimes she actually answers to that one), and, of course, fuzzlemutt.  Like any other dog owners, I've always given my dogs nicknames that seemed to fit them--including my pitbull whom I lovingly and fittingly called dumbass.  I had to stop calling her that after my nephew learned to talk and called her dumbass when trying to get her to stop doing something stupid.  Oops.  (My brother wasn't too thrilled about that one and it wasn't like I could even pretend he'd learned that one from anyone else). 
     Fuzzlemutt is a bit long but fitting because she's furry, fuzzy, fluffy, and well, she is a mutt.  But since we adopted her from a rescue group, she's become so much more to this family.  She's a world class demolition dog, insect catcher, self-appointed neighborhood guardian, and an endless source of entertainment when she's not finding ways to get herself into trouble.  And even though she's not trained to be (and probably couldn't even if we tried), she's very much a service dog and family member.
       I've long since given up hope that my dad will learn when he leaves for work in the morning to not slam the front door on his way out.  Most mornings it wakes me up.  Especially lately now that I almost managed to establish some kind of sleeping pattern--go to bed at a normal time, wake up at a normal time... usually around the same time every night and every morning.  Except the past 5 days, I've found myself back in the up all hours of the night wide awake and having a hard time waking up in the morning because I set the alarm to force myself up at the same time, no matter what. 
     So, once again, he slams the door on his way out yesterday morning at 5am and I'm wide awake, silently cursing him out.  I had just barely started to doze off and the alarm is set to go off in 2 hours.  As I'm laying there, trying not to look at the clock, I start to hear thunder way off in the distance and the dog pacing through the house. About 15 minutes go buy and I hear it again.  It's definitely thunder, but it's not any closer.  I assume it's pretty far off and isn't going to come anywhere near us. Not that my community really ever gets a direct hit anyway.  It's actually kind of cool to watch on a radar screen.  We're so high up in the mountains, that you can watch thunderstorms literally split around us.  We'll get the rain, we'll hear the thunder, see the lightning, but very rarely is it high enough to pass directly overhead.  I'll drive 3 miles away and be right in the middle of it, though. 
       Suddenly, it sounds like the house explodes.  I sit bolt upright in bed just in time to be smashed in the chest by a 45lb flying ball of panicked fur.  I try to grab her to calm her down, but she was just way too panicked and way too quick for me.  Amid the chaos, it sounded like constant thunder and lightning closer, brighter, and louder than I can ever remember.  All I can see during the flashes is whirling around my room and hearing the dog whining as things are crashing to the floor.  I'm half buried under my blanket afraid to move, screaming for the dog to come over to me.  Part of me is beginning to wonder if we're seriously not being hit by a tornado there's so much chaos and so many things flying everywhere.  And hell, even my bed starts to move. 
        As quickly as it started, it seemed to quiet down, except for a few whines and a vibrating bed.  The dog managed to get her chunky, panicked ass under it.  And she's in the back corner where I can't even come anywhere close to reaching her.  I turn the light on to see that in her panic, she ran across every dresser top and through my closets, flinging everything on to my floor.  I just do a quick scan of the house just to make sure it really wasn't a tornado, but a panicked dog.  Just a dog.  Three and a half hours of bribery, begging, lifting, phone calls, tears, and I finally manage to get her out.  And she doesn't even look at the 2 dozen treats that are now scattered all over my floor.. she wants me and refuses to let go of me or let me put her down.  So now how am I supposed to take her to the vet after all of THAT?  I can't.  So I reschedule.  Keep in mind this dog stands at about 18 inches from floor to shoulder, weighs about 45lbs.  My bed frame is maybe 7" tops from the floor to the bottom of the frame.  And it's a Tempur Pedic mattress and box spring and while it's comfy--it's anything but light, so while she might be fully recovered, I'm not.  But I did wake up to a milkbone on my pillow this morning as a peace offering. A peanut butter flavored one at that!  I set it aside to give to her later, so I don't hurt her feelings.
     Although I did notice something today.  Besides all my joints, including my feet are more swollen than usual (most likely due to yesterday and the humidity).  I was near tears because my feet hurt so bad.  I was laying in bed after trying to do my usual paces and stretches with a blanket over me reading when she came down for her usual nosy visit (do I have food?  what am I doing?  am I hiding any treats?) She hops up at the bottom of my bed, walks up to me to get pet, goes back down the bottom, tries to steal the blanket (nothing new, it's fluffy and soft--one of her favorites), and licks the top of my foot.  then she puts the blanket back, sits down and just looks at me before laying down.  It's not the first time she's done this when something hurt more than the rest of me.  I asked my mom about it and she noticed it, too.  It's like she knows and tries to fix it in her own little doggie way. 

Green-Eyed Monster

    No, I'm not referring to myself with that title.  At least not right now.  I'd like to say I'm sorry if my blog last night came across a bit harsh or whiny, but I'm not.  Things haven't been exactly easy lately, and everyone begins to crack sooner or later.  Granted, it wasn't a complete melt down, nor was it even close to one, but it was at least a glimpse into what goes on behind the curtain when pain levels get too high, nothing seems to help, and there are still far too many questions that have yet to be answered.  And based on my dog's recent clingy behavior, I know it's not me being over dramatic or crying for attention because if you've ever owned a dog in your life, you'd know that dogs sense when something is wrong.  (As she's once again curled up right up against me instead of her usual spot at the bottom of my bed after having stolen all of my most comfortable blankets.  And yes, as I've tried to move a bit away from her to get comfortable, she shifts closer to me, so I'm pretty much pinned and contorted in the corner of my room, so either she still senses something's wrong, or she's trying to torture me because I have no idea what she ate, but damn, does this little chunker have some serious gas!)
         Not too long ago, someone actually had the ignorance and gall to call me a whiny, self entitled, crybaby who was jealous of what other people had that I didn't.  (In reference to material items and wealth).  Fair warning-- I am intentionally leaving out any form of politics, taxes, etc here and will delete any comments starting a debate or opinions on the topic.  After I stopped laughing, considering the source and how that person knew I was raised, I got to thinking....  Besides the fact that I have never and will never have that self entitled "because you owe it to me, that's why" attitude, I was raised to earn what I wanted.  Yes, just like most people, I can get whiny, and may cross that crybaby line, but really, other than the Pollyanna, Prozac poster people, who doesn't sometimes?  Having a positive attitude is never a bad thing.  I try to find either an upside, silver lining, or some kind of humour in just about everything, no matter how hard it is.  It's those people who walk around with giant smiles on their faces, never acknowledging a single bad thing EVER, and have enough pep and positive energy of--say--all of Rhode Island's high schools' cheerleaders combined 24/7/365 that kind of freak me out.  No one is ever THAT happy.  Unless their either out of their flipping minds or heavily medicated.  But I digress.  Back to the jealousy thing.
    I realized that I am kind of jealous of some people.  But not because of their money or the nice things they own.  Because of their health.  And no, I'm not jealous of all healthy people.  I'm jealous of those people who take the fact that they ARE healthy for granted and abuse the hell out of themselves on a regular basis.  I won't get into the whole preachy, life's too short, you never know when your time is up, etc etc etc speech, but most people don't realize just how lucky they are to have their health.  I see friends taking care of themselves, eating healthy, exercising, and actually living life because they don't take anything they have for granted.  I see it in others, too.  I admire people like that.  It's those that are essentially slowly killing themselves simply because they can that I'm jealous of.  They eat like crap, schedule their social lives around television programming, spend hours a day playing video games, computer games, social networking, pretty much just letting one day at a time go by without ever actually living.  Why?  Because they can.  Because they take for granted that they're actually healthy enough to do things some of us can't.  No, I'm not saying to put the fast food cheeseburger, take out Chinese food, bag of potato chips down right now and start training for a marathon.  (Although I would LOVE to be given that opportunity, or even the opportunity to be able to run 3-5 miles like I used to again)
    It's just easy to take the obvious for granted.  The little things we don't think about.  At least until we don't have them anymore. I admit that I'm jealous of those people who have these opportunities and just pass them up assuming that there will always be time later.  (Again, not talking about death here, just talking about that infamous "later") We never actually stop to think that we'll actually get sick with something that a doctor can't fix.  Those are things that happen to other people.  We get colds, the flu, that awful stomach bug.  Minor stuff that goes away and we carry on with life.  We kinda plan for the bad (but not really), but don't expect it to happen.  I was just as guilty.  And even before I got to this point, I was still just as guilty because hey, crap like this happens to other people, and even though I couldn't work, doesn't mean I couldn't learn my limits and find something I could do because I was in my 20s and had time on my side, right?  Oops.  So yes, even though I feel like I'm in hell most of the time and yes, I know it could be a LOT worse (and try not to think about or dwell on either), I do admit that yes, I am jealous--but not of materialistic things like money, or shiny new stuff, or a place of my own, but of something more intangible--something stronger--something invisible--being able to take being healthy for granted.
      

Behind the Mask

      Every day, we all wear masks.  All of us, for all situations.  We wear masks at work to appear professional, we wear masks around our families to maintain a certain connection, a certain level of peace, we wear masks when we go out in public, to either fit in with a crowd or to stand out, we wear them around our friends to show them (or hide certain parts of us) who we really are.  For most of us, it's not a conscious act.  It's just something we do.  For many chronically sick people, we wear masks of bravery and cheer so that we don't worry anyone or come across as whiners, crybabies, invalids, or make anyone treat us differently or feel pity for us.
     Part of the reason is also because of the ignorant stereotypes.  We don't look sick.  There's not much research out there and what little there is, for some invisible illnesses there are commercials and advertisements for pharmaceuticals that make it sound like if we have one of those diseases, all we have to do is pop one of those magic pills, get a few of those injections, and we'll be back on our feet and good as new in no time.  Except that's not reality--that's just Big Pharma's way of making a profit and further spreading ignorant stereotypes.  Should those magic medications not work (or should we have a diagnosis, there HAS to be a treatment to make us better because that's what doctors do after all, right?) we're just whiny, self pitying, lazy slackers.  So we need to just get up, dust our lazy arses off, and get back out there with a positive attitude!  And that's that! (I'll leave out the slew of foul language that is my opinion to THAT one...)
     The truth is, it's not that simple.  Most of the time, getting a diagnosis isn't even that simple.  Hell, finding reliable information online isn't even really that simple.  And as sarcastic, funny (at least I like to think I am), and brave as I may act most of the time, the truth is, I'm scared as hell. 
    It's hard to explain to someone that I'm sick.  Not only am I sick, but those who have known me for years have a hard time believing that I can still be sick for so many years and have seen so many doctors and none of them can tell me what is wrong.  I look normal.  I gained over 100lbs, I lost almost 150lbs.  I put back over 110lbs, and in the past 4 months, I've lost 30lbs and still losing.  Long before my symptoms get to this point, my rheumatologist puts me on high doses of steroids for 10-20 days and except for the muscle aches, I feel better for a few months with exception to the 20-30lb weight gain and being a hyper raging bitch the entire time I'm on the steroids.  But the symptoms inevitably return.  And they always return worse than the previous time.  And I never get answers, just more steroids.  Now it's on to new doctors, new tests, and God willing, finally a diagnosis.  Not an educated guess, not a bunch of pills shoved down my throat to see if it works and a "if they work, we'll leave it at that, there's no reason to mess with it" attitude, but a real, actual, black and white diagnosis.  I don't even care what it is.  As long as I can FINALLY put a name to it.  Because then I can at least be put on a path towards a treatment/management regimen, even if it's only to improve this hell I'm living just a little bit.  It will have a name and it will be real.  Right now, I'm on medication to control 3 forms of migraine headaches and a regular dosing schedule of a powerful pain medication until I'm diagnosed. I sit here at the end of every single day and realize that this disease has taken another day away from my life.  It's not because I'm lazy, it's not because I've given up, it's not because I'm not trying to live.  It's because I'm in that much pain, because my joints are that swollen (my hands are starting to become that gnarled), that I physically can't do everything I want.  I get up, I make sure I stretch, I do little things here and there, but I'm not living.  Because something is destroying my body from the inside out.  And that something is something other people can't see.  They can't see it, they can't feel it, they can't hear it... all they see is me.  And to them, I look normal.  Just lazy.   They know people who have kidney failure and are on dialysis, who have had strokes, who have Alzheimers, who are in wheelchairs from accidents or diseases, have cancer. Some of those people I described above barely get around during the day, but no one dares call them lazy because they're sick, so that's acceptable.  Because I'm undiagnosed, because even when I do get diagnosed, I'm young, it'll probably be some rare autoimmune disorder (which seems to be the general consensus right now, it's a matter of figuring out which one), because Big Pharma has commercials with magic pills showing people with autoimmune diseases using that crap and celebrities coming out of the closet saying "hey!  I have this!  let's raise awareness!" and going about their daily lives as if nothing's amiss, I'll most likely still face the same challenges as before.
     Even scarier?  I'm only 32.  I can't have children.  And even if I could, I don't know if I would because of the possibility of passing this hell down to my children.  I'm also living at home in my parent's basement.  I stayed here to help out my brother before my mom got sick.  Then I stayed here to help my mom.  While she still needs my help (not nearly as much as she did), I need hers.  I watch my friends and my family getting married and starting families of their own and while I know I'm doing the right thing now by focusing on my health, that tiny little voice in the back of my mind can't help but ask will I always be stuck in this basement?  I'm 32, I'm sick, I'm broke, and I live in my parents basement.  And what happens when I do get diagnosed?  How will that affect my life or my life's plans?  While it's easier to hide behind a mask and pretend to not be afraid, nothing is scarier than the unknown, wearing a mask or not.