More Sleeping Habits Of The Common Dachshund

It being National Hot Dog Day, I figured Moose deserved another blog post to himself...

While laying down for a brief siesta, we went through a typical scenario today:

Settled in, everyone is comfortable, when suddenly one of his enemies appears outside (UPS guy, Fed-Ex, Garbage Truck, whatever...).
"Barkbarkbarkbarkbark" (Full throated defense of home and Mama - not, you understand, that he would bother to actually get out from under the blanket, but he's on alert...)
(brief pause, followed by the beepbeepbeep of his enemy abandoning the field)
"Bark...Bark" (half voiced, continuing the theme = sort of the canine equivalent of "that's right - you'd better run.")
(settling back into the back of my knees, relaxing into the bed)
Thirty seconds of silence...
"Wuff" (quiet little "and another thing..."
A minute later...
Subvocal, felt only through the skin "wuff", settling back into nap state.

I am fortunate to be so well protected - not every woman has a guard dragon of this quality.

And now, the rest of the story...

Finally got to bed and to sleep this morning about 4 am after hanging my tears out to dry on the blog last night.  Roger got up about 7:30 or so, but then, I felt him slipping back into bed with me, very carefully *not* bumping my sore arm and just snuggling me, giving me comfort the way only he can, just letting me drift off to sleep in his arms.

Apparently, he's got my blog bookmarked, and checked it to see how I was doing when he work up.   Great way to remind me that it's a high wire act, but I'm not up here alone, and I've got one hell of a safety net. 

Yeah, he's the cutie with his arms around me - but the other ones are pretty helpful too...

Teetering On The High Wire

That's the problem with any chronic condition.  You go through life the same as everyone else, except... you're doing it on the high wire.  Without a net.  The slightest little bump, something that  normal people can step right over, can stop you in your tracks. 

For example - I strained my rotator cuff this morning.  Not a big deal - the reason I know it is because I've done it before, and sailed through without much of a problem.  Except now... I've got sleep apnea, so I have to sleep on my left side, or the mask doesn't fit properly (and if I don't wear the mask, I stop breathing approximately 70 times an hour - it's not a pleasant thing.)  And of course, the strained rotator cuff is on the left hand side.  I would take some acetominophen for the pain, but I'm already on Oxycodone for the crippling arthritis in my knees, which means no additional acetominophen, or my liver might explode, and I know from experience that if I take the Oxycodone after 8ish at night, I'm not sleeping.  Like I said...  a bump that if you're on the ground is no big deal, but from up here, it's fairly insurmountable. 

Now add in the insulin-dependent diabetes, and the breathing problems, and the incurable cancer.  I usually manage to keep all these balls in the air, while my little unicycle is peddling along the wire, but things are getting wobblier and wobblier.  So why is it that I'm so damned resistant to asking my doctor to fill out my disability paperwork?  Hell if I know - but being up at 2 in the morning by myself is definitely not the time for me to be thinking about it.  Frankly, it's way too depressing when I don't have recourse to chocolate.

Lexiphilia

Words.  I love words.  I love reading them, I love listening to them, boy do I love speaking them... I think I got the bug from my mother, who has the same affliction - the need for le mot juste, the perfect rejoinder.  When most kids were hearing Dr Seuss or The Hungry Caterpillar, I was listening to Ogden Nash or Robert Frost. (I can still recite all the words to Richard Cory from memory.)

Which is why it drives me nuts when I can't remember a word - especially one that I've made an effort to commit to memory.  I have this skin condition - it's not a big deal, especially in the grand scheme of things, but it means that blotches of my already beyond pale skin are even paler (we're talking into the phosphorescent range here), and my stomach is basically pie-bald.  I've had the condition all my life, I've researched it (because that's my default mode for any oddity), and yet, I can never remember the damned name. 

Thank god for Google. Otherwise, I'd be spending most of my morning trying to remember the word Vitiligo. 

Sick Day Today

Taking a sick day today - trust me, you don't want me to get into details, but let's just say that I'm not going to be using that particular brand of laxative again any time soon.

I'm also adjusting to a new medication - started on Qsymia Tuesday.  Jenny Craig has been great for my blood sugar (went from 10.7 to 8.2 on my A1C, which is great, although I'd like to get lower), but I haven't managed to lose any weight, so we're trying this now.  I want to get back to the point where I can safely get the PET/CT scan, not just the CT scan, so that's going to be approximately 35 pounds (well, 29 now - I've already lost 6, so I'm feeling happy, although a lot of that could have gone down the toilet...)  However, one of the side effects that they have been very careful to warn Daniel and Roger about is potential depression - suicidal thoughts (or in my case homicidal thoughts - depression for me usually takes the form of irrational anger.)  So far, I seem to be doing fine, but I have noticed the guys eyeballing me a little.  We'll see...

Memory Well: Summertime

When I was a kid, I used to love the July holidays (July 4^th and July 24^th – in Utah, the second one was a much bigger deal.  Kind of like the 4^th, but with the addition of smugly knowing that it was just for us.)  I was almost always in Washington for the holidays, and there’s nothing like a small town in a patriotic fervor when you’re a little kid.  

First, there was the parade.  Fortunately, the main drag was not that long, because it was always in the 90s (or 100s), and Grandma would dress me up in semi-authentic pioneer woman drag – long calico dress (with long sleeves), bonnet, etc. and Grandpa had converted a Radio Flyer into a Conestoga wagon for me to drag along behind.  Justin had it easy – she made him buckskins, but I was hotter than heck (looked good, though.)  And there was always enough candy to put us all in a pixie-sticks high for a week.

Then there was the carnival – sack races, greased pig chasing, hopping around (and falling down) in the three-legged race, pie contests, a cake walk…  the only ride would be a really sad looking couple of ponies tethered to a pole, but there were all kinds of booths sponsored by the Rotary, or the Lions, or whomever.  Once I got old enough, I graduated to helping run the “fishing” booth for the Lions (Grandpa’s club of choice) – the kid would cast his line over the curtain, someone would peek and figure out how old and what gender they were, and we’d slip an appropriate toy on the line for them and tug. 

Of course, there were also the important political races – cans strategically annotated with the names and photos of local girls who were in the running for Miss Washington, with the winner determined by the cash accumulated (pennies only, please…) 

Later, after the sun went down, there would usually be a Disney movie shown on a sheet hanging outside the Wardhouse, and we’d sit and watch, our stomachs distended from munching on ProntoPups and pie and punch. 

I still celebrated some when I grew up – we’d get together with friends, eat barbeque and set off fireworks in our driveway, but in the past few years, I’ve even given up the fireworks – the pretty sparkles weren’t worth the noise and smell you had to put up with to get them, especially since my godchild isn’t around to appreciate them with anymore (I miss you, Brigid!)