Dammit, Cancer - you had one job!

(This one is going to be squicky for the guys out there... last chance to turn back.)

I've always had a bad relationship with my period - it started out with getting my first one *way* earlier than expected, and at the worst possible time (when I was staying with Dad temporarily, rather than Mom.  I think he was more scarred by the occasion than I was, but not by much.)

Things didn't get much better over the years - I was wildly irregular (not having one for 4 or 5 months, then getting one that lasted 2 weeks, that sort of thing.) Also, while most of the time, it was just a standard chore to deal with, every once in a while I'd get hyper-cramps - you know, the kind of cramps where you feel like passing out from the pain.  Cramps where the only possible way to avoid killing random strangers was to grab a bag of bad chocolate (Hershey level bad, not Brachs level bad) and some Harlequins and hole up in the bedroom for a day or two.  Lizzie Borden level cramps is what I'm talking about here.

Anyway, one of the few positives from developing uterine cancer is that my uterus shut down for business, essentially.  At one point, my doctor gave me this test to check to see if I was menopausal - the scale went from 1 to 9, 1 being the equivalent of menstruating right now, 9 being fully transitioned.  I, of course, was a zero (because I refuse to be normal), which Mom claims means I haven't hit puberty yet.  But anyway... no more bleeding, no more PMS, no more cramps. 

Until today.  Today, Hank let me down.  Again.  Back to the curl yourself in a ball and hate the world type cramps.  And that's on Oxycodone - I can't imagine what this would feel like straight.  Listen up, Hank.  Get in line and do your job, or I'm going to have to trade you in for fibromyalgia or some other easier-to-deal-with disease. 

Occupy The Back Porch!

The girls on a rampage

I wrote a while back about the new pet fountain that we introduced for Moose.  After a couple of days of resistance, he took to it and came to accept it - and Daisy and Dancer loved it. Success (unlike the dog door, which no one has yet figured out - we're still working on it.)

Anyway - came out this morning and the area around the fountain was soaking wet.  After changing out various parts, we determined that there was a leak, and I used my one super-power (shopping) to get another one coming, but in the meantime, we put a regular bowl down and moved the fountain out to the back porch to deal with later.  Moose dealt with the uproar like a trooper, but...  the girls are out on the back porch drinking from the busted fountain.  They may not get flowing water the way they like, but they will not be reduced to a bowl once they've seen the bright lights/big city way of drinking, damn it!  Viva la revolution! Down with the man!

My Body Does Trigonometry

When you're an insulin dependent diabetic, your life revolves around basic arithmetic. Blood sugar levels are carefully (or sometimes not so carefully) monitored, you know to take x amount of long acting insulin (in my case, 80 units) in the morning to get you through the day on a relatively even keel, and then you take x units of short acting insulin with each meal, based on how many carbs you're eating - x being (again, in my case) generally around 70 units, but that can go up or down based on what your base blood sugar is when you check it.  It's basic algebra, boring - but it keeps me alive.

But then again...  last night, about 2 in the morning, Moose insisted I wake up - whining, nudging, all the usual signals, because I was going low blood sugar - sweating, shaking, dizzy...  when I checked, my blood sugar was 68.  (Normal for most people is between 80 and 120 - I tend to run a little higher than that, so when I hit below 70, I need to adjust *now*.)  I got up, drank my emergency apple juice (that's about 15 carbs) and had some popcorn (about another 30 carbs worth) and waited a bit until I was back up to 135.  I then ate a grilled chicken thigh (emergency protein to keep me going once the immediate carb load wore off) and went back to bed.  So, that's 45 carbohydrates - no insulin, but 45 carbs. 

So how the hell is it that I woke up this morning to a blood sugar level of 295?  I've always had a strong dawn phenomenon - where my system releases some sugar first thing when I wake up.  Most people have it a little bit - I've got it in spades.  Anyway, to adjust for that, I'm supposed to take 40 units of long acting insulin to get me through the night - which is probably what caused the low that hit me, but it shouldn't be pumping in twice the sugar that anyone needs in their system.  How am I supposed to adjust for this?  There is no algebraic formula that's going to work here.  Oh, well... apparently, my endocrine system has been studying trigonometry, deciding that algebra is for wimps. 

How is this still a thing?

I know, I know - it's a John Oliver trademark, but it fits.  So... beer commercial for Modelo Especial (or something like that) - listing out all the skills you need to be a man. First off... if you're taking your manhood qualifications from a beer commercial, you're out right there, but...

Anyway - starts out with "If you want a job, you learn a skill." Down with it so far.  "If you want a house, you save for it" - well, short of winning the lottery, it's going to be hard to save enough for a down payment in Portland anymore, but ok... "You want bigger muscles, you lift heavier weights" Going a little off the rails here, but yeah...

But then... "You want a girl to marry you, you ask her father" Seriously?  No.  You want a girl to marry you, you treat her well, you love her, you establish a relationship that can last - asking her father should be the last step on your list (or possibly no step.)  I mean, yeah - I'm happy that Roger gets along well with my family (gets along well may be understating it - if we ever break up, I'm pretty sure that my family would sue for custody), but he's not married to my family.  The other Roger (my dad) has no ownership of me.  Even if we had a better relationship, he still would have no say as to my disposition in marriage. 

Which is why I'm wondering...  how is this still a thing?

Easing Into Retirement

As usual, I'm resisting change, but things are slowly settling in - I've updated my Facebook page for one thing.  I'm going out to lunch with Mom and a friend tomorrow, without worrying about timing or coverage.  I've switched over to a retirement-based wardrobe (funky pjs for the win).

But I still keep running into reminders - for example, the phone.  I had been in the habit of keeping a charged-up phone in the bathroom.  When I was teleworking, since I had my work phone forwarded, I wanted to make sure I didn't miss a call.  Yesterday, I actually let a call go through to voicemail... you can't imagine how freeing that felt.

The Phases of Moose

There are times when I'm pretty certain that Moose was born to be a Frenchman.  I could easily picture him leaning up against a lamp-post in a blue striped muscle shirt, an unlit cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth (unlit because hey, no opposable thumb, but still...)  He's very much a lover man, happy to just snug up against you, with occasional snack breaks (also very French - he does love his food).  But then...

Nights like tonight, something gets into him.  He gets firmly into Teutonic Terrier-ist mode, patrolling the backyard (or the kitchen, if we ground him due to potential noise complaints from the neighbors.)  He's not sure exactly what he's protecting, or who he is protecting it from, but he will not rest until he's sure the situation is firmly under control.  You can hear him muttering "einz, zwei, drei, vier" under his breath as he makes each circuit, looking up to make sure I'm safe each time, then back to the rounds.  Even once we go to bed, he'll still get up a couple of times during the night, just to check things out and make sure everything is in place. 

As he gets older, he gets more and more French, but every now and then...  I can see him looking for his tiny German helmet.  I suppose it's genetics...

Sunshine on the Patio

I had a reminder today of the value of taking life in stride.

We took Mom out for brunch for Mother's Day at Portland Seafood.  I knew it was going to be crowded, so I made reservations - unfortunately, when we got there, the only table they had was one that I couldn't fit at (high top, and there was no way I was going to be able to hoist myself up onto the bench.)  But instead of fretting, we just went with the flow.  10 minutes later, they decided to open up the back patio.

It was lovely - perfect weather, low 70s, mild breeze, shade so that I didn't turn into a lobster.  The service wasn't speedy, since we were off by ourselves, but we had a great time talking, so it didn't matter.  And the patio was quiet - so we could hear each other (not always the case in a restaurant.)  The food was tasty, the mimosas were great...  all in all, it was a fantastic way to spend time on Mother's Day. 

As opposed to the guys they were sitting just as we were about to leave, who were grumping about their reservations not being immediately honored and not having a high chair set up when they got there and...  It just reminded me that the flow can lead you to some really wonderful places, but you have to see the place once you land there.

Moose's Morning Chores

Pre-dawn hours:  Little to no chance of actually getting Mom out of bed, but we'll soften her up for the push later by crawling up on top of the pillow and vulturing her.  Maybe lick her eyeball a time or two, just to remind her we're here.

6:00ish:  Mom's in the bathroom - time to check for the 20th time to see if Daisy and Dancer are willing to accept me into the pack on Grandma's bed.
6:01:  Accompanied by a canine chorus of "Repel invaders!  Repel invaders!", slink back to Mom's bed and resume snuggle position.

7:30ish:  Dad's up - time to work on Mom.  Start with the paws propped up on her hip, staring at her sleeping face.

7:45:  Begin basic subvocalizations - the whine that cuts deep into every mom's soul.

8:00:  Ok.  Time to go hardcore.  Dig under the blanket and commence operation Tongue-Lashing.  Lick everything that's not covered by clothing until she gives in and gets out of bed.

8:10:  Mission accomplished - she's out of bed and into the chair.  Climb up on her lap, spend 10 minutes lovingly gazing into her eyes while she gives me my morning massage, and then resume 20 hour beauty sleep.  Job done.

State of the Body Post

So... latest news.  On the cancer front, I had my scan, and Hank is maintaining his stability - no increase in growth, he's just hanging out compressing my bladder and being chill.  In fact, Dr Steiner is putting me down to yearly scans now, since he seems to be uninterested in threatening my life in any meaningful way (yeah!). 

On the rest of me front...  I finally decided to get serious about documenting my issues with walking/standing for more than a couple of minutes at a time, starting with pulmonology.  Oddly enough, my arterial blood gas test was normal (which is terrific, considering it was awful last time I got it done - the bi-pap really works for me.)  However, when she took me for a walk around the office (about 200 feet, maybe?), my heart rate started spiking about half-way through and went into the danger zone (155-160?), so I guess cardiology is next.  Not a big surprise, this has been happening since I was about 30 - but I've got to get it documented now, since I am pursuing my SSDI claim. 

Still not sure exactly how I feel about disability - Objectively, I know that I am disabled.  I can't walk, I can't get through a day without changing pants two or three times, I have to sleep 12-14 hours a day.  I'm just not sure how to prove it to the Government, and I feel a little guilty about trying.  On the other hand, I've also been paying into the system for 30 years, so I'm not sure why I'm feeling the guilt.  Oh, well...  I've got an appointment next Thursday with a lawyer - we'll see how it goes.

Red Light, Green Light

Back in my way younger days, there was a game we used to play (similar to tag) called "Red Light, Green Light".  Whoever was It would stand maybe 20 yards away from everyone else who was lined up, turn their back and yell "Green Light!"  Everyone would then rush toward them until they turned around, yelling "Red Light".  If It managed to catch you moving, you were out of the game, and the object was to be able to touch It without getting caught.

Dancer plays Red Light, Green Light with me all the time.  She'll start out at one end of the couch, wait for me to look away, sneak a little closer...  She's very good at it - I almost never catch her actually moving, it's just that suddenly, there's a dog in my lap that I wasn't expecting.