Ignore the Woman Behind the Curtain

This one I’m writing just for me – I’m not going to be publicizing it because (let’s face it) this is not a fun read, but sometimes I have to write my fears down to get them out of my head.  You’ve been warned.

Nightmares have been creeping in. I think it’s the anniversary – almost three years now, and for three years I was able to ignore it.  I survived, hell, I thrived.  Why dwell on unpleasantness?  But late at night, when my brain is trying to shut off, memories come back and mess with me. 

It all started as I was leaving the office.  I could feel something going wrong the minute I stood up from my desk.  By the time we got home, there was a huge puddle of blood on the car seat.  I tried to get into the house and get cleaned up, but it just got worse and worse (I think it was Daniel who called it a scene out of Carrie), and I knew that we needed to go to the emergency room right then.  And that’s where the nightmares start…

First off, there’s the sheer humiliation… although for me, that’s almost the least of it.  After dealing with the sheer inconvenience and shame of Hank’s pressing down on my bladder for the past three years, a bloody mess is nothing anymore, really.  But laying there for close to 24 hours, unable to get clean because anytime the blood was wiped away, a new batch would just plop out 5 minutes later, soiling me and the sheets and gloves and mats and everything in that wretched emergency cubical – ok, yeah, the humiliation is still there.

Then there’s the fear… blood, after all.  So much blood – plate-sized clots of it falling out of me every time I sat up or shifted position or breathed too heavily.  Enough blood that they eventually had to pump three pints into me, and they didn’t seem to have any clue as to how to stop it, or even be trying all that hard to stop it.  It felt like I was just left there, bleeding away, having the sheets changed occasionally.  Somehow, I doubt that a gun-shot victim would be left bleeding away on the table like that.  But then again, that’s just it – when you’re a patient, you don’t know what’s happening behind the scenes.

Then finally, Dr. Scott coming in and telling me that they were going to do an emergency D&C, almost exactly 24 hours after I had started to bleed out.  Figuring it was fibroids and the worst was over – once they let me out of the hospital in a couple of days… and then getting the Saturday phone call that meant everything was going to change.

Annual State of the Hank Address

I really, really didn't want to write this blog entry - I've been putting it off for a couple of weeks now, but it feels like the Universe is starting to get serious with its "subtle" hints.  First last week, it was the whole moonshot mention in the State of the Union, and then every single freaking day this week, it's been someone else famous dying of cancer.  Basically, it looks like I'm getting cancer shoved in my face until I deal with it, and I really don't want to be responsible for losing Tim Curry (I think he's the next of my odd idols on the list).

So, where am I at?  Still in limbo, it looks like.  I'm not cured - I still have my tumor, it's still pressing down on my bladder (drat it) and sapping my strength.  But I'm also not sure I'm dying - it's been two and a half years now, and it's not growing or spreading as far as the doctors can tell, which is just plain odd - normally ULMS is a wildfire, and mine seems to be more of a Presto-log.  I don't know if it's because we left Hank alone when he was discovered (normally they yank the uterus out immediately), or if it's because I somehow managed to arrange a detente with him (maybe he likes being referred to by a single name, kind of like Cher or Adele.)  Maybe it was the patriarchal blessing I received - I know Mom would get behind that theory.

I don't know - but I've got to figure out the rest of my life now that it looks like I'll have one.  I am still planning on retiring - it looks like probably March or April time frame, but I'll let everyone know once that's more specific.  I'm not dying, but I'm not healthy enough for 10 hour days in the office anymore, and after 26 years, it's time for a change.  I'm not sure what the second or third act is going to be - my 20s was mostly getting to know who the heck I was, my 30s was mostly career oriented, my 40s was family...  maybe my 50s will be community.  I see a lot of things out there that I might be able to help with once I'm not Hatch Act encumbered.  But first - a local comedy club is offering a class on stand up.  I'm thinking about signing up - it's one of my bucket list items to do an open mike set.  (Let's face it, Mt Everest was never my sort of thing...) 

So... that's basically it.  Limbo, retirement, possible stand up.  So, Universe - could you please stop shouting now? 

Memory Well: Star Wars/Capitalistic Urges

People of my age (ok, nerds of my age – which includes most of my social circle) all seem to have a story about the first time that they saw Star Wars – how it was mind boggling, or expanded their consciousness, or (if they are a certain type of nerd) how they thought even back then that it was no big deal.  I, on the other hand, remember Star Wars fondly, with a mercenary little glow.

You see, I was one of those little girls who grew up knowing that Prince Charming was for suckers.  I was aware that I was going to have to make my own way in this world, and in order to do that, it was going to take cash – and I didn’t have the frail, blonde looks to have that handed to me.  So, I was the first female newspaperboy in Salmon, ID at 8, and by 11, when we moved to Pocatello, I was the neighborhood go-to babysitter.  (It might have helped some that the neighborhood was a trailer park – it’s not like these children were destined for prep school.) 

But anyway… I figured out that the local parents really had no interest in seeing anything that started out “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…” so, for the next four or five weeks, I spent my Saturday and Sunday afternoons being paid to take their sproglets to the movie - $.50 an hour per kid, plus my ticket and popcorn.  It was a serious moneymaker for me – and I thank you sincerely, George Lucas.  You helped me pay off my trombone. 

I've Fallen and I Couldn't Get Up

It's been one of those days.  Well, weeks, really, but today was the topper. 

A little bit of an explanation, first.  I've got severe arthritis in my knees - I mean, to the point where I have absolutely no cartilage left anymore.  My left knee is the worst - I can't even put pressure on it, while the right knee at least lets me still go up stairs (slowly, but hey, I'll take it.)  So, what does this mean?  Other than being on a daily dose of oxycodone, normally not much, but it means that if I fall, that's it.  I'm down for the count. 

It's frustrating - when I was a kid, I ran everywhere.  I didn't own a pair of pants that didn't have a hole in the knee until I was probably 15.  (Ok, I was also a klutz, but still...)  But now, I'm cautious.  Really, really cautious.  The last time I fell down was ten years ago (and then it took six strong men and a blanket to get me up off the floor - of course, at that time, I also had a torn rotator cuff, which may have complicated things.) 

But this time, I was just getting dressed in my bedroom, leaning against my bed, and suddenly, my feet gave out and I was on the floor.  Not really hurt (ok, bruised, but nothing broken), but... stuck on the floor.  Moose, of course, immediately came to my aid by licking my face.  A lot.  We tried various things (pulling myself up, rolling over, Moose continued to try the face licking thing, assisted by Daisy and Dancer), but after about an hour, we had to give up and call 911. 

It's got to be the most humiliating call I've ever had to make in my entire life.  "You're not going to believe this, but I've fallen and I can't get up."  At least I managed to make the nice 911 operator laugh a little.  I was able to explain that I didn't need transport, I just needed help.  I had to confess my weight, but she didn't give me grief about it (thank you, 911 angel), and 10 minutes later, there was a knock at the door (luckily, Daniel had the foresight to put Moose and the girls in the back yard).

Five very burly, very cute firefighters - good to see some stereotypes still hold true.  Very efficient guys - they managed to get this sheet with handles underneath me, and with two on either side and one in front of me, it took maybe a minute and I was once again vertical (and incredibly grateful - offered to buy all of them a large drink any time they wanted one.)  And after they left, Daniel and I started looking for a portable Hoyer lift so that I never have to call them again. 

You know, I go along fine with the day to day - I make adjustments to my life and I try to ignore my disabilities as much as I can, but every once in a while they sneak up and bite me in the ass.  Fortunately, it looks like this one just left me with bruises on said ass (and ego), and an inability to ever again laugh at those stupid "I've fallen and I can't get up" commercials. 

Coming to the Defense (Well, Sort Of) of Ben Carson

Since I am a dyed-in-the-wool (and yes, that is neon-purple wool) liberal, I can chart the various fortunes of the Republican candidacies by who is getting shafted on my Facebook wall this week.  After the second debate, when it looked like Carly Fiorino might have a chance, there were a ton of negative stories about her.  Now that Marco Rubio is doing well, I'm finding out more about his finances than I ever wanted to know.  And of course, Donald Trump... well, he put the hit out on himself.  But anyway, I digress...

Ben Carson stories the past week or two all seem to be about him "embellishing" details about the past (or as they call it when regular people do it, lying.)  There's the Popeye's incident, that can't be authenticated by the Baltimore policy.  The full scholarship offer to West Point (again, can't be authenticated).  The saving the white kids in his class from a riot story that no one else in his high school that no one else seems to remember. 

But the thing is... as well as a surgeon, the man used to be a "success speaker".  Have you guys ever been sentenced by your boss to go to one of those full day Success Seminars?  I swear, none of the people at those seminars tells the truth.  They all live by the hype, die by the hype, and pumping up their story to keep people interested is in the job description. 

Furthermore, I suspect the same thing is true of most of our past presidents.  Does anyone really believe the whole cherry tree incident?  Writing your homework on the back of a shovel with a piece of coal?  Actually attending all of your commitment for the Texas Air National Guard?  Not inhaling?  Seriously?  It's just that now...these things can be checked.  And now that Brian Williams and Dan Rather have been brought down, I don't see the press being willing to give anyone a pass anymore. 

So, I don't really care that Ben Carson may have inflated his CV a little - Now, his words about single mothers being the root of all evil, that I care about.  His stupid ideas about getting rid of Medicare and Medicaid, that I really care about.  Him being nutty enough to think that Obamacare is worse than slavery - that I think disqualifies him.  But telling a few stories about his past - give the guy a break.

Memory Well: Cooking for Grandpa

I've never been much of a precision cook - my style has always been more jazz rather than classical.  I prefer to dump things in a pot or a casserole dish, take basic bones of a recipe and then add or subtract based on my feelings on the day (or my cupboards). And because I grew up in the 60s and 70s, I'm a firm believer in Campbells Cream of Whatever as a binder - I can make a basic white sauce, but why bother?  I know, it doesn't sound all that appetizing, but I haven't had many complaints, and I have had people ask for my recipes before (which can get a little embarrassing, but that's a different story).

But this one time, the family was gathered together in Ogden for some big event - I can't remember exactly what it was - might have been Mom's 50th birthday, but I'm not sure (my personal event memory is even less precise than my cooking at times.)  At any rate, because it was a special occasion, I decided that this one time, I'd go ahead and pull out all the stops, and actually follow a recipe for once.  I decided to make Beef Stroganoff, following the recipe exactly with the tomato paste and cooking sherry and caramelizing the onions and...  being very careful to measure everything, time everything.  I spent way too much time in the kitchen, frankly, for something that would normally take me about 20 minutes (and that includes boiling the egg noodles.)

Anyway, we sat down to eat, everyone is tucking away, having a great time, talking away, and Grandpa issues his pronouncement on the meal...  "Good gravy."  Yep.  Good gravy.  This is why I went back to Campbells. 

Trigger Warning - Women's Medical Issues Being Discussed

Today's exercise in medical care... (or lack there of)

Calcified Uterine Tumor - i.e. Proto-Hank

One of the biggest issues with Hank is that since he's made his appearance, I've been having issues with incontinence.  Heck, forget the delicacy - I can be sitting down, and suddenly my body will say "Ok, everybody, out of the pool".  I'm not talking a little delicate trickle when I sneeze or cough, I'm talking about standing up and having half of cup of urine escape while I run to the bathroom.  It's humiliating to talk about, it's frustrating to deal with, but it is what it is - I have a tumor the size of a grapefruit leaning on my bladder.  It's the equivalent of being permanently 8 months pregnant, without the joyful conclusion to look forward to. 

I've mentioned it to my doctors several times, but no one has really listened to me, but now that I'm pursuing the medical disability thingie, Dr Wang referred me to uro-gynocology to see if there's anything that can be done.  I don't think that there is anything, but we'll see... However, before I can see a doctor, there's a hoop.  Yet another hoop.  Yep.  I got a call from a very nice nurse to set me up to take a class.  I have to take an incontinence class.  I tried to explain to her my circumstance, that this wasn't one of those Poise commercial type moments, but nope.  No class, no doctor.  So, I'll be spending an hour or two of my life (and my increasingly dwindling sick leave time) talking about ways to avoid incontinence issues with a group of women who have no freaking idea what I'm dealing with.  Yeah, team.

Schroedinger's Sicko

Not sure how the doctor's visit today went.  I provided her with the paperwork to fill out, but she's not sure exactly what to say.  I'm not sure exactly what to tell her either.  Am I disabled?  I really don't know. 

I know I've got an incurable form of cancer, one that normally would be fatal (80% fatality rate within 5 years).  But it doesn't seem to be interested in killing me.  It is sort of like walking around 8 months preggers, and there's the whole incontinence issue, but it's not like I can't sit and type... it's just harder to focus and I tire out easily and if any little germ happens to come along, I'm down for the count.  But I am able to work, still - have been for two years now.  But I started out with the maximum 240 hours of annual leave and around the same amount of sick leave... and I'm down to the dregs now.

Other things to take into account - I have insulin-dependent diabetes, but I've had that for years and I've been managing it, so it's not something that really stops me.  There's the whole enlarged heart/losing my breath if I stand or try to walk for more than a minute or two, but again, had it for years, I've been managing it, I have my trusty Moose-Scooter to get me through.  There's the severe sleep apnea, but (thanks to the wonders of modern medicine), I've got the bi-pap that makes sure that I don't stop breathing my usual 75 times an hour while I'm sleeping - plus I get to do the cool "I'm disturbed by your lack of faith in the force" voice at Roger, so that's always a bonus. I have zero cartilage in my knees and the rest of my joints are also pretty much shot - so much so that I'm in pretty much constant pain, dumbed down by Percoset.  Fortunately, I also have a high tolerance, so I can still do my work while dumbed down by Percoset... I really would rather switch over to a non-opiate solution, though. 

The problem here is that my body has never been exactly a Cadillac.  It's been a Yugo - and I've been patching it up myself, using a lot of Bondo and WD40 (and a hell of a lot of duct tape), and forcing it to keep going.  Eventually, it's going to fall apart, but for now... yeah, it'll still do 60, if I put a brick on the gas pedal, but for how much longer?

So.  Taking all that into account... am I disabled?  And what do I tell my doctor to put down on the paperwork? 

Computer Blues

Be Thankful For What You've Got

Frustrating day.  Frustrating couple of weeks - I've been sick, and I've been having work computer problems, which always frustrates the hell out of me.  For some reason, Friday the 2nd my ID card (without which my computer is a brick) suddenly froze up and decided to stop working.  No problem, except that I can't just call the tech guys and have them remotely fix it, it has to be fixed at the District office.  And of course Monday, I come down with the plague.  Coughing fits, fever, snot building up in every orifice - your basic grotesque mess.  I think if I had tried to enter the downtown corridor, they would have instituted Godzilla measures, complete with helicopters and calling out the National Guard.

So, anyway... by today, I'm finally down to non-contagious levels of disgusting and make it into the office.  Still coughing, still weak as a kitten, but at least I'm not going to give it to anyone else at this point, and I'll be able to get my computer up and running.  Sure enough, after waiting an hour and a half (I get there at 6, they don't open the security office until 8, but fortunately, they owe me a favor), it takes all of 2 minutes to unlock my card, and I'm back up and running.  For four hours.

See, my laptop computer is close to end of life (it should have been replaced 2 years ago, but you know... budget cuts.)  For the past couple of months, it's been getting forgetful - it forgets that it has wireless capability whenever it gets jacked into a LAN server, and I try to take it back home and start it up again. It's almost like trying to talk to Bomb 20 from Dark Star.  Today I spent close to 2 hours trying various fixes suggested by the guys from our IT department, to no avail.  Hell, Lee (who is a total sweetheart, and knows my medical issues) even offered to come over and look at it on his own time.  And of course, at this point, I was dead tired, frustrated, close to breaking down, had Moose crawling up on me licking my face (he's a salt junkie)...

Fortunately, I've got my emergency back-up husband Kevin, who is a wiz with computers, and who was willing to come over and look at it for me (and Robyn could tell I needed some talking down from the edge of the cliff), so they agreed to come over after work, and I went and took a nap.  I find it works better than most solutions when things get to that point.  Of course, when Kevin and Robyn got here, and I booted the computer up, it worked perfectly, first try.

So...  things I'm grateful for.  Good friends at work and at home, who are willing to offer help, even when the help I need might just be making it through to the next day.  A husband who understands me and lets me sulk when I need to, and a puppy who won't let me sulk alone.  A forum that I can pour all this frustration out into - it's a little like lancing a wound.  This way, the puss won't stick around and fester inside me.  And music - that song up there has got me through some bad days.

Clapper Pros and Cons

We've been in our house now for 11 years, and I absolutely love it, but... for some reason, the person who built it had an absolute terror of overhead lighting.  They built an entire house with precisely two overhead light fixtures, one in the kitchen, one in the hall.  If they could have figured out a way to put a lamp in the hall, I think they would have left that out as well. 

At any rate... no overheads.  So we have lamps - lots of lamps.  For the bedroom, one of our first purchases was a clapper - one of those hi-tech ones that can run two different devices, so there's a separate lamp for each side of the bed.  Normally, it works great, except...

There are two natural enemies of the clapper.  Small, excitable, German dogs (Hi, Moose) and women with the plague.  As it happens, my coughing happens to be at the precise rate necessary to set off (and on and off and on) the clapper.  And so is Moose's barking - which is brought on by my coughing.  At one point this morning, I swear the lights were cycling like a disco. 

Worrying About Moose

He is definitely starting to show his age.  For one thing, he's getting more and more frosty - but that's not a big thing, it just makes him look more and more distinguished, kind of like Liam Neeson or Sam Elliott.  But he's also getting more and more crotchety - he's been spending more time barking at the air and grumping down the hall at nothing.

But this weekend, he stepped it up another notch.  He's starting to get a lot more demanding about active snuggling, wanting me to cuddle him like a small child, or winding himself around me like a comma, making sure that as much skin as possible is touching his mama.  Normally, he's happy just to be on my lap, passively snuggled in, occasionally getting up to make his rounds or get a light nosh.  But this weekend, he's been shoving in between me and the keyboard, making sure that I'm aware that he needs my undivided attention, or climbing up on top of my pillow in bed and shivering until I wake up and calm him down. 

It may just be the change in the weather, or it might be that I've been under the weather, or any number of weather related things, but... I'm just a little worried.  And when I'm worried, I write. 

In Which I Discover I Don't Even Do Cancer Right

So...  good news and bad news. 

Met with my oncologist today, and told her that I really needed to go ahead and file my paperwork for disability retirement.  I've been doing full-time telework, and trying to make it work, but it's time - I'm running out of leave, the office has hired someone who can fill in behind me, and I'm wiped out.  In talking with my Human Resources office, they said that I should just have her fill out the paperwork, say that I've got ULMS, that it's terminal, send it in to OPM, bing, bang, it'll be over with. 

Not so fast.  Here's the good news - well, great news really.  My doctor is starting to think that my cancer is so atypical that it may not be terminal.  She thinks that I may actually survive this, since it's been 2 1/2 years and he has not been moving.  I know - it's incredible news that frankly, I'm still processing - I've spent 2 1/2 years thinking of myself as dead girl walking, and now... I'm not.

However, it means I'm chronic girl walking.  Which means lots more paperwork.  So I've got to go to my GP and have her document all my other embarrassments - the diabetes, the incontinence, the breath thing, the arthritis, and all the rest.  It'll take a little more time, but then again, I was feeling morose about the whole prospect anyway, so... I guess it's great news and not so bad news. 

But this whole thing could have been avoided if I just had done cancer right in the first place, retired to my fainting couch and filed for disability back when they still thought I was terminal.  Or managed to be less... atypical.  Nah...  I like atypicality.  It suits me.  Kind of like being the neon-pink sheep of the family.  And guess what - Looks like I'm going to be around to be atypical for a good long time.  What the heck - Grandma managed to make it to 96 after being diagnosed at 47.  I'll have to see if I can beat her record.  Just 47 more years to go.  I can do that standing on my he... well, sitting in my comfy chair.

More Moose Issues

Yesterday, as I was giving up one of his mandatory belly rubs, I noticed something worrisome on Moose.  Now, it's not odd to find something odd on Moose's belly - between the liver spots and the raccoon scars and the odd fatty lumps of unknown origin, there's not much that's not odd, but... Right at the end of his penile sheath, there was a zit. 

I admit, I'm a horrible mother - my first thought was "Thank god he's a dog - I don't have to have "THE TALK" with him."  Relatively certain this isn't Herpes Duplex 13 or whatever the equivalent dog STD is - for one thing, he really doesn't hang with loose bitches, and for another, he's been neutered for 11 years now. 

It also led to one of the odder conversations that Roger and I have ever had...  when he got home last night, I mentioned something about it, using my usual clinical speech, and he just looked at me and said "You want me to look at my wiener's wiener?"  Yes, honey.  I want you to keep a watchful eye on your wiener's wiener. 

Aging Stud Muffin Issues

You've all seen pictures of my canine leading man, Mr Moose.  He's a handsome man - aristocratic, noble, he's even graying beautifully.  When viewed from the top, he's still absolutely gorgeous - sort of like Burt Reynolds or Sean Connery.  He has the classic dachshund profile, beautiful red fur with a subtle black racing stripe down the back, he has just a bit of a nipped in waist - perfect.  But then... like any leading man, the toupee slips.

I mean, Moose has always had issues with his underview - for one thing, there's the overbite issue.  I'm not talking a cute little overbite.  I'm talking you can see his teeth when his mouth is closed.  That's the reason why even though he's the scion of Peter the Great and Lady Zelda the Third (champions, both), he was a rescue dog, rather than a show dog - and as we've always told him, rescue dogs are so much better than show dogs.  (What the heck - he believes us.)  But now that he's getting older (he's 11 - 12 in November), when he flops over for his mandatory belly rubs, the truth comes out.

There's scars from the racoon attacks of 2006 - or as he puts it, the time he beat back the invading hordes.  There's little fatty lumps of unknown origin.  There's liver spots (because every old man needs liver spots.) There's bare spots where the fur never did come in just right. And then there's the zipper from the disc surgery - although to his doctor's credit, that is almost invisible unless you look for it.

Nevertheless... he's still gorgeous.  And no matter how liver spotted he gets, he's always going to be my little boy.

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!) 

The View From The Group W Bench

For those of you who don't recognize the allusion (most of you under 30, I suspect), it's from Arlo Guthrie's 17 minute long classic "Alice's Restaurant" - at one point he goes in for his draft board hearing, and gets placed on the Group W bench because he had been arrested and convicted of littering:

• Group W's where they put you if you may not be moral enough to join the army after committing your special crime, and there was all kinds of mean nasty ugly looking people on the bench there. Mother rapers. Father stabbers. Father rapers!

• And the meanest, ugliest, nastiest one, the meanest father raper of them all, was coming over to me and he was mean 'n' ugly 'n' nasty 'n' horrible and all kind of things and he sat down next to me and said, "Kid, whad'ya get?" I said, "I didn't get nothing, I had to pay $50 and pick up the garbage." He said, "What were you arrested for, kid?" And I said, "Littering." And they all moved away from me on the bench there, and the hairy eyeball and all kinds of mean nasty things, till I said, "And creating a nuisance." And they all came back, shook my hand, and we had a great time on the bench.

I frequently find myself wondering what a good little hippie peace-freak like myself is doing working for the US Army Corps of Engineers (I'm good with the Engineers part of it - I speak fluent geek, after all, but the US Army occasionally chafes a bit.)  Especially what the heck I've been doing working for them for almost 26 years now - more than half my life in the same office, even the same phone number.

For the most part, I'm good with it - after all, Portland District is one of the few Corps offices that has a strictly civil works mission.  We keep the harbors and rivers up and down the West Coast navigable, we generate serious amounts of hydropower, we have really awesome parks, we cleaned up after both Mt St Helens and the Exxon Valdez - we do good work, and don't have to shoot anyone to do it (although don't ask me about what we would like to do to the blasted sea lions that keep messing with the salmon at our dams.)  It's a red-headed stepchild of a district, and I've always been Queen of the Weirdos, so we fit well together.

But today.  Today we got yet another reminder memo from our District Commander that even though I've got medical issues that would easily qualify me for medical marijuana, even though recreational marijuana is about to be legal in my state (in two days)...  not for me.  Not until I retire.  Because even though I already take painkillers for my knees that would put the average person to sleep for a couple of days, and work right through it, trying a joint would render me "not moral enough to join the army after committing my special crime..."  Retirement can not come fast enough.

Another Reason Why I'm *From* Utah

Don't get me wrong - I'm not ranking on my home state.  It's a very nice state - emphasis on the "nice".  Most of my relatives are still there, the people are friendly, the food is incredible, the air is lovely (if a little thin - once you get used to living at 50 feet above sea level, 7,000 feet is a little hard to take.)  But I never really quite fit in - as I often say, I'm the neon-purple sheep of the family.  It's not that I'm the black sheep, shunned and banned by the rest.  No, I'm the one that they just kind of look at out of the side of their eyes (and every once in a while one of them will sidle up and ask me where I buy my hair dye.)

Mostly though, the state itself has let me know in various subtle ways that I'm really not their kind of people.  There's the air thing, for example.  Then there's the heat.  I was born in Washington, Utah - just south of St. George.  For you non-Utahns, think Vegas without the lights, the booze or the strippers.  Lovely in the wintertime, but God-awful in the summer.  I'm talking 115 in the shade kind of God-awful.  I remember riding Grandpa's motorcycle down to the fields one day - it was so hot that the breeze wouldn't cool you, because it was hotter than the sweat it was trying to evaporate. I, on the other hand, am a) one shade beyond phosphorescent and tend to burst into flame after 15 minutes in the sun, and b) get heat headaches to the point where it feels like my brain is expanding outside my skull every time the temp gets up over 90.  So not built for that kind of weather...

Normally, it's ok - my adopted home of Oregon treats me well, with 222 cloudy days a year.  But every once in a while... like this weekend, we're talking up over 100, and not a cloud in sight. So... I guess what I'm saying here, Oregon, is that you can ask Utah.  I'm a fickle bitch.  Don't make me move to Alaska.

"Lift Up Your Hearts And Sing"

One of my friends on Facebook posted this link today - but it's nothing that I didn't already know:

http://elitedaily.com/life/culture/sing-in-car-happier-healthier-live-longer/1089113/

I can't remember not singing in the car - it's almost an autonomic system for me.  Close door, turn key, open mouth... Part of it I can blame on my mother.  When you're the only child of a working, single mother in the 60s and 70s, you spend a lot of time in the car with her.  It seemed like we were always heading somewhere, and we didn't have the luxury of Sirius or XM (heck, we didn't have an 8-track until I was 14 or so - and then the only tape my mom had was Diamonds and Rust by Joan Baez.  That was a hell trip from northern Oregon down to southern Utah.) 

So, we'd sing.  Anything and everything - if the radio happened to be working, great, if not, we'd improvise.  Fortunately, I have a weird memory, filled with song lyrics - the part of my brain that should be devoted to nuclear physics or curing cancer has all the words to Crocodile Rock or Leaving on a Jet Plane in it.  And we wouldn't sing quietly - we'd belt it out, not always in the same key, but always confidently. 

In fact, that's one of the ways I knew Roger was the one for me - driving down the highway with mom, and I realized we were all singing along to Willie Nelson.  3 different keys, but all the same lyrics.  And the way I know that I'm the one for him is that he puts up with my singing, even when he really would rather just listen to the actual artist.  That's true love. 

Fun With Medications

I'm a firm believer in better living through chemistry - well, forget better living, just plain managing to stay alive with the judicious amount of pills and shots and... But the side effects do tend to build.  For example, I don't remember what it's like not to have a dry mouth, and then there's the night sweats - love waking up in a puddle. 

But the biggest pain is digestion.  Have you ever noticed that every single list of side effects either includes constipation or diarrhea (or sometimes both?)  Trying to titrate the perfect balance between a brick stuck in your abdomen and Old Faithful shooting out the back end is tricky, to say the least.  There's laxatives and stool softeners galore, but for my money, the best option is Russell Stover's sugar-free chocolates.  However, you have to respect the Stover's.  One won't do the trick, two... sometimes, but three seems to be the magic number.  Do not - I repeat, DO NOT go for five, thinking that the first three don't seem to be working, might as well add a couple more.  I spent most of last night in the bathroom, regretting that decision intensely.  You would think I would have learned my lesson before now, but no - I seem doomed to repeat it.

Doing Much Better

I've come back to terms with my life and its limitations.  (And spent the past couple of days being schooled in faith and grace - it's one amazing church that can turn out congregants that are that loving and truly Christian in the best sense of the word in the most horrible of circumstances.) 

Plus, I've spent part of today indulging in soul-reparation therapy.  A lazy Saturday afternoon nap with my man and my boy...  A warm, soft snuggle in a cool, dark room - nothing in the world is so luxurious.  Just laying there, curled together (and with a little warm heater of love wormed up between us - Moose will not be left out), nowhere to go, nothing to do until later in the day, the world shut out behind the bedroom door.  I am a lucky woman - I just need to keep reminding myself of that. 

Minor Medical Meltdown

Sitting here, crying my eyes out, not sure why - I figured it would be best to try to write it out. 

You all know I've been trying to lose weight to help with getting rid of Hank.  One of the things that I'm trying is Qsymia - it's this weight-loss drug that's a combination of a couple of drugs.  Of course, since it's a weight-loss drug, heaven forbid that it be easy to acquire, and they won't pay any for it - I'm on my own there.  But since I have to get it through the Kaiser Pharmacy, and they want to make sure it safe (I'm ok there), after waiting 4 weeks for them to get back to me, now they want me to go get a pregnancy test done.

Yeah.  A pregnancy test.  They have access to my files there.  They know that I'm two years into having a kobold invade my uterus and start trying to claw his way out.  They know that I'm 50 years old, and my one attempt at pregnancy ended in a miscarriage before I actually knew I was pregnant.  They know that at this point, it's more likely that Mary will rise from her grave, head back to Bethlehem and give birth in another manger than I will get pregnant.

But let's just go ahead and rub my nose in my failure as a female just one more time.  If my doctor weren't on leave, I don't think this would have happened - she's great at protecting me from Kaiser's more insane contradictions, but sadly, she's out this week, so I'm left sitting here, crying.