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Archive for August, 2012

Full Day 1 of pseudo medical lockdown

Well, after relapse on top of relapse, and a stubborn streak that could have, or perhaps should have, landed me in the ER . . . I am going to be at home for a while.  I’m hoping only about two weeks.

 

Apparently, I need to learn to relax.  I can’t physically heal until my brain can calm itself to the point of serenity, or something resembling that.

 

I went to church this past Sunday, for the first time in years, and it was WONDERFUL.  I cried through most of it, and it was JUST what I needed.  Music.  Singing.  People who have known me since I was born.  It was so nice to finally be home.

 

Today, I forced myself to only do a tiny bit of “work” from home.  I’ll do a tiny bit tomorrow, and perhaps a tiny bit the next day.  Only what truly *needs* to be done.  Things with deadlines.  Things that patrons want.

 

I took care of some online things (for home) that have been on my “to-do” list forever.  I napped.  A lot.  A lot.  I am still in my pajamas from yesterday.

 

So, noggin therapy tomorrow.  I’m not even going to bother with makeup since I have been such a weepy, emotional mess lately.

 

And now, I have to get some energy together, to get my butt upstairs, brush my teeth, and wash my face.

 

*sigh*

 

This too shall pass . . .

lawn and such

So, as some of you may know, I have finally admitted that mowing the lawn is no longer something that I should be or can do.  So, Kenny mowed it last week, and it looked like shit, and grass was tracked all over my house because he didn’t use the bag because he’s convinced we have a mulching mower (which we do not).

Now, today, he goes outside again (about a week later, that’s fine) to “fix it” and do the rest of the yard work, which, for him, involves a gas-powered edger, a gas-powered weed whacker, a gas-power leaf blower, and the gas-powered lawn mower.  Please bear in mind I can accomplish the same thing with a pair of his discarded mechanics gloves (with holes in the fingertips – not great for the nails, but who cares), a pair of hand trimmers, and perhaps, on rare ocassion, a trowel, and the gas-powered lawn mower (with the bag attached).  He comes inside, sweaty (understandably) and cranky.  I follow him outside while he’s putting away the lawn mower and (lie) say, “Oh Honey, it looks so good!”  “No it doesn’t, I still can’t see”  (He has Bell’s Palsy, in his complete defense and cannot close his right eye all the way, so it is possible that he can’t see fabulously.)

Okay, so he goes inside, towels off the sweat, takes a shower, and lies down . . . he is still sleeping 3, 4 hours later.  So . . . in comes my ego.

I put on my “mowing” shorts (read: the only ones that don’t fall off without a belt), and my “mowing” flip flops (read: I ruined them once, might as well keep it up) and go outside to fix the lawn properly.  It’s AMAZING what following my own advice can accomplish.  Granted, he’d mowed the bulk of the length of the lawn, but I still had to stop to empty the bag 4 or 5 times . . . because THAT’S WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO TO MAKE THE LAWN LOOK NICE.  20 minutes later (if that), I’m done.

So, why is it that I, WHO CAN’T FEEL EITHER LEG, THE LEFT SIDE OF MY BODY AT ALL, OR SEE MUCH OF ANYTHING OUT OF MY RIGHT EYE, WHICH IS TWITCHING MADLY AS I TYPE THIS . . . why is it that I can do all that, and then come in side, to see that he has moved from his napping chair to BED, take a shower and then start doing laundry.

Oh yeah!  That’s right . . . LOTS and LOTS (perhaps too much) of drugs to keep me upright and WILL POWER and stubborness.  Just because I was basically using the lawn mower as a walker doesn’t mean that STILL didn’t do a better job than my husband who would criticize my mowing if I missed a dandelion.  Yeah.

Decision time.  *raises an angry eyebrow*

Moi, et nul autre.

As I said to my guru last night, “I’ve got me.”

In the throes of a multiple sclerosis relapse that has got me worn down to tears and nothing . . . when anger and disgust take over, it’s amazing what I my ego can push my body to do.  I’m spending my days packed in ice packs (wrapped in towels), or floating in my claw foot tub (yes, be jealous, it’s one of the reasons I chose this house), or sitting on my couch trying to find a position that won’t send my legs into spasms that could make me scream loud enough to be heard in Roseland.

I will admit, that, at this very moment, I *know* that I should not have done that, I’m lucky that I didn’t hurt myself or fall . . . and it will probably cause an(other) arguement with Ken . . . and all of my family members who were so relieved when I told them that I finally stopped mowing my lawn will be disappointed . . . but I AM THE MOTHER FUCKING BIG FISH.

That is something that I have to remind myself to NEVER EVER FORGET.

And now, blessed readers, surprises of surprises . . . I need a nap.  (But first I have to put laundry in the dryer and start another load.)

And it’s time, perhaps, for some bold and drastic life changes.  But, that’s a tale for another memoir.  (Which you all better buy, because you’ll be my fact checkers!)  😉

huh

I am in such a state of physical and emotional limbo.  I have choices to make.  Big ones.  That perhaps should have been made long ago, but I held onto hope, optimism, and denial.  As if these would magically resolve the situation.

 

If I were my daughter, I would save her from this.  Tear her from this.  Release her from this.

 

Yet my pity dictates otherwise.

 

Decisions decisions decisions.  I hate change.  But not changing, as I’m learning, is far worse.

in need of venting

So, I’m in the midst of a multiple sclerosis relapse.  I’m just getting worse, and I feel like I’m drowning.  Walking is hard.  I’m having pain like I’ve never had before.  My body is twitching and spasming out of control.  I feel like I can’t talk or make any sense.  My chest is heavy and breathing feels like exercise.  I feel like I can barely see out of my right eye, which is the one that DIDN’T have the optic neuritis.

 

I’m feeling very sorry for myself and all I want is my mommy.  I took a two hour bath and just tried to cry silently, so no one would know.

 

The drugs that I have to take so that I don’t scream from the pain of my leg spasms make me so wired and tired at the same time that my body and mind don’t even know what to do.
I got the lab work back that I needed before I can be considered for a course of steroids.  My white blood cell count is flagged as high, so I don’t know if I’ll be approved.

 

I’m so frustrated and overwhelmed and missing work.  All of my kiddies are there, and I’m here, feeling crippled and sorry for myself.  I know that I have a ton of sick time, but I’m sickened (pun intended) to miss work.  My summer reading program is going on without me.  God Bless my co-workers for “being me” when I can’t . . . but I desparately want to be there.  My work is my life, and my disease is preventing me from being able to do that.  I’m so mad at my body.

 

There is no amount of rest that will make me feel better . . . and my ego makes me push too hard anyway.  I got the paper off the porch this morning and had to sit down to rest.  Then I got my coffee, and had to rest.

 

I AM THE BIG FISH.  I AM SUPPOSED TO CARRY THE HEAVY STUFF . . . and I had to have Kenny open a bad of chips for me last night because I didn’t have the hand strength to do it myself.

 

I am grateful for this struggle, for this load is lighter than many that others must carry.  I am grateful for this struggle, for it proves that I’m alive.  I am grateful for this struggle, for it brings out of the best of my support group and proves how loved I am and how loving they are.  I am grateful for this struggle, for it shows that my dogs could both be therapy dogs.  I am grateful for this stuggle, for perhaps it means that my sister won’t suffer the same struggle.  I am grateful for this struggle, for it proves that, in spite of all of this, I would still be fine on my own.

 

I AM THE BIG FISH, regardless of my struggle.  It proves how strong I am.  Perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow, perhaps not for a couple of weeks . . . but I will keep swimming.  Even though I can’t see the shore, I know it is there.  If I can’t swim now, I will float and trust that I will drift in the right direction.

 

My body and mind are failing me . . . and my spirit and will power struggle to not do the same.

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