Adventures in Sparkland

Reno

2012-01-26T13:16:00.000-05:00

One of my sets of parents is renovating their new home in Toronto; the other set is renovating their new villa in Mexico. A good friend is in the middle of tearing down and rebuilding his kitchen. Even Ken and I are doing home improvements. We're finally replacing our broken kitchen light, and our water heater is scheduled for replacement next week.

It's about time that that kitchen light finally got replaced. First it was intermittently flickery; then two of the four fluorescent tubes conked out. Finally the other two gave up the ghost. We moved two standing lamps into the kitchen several months ago have have been cooking and washing dishes in semi-darkness ever since.

I just glad that we're not facing any major renovations in the near future. I super-hate disruption and mess in my home.

In 1980 when my mother remarried, I was 8 years old. We were living in a cute little post-war house, all painted white inside, with pale blue carpetting, a bay window in the dining room, and a lovely big back porch. By the time the renos were done, and it took many long months, the house was transformed. It was bigger and uglier. The back porch and yard were smaller. The bay window was gone. The carpet was a cool, oatmeally shade of beige, which wouldn't have been bad if it hadn't been combined with a sofa-and-loveseat set in an obnoxious shade of rusty orange. All the previously white wooden trim was stripped and stained dark brown.

My parents don't have terrible taste. Unfortunately they were limited by two things: an interior decorator who was a slave to the latest trends, and the bottom line. The renovation itself, the bones of it, had gone so over-budget that they were forced to make their decorating choices from whatever was on clearance at the time. Therefore we ended up with materials that everyone else had rejected because they were so ugly.

I was happy with how my own bedroom turned out. I kept it simple: pale green paint on two of the walls, and a cheap white wooden desk-and-dresser set. As for the rest of the house, I disliked it very much. It was so different from the old house, my house, that I didn't feel at home there anymore. I'm sure it didn't help that my step-dad had just moved in and we were all having a hard time adjusting to the change.

15 years later when they had the money, my parents redecorated again. The oatmeal carpet was ripped up, and pale blue carpet was installed. The dark brown trim was painted white again. In other words, to some extent they returned the house to how it looked originally. That was after I moved out.

I understand that the end result of a good renovation is worth all the hassle and expense, but still, I'd rather avoid ever having to live through something like that again, if I can.

Fighting the Good Fight

2012-01-21T16:47:00.000-05:00

Lately I've been feeling angry more often. Not ragey, irrational anger; healthy anger, the kind that comes as a response to people overstepping my personal boundaries. I have always been prone to sacrifice if I sense that someone else's needs conflict with my own. I'm not doing that as reflexively as I used to.

It's serving me well at work. My assistant manager, who usually deflects a great many questions and complaints away from my office, has had to take a lot of days off lately due to a personal situation, and it looks like her schedule will be sketchy for the foreseeable future. She usually takes an early shift and I take a later one. On days when she's not in, sometimes I don't even get my coat off before people starting throwing problems at me. It's very irritating. Unless the building is on fire, there's nothing that can't wait five minutes. Let me put my lunch into the fridge, boot up my PC, and catch my breath so that I can think clearly, please!

I'm not censoring myself as carefully as I used to. If people are going to be inconsiderate, I don't feel the need to enable them. One of the more senior professionals I serve approached me waving her laser pointer angrily, demanding to know why the batteries ran out so quickly. I didn't tut-tut and commiserate with her frustration. I said "I have no idea. I didn't design it." Batteries run out. That's how life works. Deal with it!

I had an argument with someone on my staff. Previously, I wouldn't have done this. I would have felt honour-bound to retain the moral high ground by playing it cool. I'm the boss, I used to think, so I should graciously accept that my employees are sometimes going to cop an attitude. I shouldn't let it get to me. I should rise above. This time, when one of my girls* got resentful of how I'd delegated work, I met her resentment with my own. I expressed how hard it is for me to keep balance and harmony in a large department, and how annoying it is when my staff forget that I have to consider the big picture, not just what they want individually. I thank them and praise them all the time for their work, but I'm more likely to get complaints than appreciation. It ticks me off.

Expressing my feelings was scary and empowering. I didn't feel drained after the encounter, the way I do when I spend a lot of energy keeping a calm facade. In fact, we both felt better for having shared our frustrations. By the end of the discussion the woman I was speaking with didn't like my decision any more than she did before, but she understood my point of view and respected it.

Having a proper argument with someone, an honest, constructive one, is a funny kind of blessing. It's like medicine that tastes bitter going down but leaves you feeling better. Do you know how to fight a good fight?

*My female staff range in age from 23 to 50-something, and they all cheerfully refer to themselves and each other as "girls". I tried to avoid that for the first few years in order to be politically correct, but finally I gave in. If they want to be girls, then they can be my girls, and I'll be happy with that.

Sizing things up

2012-01-15T14:43:00.000-05:00

Since the events of this past summer, I have lost my taste for clothes shopping. My priorities have been rearranged, and "being stylish" ended up way down near the bottom of the list. However, I'm still a working girl, and "looking presentable/professional" is one of my duties. Therefore, I must shop, albeit with much less enthusiasm than I used to.

Over the summer I lost around 10 pounds, and, judging from how my pants are hanging off me like hand-me-downs I haven't grown into yet, the area that slimmed down most was my butt. Pants that were previously tight are now roomy, and pants that were previously comfortable must be cinched in with a belt, and are obviously puckered at the top.

I've spent some time shopping for pants, without much luck. There are so many ways for pants not to fit, and I have encountered all of them. I did buy a pair of brown jeans that, with a little alteration, look good at work with a button-down shirt, but I need more. I tried on all the pants I could find in my size at a nearby mall, with no luck.

Frustrated, I thought that maybe I was barking up the wrong tree. Instead of fruitlessly shopping the smallest size of women's pants, I might have better luck with a girls' size 16. It's basically the same size, just cut with different proportions. Perhaps I would find a better fit that way. I used to find things in the kids' section back when I was in university and shopping in thrift stores.

Off I went to the mall to test my theory.

I walked into the Kids section of Old Navy, and immediately had a visceral reaction against my own plan. Although, rationally speaking, if the pants fit, I would be happy, in reality it felt all wrong. I know that it's perfectly safe for humans to eat cat food, but I would not feel good about going grocery shopping in a pet store. I'm neither a cat, nor a kid, with no desire to masquerade as either. However, I pushed aside my revulsion, and forced myself to take a look.

5 stores later, I gratefully admitted defeat. I never even found anything worth trying on. The main problem is that apparently kids these days only wear jeans. There was the occasional yoga pant, and of course leggings, and jeggings. But 99% of the pants for kids, male and female, were jeans, and most of those were skinny jeans.

I have a couple of pairs of nice, boot cut jeans that I wear to work. I don't need any more. I am in the market for more sophisticated fabrics. Hot pink skinny jeans with diamonoids on the pockets aren't on my shopping list. Shopping strategy FAIL.

I ended up in the Sears women's department and, after extensive rack-browsing and trying-on, I did find one pair of work-appropriate (i.e. boring) trousers. They were marked down from $50 to $15, so that was a bonus. I just need to get them hemmed and I'll be good to go. One pair down, a bunch more to go. Oh well. If that's the worst problem I have this month, I'll count myself lucky.

Silly Man

2012-01-11T15:52:00.000-05:00

There is a type of person I refer to as a "bubble-dweller". Bubble-dwellers live in their own little world, usually a mild and pleasant place, surrounded by an invincible barrier that keeps them from acknowledging anything that they don't particularly want to deal with. Bubble-dwellers, a.k.a. "space babies" (Ken's preferred term) tend to be dreamy and unfocused, pleasant enough company, but very disorganized.

My step-dad (I'll call him "my dad", now that I've distinguished him from my bio-dad) is not a typical bubble-dweller. In his life as a businessman he is focused, and can be ruthless if you get on his bad side. However, in all other respects, he is something of a space baby, and getting spacier as the years go by.

He just bought a new car. His previous car was only one year old, but he's not a careful driver, and it was covered with scrapes and dents. We all agreed that this car was too big for him. He's better off with a small one so he'll have more room for error. He assigned Ken to get rid of his old car. He suggested contacting a business called Lease Busters, which he used the last time he wanted to get rid of a car before the lease was up. Turns out the old car wasn't leased. My dad had bought it, only a year ago, but he didn't remember that he'd bought it.

My dad is forever misplacing his cell phone. Once it was missing for a week when he dropped it into one of his shoes. He doesn't have a smart phone because a) he's not that comfortable with technology and b) it would be more catastrophic when he lost his phone if he depended on it for his contacts and schedule. Instead, he writes notes on little scraps of paper. At least when he loses a scrap of paper it's only one piece of information that's gone. The last time he lost his cell phone, my mom found it buried under the pile of scraps of paper on his desk.

My dad is usually on some kind of weird diet. The latest thing is he sprinkles some kind of powder on his food while he's eating. I'm not sure exactly what the powder is supposed to do, but there's one type of powder for sweet foods and one type for salty foods. It's all very mysterious.

Recently he went out and bought a bag of avocados. He put the bag in the trunk of his car without securing it, and by the time he got home all the avocados had escaped and rolled into every corner of his trunk. He gathered some of them up and brought them inside, but he didn't get them all. The remaining avocados froze solid, and rattled around his trunk for the next week or two. He went golfing and there was an avocado in with his golf clubs. He opened up his carry-case in a business meeting and pulled out an avocado. I'm not sure if he saved those ones to eat.

Being inattentive is costing my dad a lot of money. He has lost two wedding rings within the past year, and each time my mother has insisted (understandably) that he buy a replacement. I don't know if the jewellery store has ever had such a regular customer in the wedding ring department, especially one who has never been divorced. Maybe they think he's a polygamist who just married his third wife.

Look Out, Here I Come

2012-01-04T14:59:00.000-05:00

Third time's the charm, as the saying goes. I sure hope so. I am beginning my third attempt at getting a driver's license. Previously, I gave up before scheduling the road test. This time, it's do or die. Or do and die, possibly.

The first time I took driving lessons, I was 18. I wasn't motivated personally, but my parents thought it was time. They sent me to Young Drivers of Canada, supposedly the best program available. I aced the in-class segments, but I was not a natural behind the wheel. The difficulty of the weekly lessons progressed far too quickly for me. I got overwhelmed and flustered, and consequently made disastrous decisions, such as turning left with barely enough time to clear oncoming traffic. During the freeway driving lessons, in heavy, fast-moving traffic, my instructor told me to change lanes. I forgot to check my blind spot. He wrenched the wheel from my hands just as I was about to drive straight into a two-storey-high, bright yellow street sweeping truck that I had not noticed looming up directly outside my window. I would return from my driving lessons drenched in sweat, needing a full change of clothes and a lie-down to recuperate from the stress.

The second time I took driving lessons, I was 26. I had been hired to do a sales job. My territory was the entire province of Ontario. For five months I toured the Golden Horseshoe area on a dozen different public transit systems. I carried a packet of maps and bus schedules in my briefcase. My office was a little suitcase on wheels. It was not ideal. This time I had a reason to get my license.

At the time I was married, but my first husband did not drive. I relied on a variety of relatives (mom, dad, aunt) to take me for practice drives. I made my mom and my aunt very nervous. Used to the view from the passenger seat, I always drove too close to the right-hand side of the road. They would soothingly murmur "You're a little close to the parked cars" as I came within a hair's breadth of smashing a row of rear view mirrors. I would correct more to the centre of the road, and then slowly but surely drift back to the right.

My father is not easily made nervous, but I do believe that I manage to rattle him the time he was teaching me to parallel park. I had the car maneuvered into the space, and centred perfectly. Triumphantly, I stomped on the brake. Except I had confused the brake with the gas pedal. I rammed that car into the car ahead, with a crash that got the neighbours out on their front porches to see what had happened. Was it you or me who said "That's what bumpers are for!" as we fled the scene?

I quit the sales job before I got around to taking the road test. I figured I would be doing society a favour by staying off the roads. I don't mind walking or taking public transit, plus being a pedestrian saves me from having to buy a gym membership.

However, this summer my perspective changed. I realized that if Ken got sick, I would not be able to drive him to doctors' appointments. Ditto for my parents. It's not just about me anymore. I have responsibilities to other people. So, at 39, I am making my third attempt at learning to drive.

This time is different. First of all, I have Ken, an excellent driver, to give me lessons. Secondly, I'm more motivated than I have been at any time in the past. It will be a labour of love. And lastly, but certainly not leastly, I am on anti-anxiety medication this time around, just enough, hopefully, to keep me calm under pressure.

So far all I have done is study the Ontario Drivers' Guide in order to prepare for the test to get my learner's permit. It's chock full of essential driving facts, like This is a Stop Sign. When you see it, stop. I'll get around to writing that test soon, and then we'll have some in-car fun.

The Eve

2012-01-01T18:49:00.000-05:00

Traditionally, Ken and I spend New Year's Eve with our good friends and their young son, now four years old. There have been a variable number of other guests at these gatherings, but they've generally been fairly low-key. This year, however, our friends invited some other families in the street, and as word got out a snowball effect occurred. When we got there, it looked like at least half the neighbourhood had showed up. There were kids, parents, and babies all over that house. I can't tell you how many. They didn't stop moving long enough for me to count them. I tell you, it was some party!

Once I got over the culture shock of being surrounded by so many children, aged 8 weeks to 11 years, it was great fun. I sat on the floor and played with an adorable 16-month-old girl. She had wisps of dark-gold silky hair floating around her face, clear blue eyes, and an irresistible little pot belly. She was mostly interested in digging around in the toy storage bins, pulling out every object she could find and then leaving them on the floor. When she tired of that, she would toddle over to the snack area and find a gingerbread cookie to suck on until the edges were reduced to mush. When it was nice and squishy she would then very hospitably offer it to a grown-up.

When I arrived at the party, it was already 2 hours past this toddler's usual bedtime, and she was going strong. Can you believe that this kid made it all the way to midnight with barely a whimper, a yawn, or an eye-rub? She was wide awake and making the rounds in her jammies all the way to the final count-down. A little glassy-eyed, but still. So impressive! To put this in context, our friends' son, then aged 3 years, only held out until 11:45 pm last year, before passing out on the floor with his head on his mother's lap.

Later on in the evening, I had a chat with the oldest kid, an 11-year-old girl. We ended up sitting next to each other, and she started merrily chatting away. At one point I looked away from her to catch a mental breath, and thought to myself "Gee, she's very nice, but she sure does talk a lot!" When I turned back to face her, she looked me straight in the eye and said "I talk a lot." You know that expresion "it was like she read my mind"? I have never experienced it quite so literally. I laughed nervously. Then I thought to myself "Is she psychic?" and half expected her to answer me "Yes, in fact I'm reading your thoughts right now".

She didn't. She did keep chatting until I found a reason to relocate. As I said, she was very sweet, but there is only so much kid-intensity I can handle, not being used to it.

A highlight of the evening was the Zimtsterne. "What the hey?" you may ask. Zimtsterne are traditional Christmas cookies which are naturally gluten-free. Let me tell you, they are mightily delicious, kind of half-marzipan-half-meringue chewy delights. My friend, our hostess, made extra ones this year so that I could take a batch home with me. Isn't that so incredibly thoughtful? I have finally gotten to the point where I do not actively sulk every time there are wheaty foods I can't participate in, but it was really nice to be able to partake of some Christmas sweets with everyone else.

A good time was had by all. The evening culminated with all the kiddies except the 11-year-old running around in their incredibly cute pyjamas, blowing noise-makers and cheering in 2012. Ken and I celebrated having officially survived 2011, something we sincerely thought might not be in the cards. I have a new calendar up, and it gives me a good feeling every time I see it and am reminded that we have a fresh start. Happy New Year, everyone!

Rage Against the Dying of the Light

2011-12-29T13:12:00.000-05:00

-Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas

In the past 4 months, there have been 3 deaths. First my zaidy, then my father-in-law, and now a young man I used to know has passed away of a brain tumour. I hadn't seen T in ten years, but I remember him well. A good friend of mine was one of T's best friends right up until the end of T's life, and they worked together every day for the past many years, at least when T's health permitted him to work.

T was a quiet, brilliant, creative fellow; a real still-waters-run-deep type. Before he got sick, one year he travelled around the world and kept an online journal. I remember crying with laughter as I read the perfectly-worded stories of his misadventures.

T was a few years younger than me, in his mid-30's. He was married. I never met his wife, but she's out there somewhere, now a grieving widow. It's beyond imagining. And, of course, my good friend is bereft.

When my zaidy died, I was sad. When I lost my father-in-law, I felt frightened, as if he had been a protective layer between Ken and Ken's mortality, and his death had made Ken less safe. When I heard of T's death, I got mad. I yelled and shook my fist at God. Told Him I know I'm supposed accept His better judgement and all, but I've had enough. This is not OK. I am not feeling all zen and surrendered to this schedule of people I care about dying every few weeks.

I'm alright. I'm at work this week, which is a good thing. The routine is soothing and my mind is occupied with day-to-day distractions. But when I find myself alone I feel the fury bubbling up. Good thing God can take me being angry with Him. There's nothing I can throw at Him that can hurt His feelings. Even the closest relationships have conflict sometimes. We'll kiss and make up - when I'm ready.

Joy

2011-12-25T10:28:00.000-05:00

My late father-in-law transformed the way I see leafless trees. Before I met him, trees in wintertime seemed stark, depressing, cold, close to death.

My father-in-law loved to draw bare trees. In careful, intricate detail, he traced them, from the massive trunk to the graceful, delicate shapes of every branch and twig. Now when I go for a winter walk, as I did this morning, I am surrounded by beautiful, surprising sculptures, no two alike. It's like wandering through an open-air art gallery, populated by squirrels.

"You don't run down the present, pursue it with baited hooks and nets. You wait for it, empty-handed, and you are filled."

Annie Dillard
Pilgrim At Tinker Creek

Happy Mallidays

2011-12-20T13:49:00.000-05:00

On Saturday the 17th, I took my aunt shopping for clothes. My mother and her youngest sister are both, tragically, clothes-shopping-impaired. They require a skilled facilitator in order to maintain their wardrobes. I am happy to oblige.

You may be asking yourself: "Is Sparkling Red insane? Why on earth would she schedule a clothes-shopping trip right at the peak of the Christmas rush?" The answers are: 1) Yes, but you already knew that; and 2) because my aunt has been wearing the same two sweaters and three pairs of identical black pants to work every day for the past Lord-knows-how-many months. It was a fashion crisis!

How did we survive, and even enjoy our day? I am about to share with you, the privileged few, my shopping secrets. I trust you to be discrete.

1) Use a granny buggy.
Worried about looking uncool? Forget about it. There will be plenty of time for posing later, when you're wearing your new outfits. Bring along a wheeled shopping buggy to carry your purse (that sucker sure gets heavy once you've been hauling it around for a couple of hours), your coat (no need to sweat while you shop), and your purchases.

2) Locate a source of water.
The price for a bottle of water varies widely among various retailers in the same mall. The movie theatre will charge you $3.50, the upscale sandwich place in the food court asks for $2.25, but I've found two places in my local mall that only charge $1. Bingo!

3) Be willing to go out of your way for a clean washroom.
Mall washrooms by the food court or the main entrance are filthy, stinky, and distasteful. However, if you do your research you can often find cleaner bathrooms hidden away in quiet corners. The best bet in a multi-storey department store is to go up to the top floor, where they sell corduroy-covered recliners and washing machines. The secret washrooms in my local mall are inside a sit-down restaurant, but accessible to the public via a pass-through next to their take-out counter. Because there's no signage pointing out these facilities to passers-by, I often have the ladies room all to myself. Luxury!

4) Shop for clothes on the Saturday before Christmas.
This only works if you're at a pokey little local mall, like we were. If you try it at the big ones, like Yorkdale or the Eaton Centre, you deserve all the suffering in store for you.
The key to this point is: on December 17th, almost no one is shopping for themselves. Everyone is buying gifts. Therefore: no lineups for the change-rooms! It's grand!

My shopping strategies proved themselves. My aunt found 5 items of clothing and a sassy piece of costume jewellery to complete her outfits. Another satisfied customer.

Life Goes On

2011-12-14T16:52:00.000-05:00

I'm pleased to report that I am pretty much back to "normal" as of the last couple of weeks. I am certainly experiencing life from a new perspective, post-nervous-breakdown, and still making internal adjustments to the epiphanies that assaulted me violently from all sides during the past few months, but to the casual observer I would appear to be going about my business successfully.

Physically, I feel good. I'm sleeping well, eating well, and my energy levels are grand. I am still trying to gain back the weight that I lost - all my pants are at least one size too big for me around the waist now, except the really stretchy ones - but hopefully it will come back given enough time and snacks. I'm not skeletal, but I would say that I'm down to my modeling weight, meaning the lower end of the acceptable range. There's a fine line between being slim and looking like you just finished a brutal course of chemotherapy, and I am trying hard to avoid crossing that line.

I'm still dealing with some fears around food, some of which are well-founded and some of which are silly and irrational. Anytime I have to eat something that I have not prepared myself, I feel worried. I watch the clock for two hours from the time the last bite goes into my mouth, and only feel safe once that time has elapsed. (It was two hours after my last wheat-poisoned meal that the Total Gastric Devastation kicked in.) I'm probably being more careful than I need to be, considering that I'm not nearly as sensitive to traces of wheat as, say, someone with celiac disease, but I'm eating as though I am. Better safe than sorry, especially when it comes to restaurants. My worst nightmare would be for TGD to catch up with me when I'm halfway home on the subway. :-p

My new policy is that I will no longer eat any food that I have not prepared myself if I cannot easily see exactly what all the ingredients are. Steamed veggies are fine, as are salads with no dressing. I will consume baked or boiled potatoes. Hunks of grilled meat without sauce are acceptable. That just about sums it up. I am no longer willing to risk soups (often thickened with wheat), sauces (ditto), casseroles, stews, and especially not any "gluten-free" substitute for regular bread or baked goods. My step-mom told about one time she went to a restaurant with gluten-free options on the menu. She ordered gluten-free pasta and what did they serve her? Of course, regular wheat pasta. She didn't notice until she was a few bites in. Fortunately I don't think she gets super-sick from wheat, but still. It's just too easy for a mistake to be made in a busy kitchen.

(Another case in point: at our office Christmas party just last week, an employee who has celiac disease was served a dessert which looked like a chocolate-and-vanilla double-layered mousse, but the bottom layer was, in fact, cake. He realized after he had swallowed the first bite. The consequences for him of eating gluten are so dire that he had to go straight to the men's room and stick his finger down his throat to make himself throw up. That was preferable to a week of severe abdominal pain. Fun times at the Christmas party! When the manager of the banquet hall was informed, he was more interested in defending his staff than apologizing for the mistake. I'm just lucky I'm dairy-free as well as wheat-free or I would have ended up eating the dessert too. Yikes.)

Anyway, aside from obsessing about food, life is going well. I have been seeing a lot of friends and family, and feeling more connected to people in general. I wasn't sure that I was going to make it through to the end of this year, but I'm almost there! I hope 2012 is somewhat less eventful.

Mummaleh

2011-12-08T17:30:00.000-05:00

My mother prefers "mum" to "mom", because it's more British. I call her mom, but when I'm writing a note or a card to her, I always address it "Dear Mum". It makes her happy.

My mom has stricter dietary restrictions than I do, but it doesn't seem to bother her much. She was diagnosed with celiac disease when she was very young, back before anyone had an understanding of what caused the disease. For a long time her diet was restricted to plain white rice, skim milk, boiled beef, and mashed bananas. She used to steal coins from her grandmother's changepurse and sneak off to the candy store after school to buy treats. She would get so sick that sometimes she ended up in the hospital, but she still says that it was worth it. Compared to that diet, the choices that she has now seem abundant.

My mom likes her tea STRONG. There's so much tannic acid in the tea she brews that it'll make your tongue curl. She also prefers it very hot, almost straight from the kettle. She's hardcore like that.

Recently my mom and I went shopping at a housewares store that was having a clearance sale. There was a table spread with discounted rubber mats for outside your front door. She spotted one that she thought was cute. It had the word "Hello" in various fonts and languages all over it in raised lettering. She started regretting the fact that she had already bought a new rubber mat for her new house. "Oh, this one is so much nicer! I should have waited! I wish I had this one instead!" "Mom," I said, "check the price." The mat was $13. In my mother's budget $ 13 is not a big deal. "Mom," I said, "just buy it. Donate the other one to charity or just throw it in the garage." She looked at me as though I had just revealed a brand new, shining truth to her. "You know," she said, "if you hadn't said that I never would have thought to buy it. I would have just assumed I had to live with the other mat forever." She bought the mat and is happy with it now.

My mom subscribes to two newspapers and can't stand to recycle them until she's at least flipped through every page of her favourite sections. If she's been busy the newspapers stack up on the counter until the piles are intimidating. She listens to CBC radio all day long, which has constant news updates and talk shows about current events and culture, which are the subjects she's interested in. I have tried to convince her that she doesn't need to read every newspaper in order to keep adequately up to date, but to no avail.

My mom loves her cats so much that she heats up their soft cat food on the stove in the morning. It smells terrible. If I complain she asks me "Would you like to eat an ice cold breakfast on a cold winter morning?"

I was over at my mom's house on Tuesday night. She pulled out a giftwrapped box and said "I found this. I think it's for you." I thought she meant it was a gift from someone for my most recent birthday. It took me a few questions to realize that she found it at the back of a closet when she was packing for her move. She thinks that it's a baby gift for me, from when I was born in 1972. I tear it open and sure enough, she's right. It's a brand-new, never worn onesie, meant for me 39 years ago. As you can see, everyone expected me to be a boy:

Food or Poison?

2011-12-02T16:11:00.000-05:00

This afternoon I watched a colleague of mine assemble a cheese sandwich. In my world, a cheese sandwich is the gastronomic equivalent of a slice of solidified road tar in between two stinky old insoles. It's not in the category of "food".

It's a surprise to me how many people have little to no allergy awareness. In fact, I was pretty ignorant myself at this time last year. I fancied that I knew a fair bit about allergies, having had a good friend who would go into anaphylaxis when exposed to any type of nut or seafood, even trace amounts. To this day I never use the same knife in the jam jar and the nut butter jar, just in case a nut-allergic person should happen to show up at my house demanding jam.

Still, I didn't realize how toxic peanut butter is to some people. I didn't know if I ate a peanut butter sandwich on the subway I could transfer peanut oil to one of those poles standing passengers hang onto, and that tiny amount of peanut oil could potentially kill someone. For example, my friend's seven-year-old son. I no longer eat peanut products in public.

I also didn't realize how sensitive people with celiac disease are to gluten. Over a year ago I organized a lunch meeting for work. I knew one of the attendees couldn't have gluten, so I simply avoided ordering sandwiches, wraps and pasta. I didn't realize that the BBQ chicken sauce might have gluten in it, or if there was preservative spray on the tossed salad it might have gluten in it. This fellow came to me to double-check that I had been diligent, and only then did I find out that it wasn't enough not to have wheat as an obvious ingredient. He told me, pardon my French here, that if he ate even a trace of gluten he would "shit blood for a week".

This is one area in which ignorance is very dangerous. For example, a friend of a friend is extremely allergic to all forms of onions and garlic. If there is so much as a trace of these in anything he eats his tongue swells up and he will have acute stomach pains that keep him bedridden for days. My friend was out at a restaurant with this unfortunate guy, and they checked very carefully with the server about the dish he was going to order. He was assured that it was all clear. When the food came, it was liberally sprinkled with green onion. Green ONION.

It doesn't matter how clearly you communicate. In the end you have to trust other people - the server, the manager, the kitchen staff... And who are they anyway? A bunch of strangers.

The Total Gastric Devastation I experienced a few weeks ago has now been conclusively blamed on wheat. Ken didn't realize that gnocchi contains wheat flour as well as potato flour. My symptoms were wheat poisoning. My body completely rejected it.

I now feel very nervous eating out, especially in places where there are gluten-free options that look just like the regular food. How do you know that the server didn't accidentally swap your plate with someone else's? How do I know that this is a gluten-free waffle if I didn't open the package myself? Am I willing to risk being extremely ill on the say-so of a stranger who has six other tables to wait on, might be a little high or hung over, and just doesn't care all that much?

I have eaten out in a few restaurants where I felt comfortable, for example one place where my mom goes regularly (she's a gluten-free gal), and another (a Montana's) where the manager has celiac disease. Still, right now I feel infinitely more comfortable eating my own food at or from home. At least I'll be saving lots of money.

Sturm und Drang vs. Faith and Love

2011-11-25T13:32:00.000-05:00

My girlfriend from the west coast was in town, so we met for dinner. I gave her a pad of poopoo paper I'd been saving for her. Nothing says "I've been thinking of you" like a gift made from real poo. She was pleased. I bet her three kids are going to get a kick out of it.

Our conversation centred on health-related topics. She has just done a 3-week cleanse. How her parents are doing. What it was like saying goodbye to her aunt who just died of cancer. Of course I told her about the goings on and passings on in my life. We talked about our parents' health, our husbands' health, special diets, who is allergic to what...

It seems to me that sometime during this year I crossed the border into another country without realizing it. There was no welcome sign, no customs official demanding documentation or a pat-down, no duty-free gift shop. But I looked up one day and found myself in the Land of Middle Age. It seems like everyone who wandered in this realm unawares is dealing with health problems, and/or aging parents, and/or they are an aging parent. I hear myself saying the phrase "my husband's cardiologist" and think that it's too soon for this. I expected to make it to at least 40, maybe even 45, before I had to worry about the health of my peers. Granted, my friends tend to be a few years older than me, but still. Ken isn't even turning 37 for another month.

This isn't a complaint so much as an attempt to get oriented on this new turf. I mean, it had to happen sooner or later, and the truth is that lots of people have to face the fragility and mortality of themselves and their loved ones much earlier than this. Yes, I feel a certain amount of dismay and resistance. That's only human. I also know that I have to adjust to my new reality. I must find the courage to stick by my loved ones through hard times as well as good ones. I want to be a reassuring, uplifting presence in their lives.

My primary goal is to be a channel for faith, love, and joy into the lives of anyone close enough to me to be affected.

Suffering is inescapable. Faith lies in believing that suffering occurs in the service of a larger plan, one we cannot fully understand, in which suffering leads in the end to something good, something worth it all. I see how my breakdown led directly to the healing of my relationship with my mother, and I feel that it was well worth it. I would go through every agonizing minute all over again if I had to, to gain a relationship that I've been grieving my whole life.

Sometimes it seems that no good will ever come of suffering, but when I think of everyone I know, the people who have been through the darkest times and the most pain are the ones who have turned out to be the most kind, compassionate, and caring people. Painful experiences break you, and if you have the good fortune to be able to heal, you are reborn with a new heart.

How do you deal with suffering?

Ambrosia

2011-11-21T16:01:00.000-05:00

I checked out a new health food store this weekend. Health food stores have taken on a new importance in my life since I lost the ability to digest wheat. If I want to have anywhere near the variety of food choices I used to have, my local supermarket will not satisfy. I need to find my way to a specialty store.

The name of this store is Ambrosia. It's a bit of a hike from my place. I had a 15 minute walk to the bus station, a short bus ride to the limit of the Toronto transit grid (Steeles Avenue), and then another 10 minute walk. I have lived close to this store for 6 years, but because it's not on any of my usual travel routes, I had never been there.

It was worth the trip. I worked in health food retail for four years when I was a student, in a few different stores. They were all smallish, and some of them very old and grotty. By comparison, Ambrosia is vast. They seem to have everything, including foods and product lines I've never heard of. Supplements, cosmetics and personal care, packaged foods, organic produce, organic meats, fresh baked goods, bulk foods... It went on and on. I spent around 45 minutes just making my way slowly through all the aisles, checking everything out.

Highlighted items in no particular order:
Recycled parchment paper (for baking)
Gluten-free dog biscuits
Chocolate-covered kale chips
(For those of you unfamiliar with kale, that's gross. Kale is a dark, leafy green similar to but tougher than spinach. I would like to know who buys that product, at $6 for a little bag.)
Organic peanut butter with "fiery hot spices" mixed into the jar (could be good)
A 1.5 oz bag of freeze-dried blueberries for $7.50 (!!!)
Quinoa-milk chocolate beverage (looks delicious but has the potential to be bitterly disappointing)

My rule of thumb if I'm shopping on foot is never use a cart. Always a basket. With a basket you have to pay attention to how much weight you're committing to carrying all the way home. If your arm is tired just carrying it around the store, you'd better put something back. I loaded up to my maximum carrying capacity.

On the walk back to the bus stop I had to stop and take my sneaker off because there was something in there bugging me, a little stone or something. I shook out my shoe, and guess what it was? A grain of organic quinoa. How fitting.

The Sleepover

2011-11-18T21:52:00.000-05:00

This post starts out in a dark place but it has a happy ending, so bear with me...

Since being overtaken by a violent allergic reaction on Monday night, I've been feeling vulnerable. There's nothing quite like finding yourself completely helpless, your own body out of control, to bring out all your worst fears. So when Ken announced that he was going to spend a night at a sleep clinic, I relapsed into a panic attack. What? Me spend a night alone in my own house? Are you crazy? I'm only 39 years old! Not ready for that kind of independence!

(For the record, I have spent nights alone plenty of times during my adult years. It's just that Me Sick plus Ken Having Medical Tests looked a little too much like things looked a month ago, during the Very Dark Times. PTSD trauma flashbacks argh!)

So I did what any self-respecting adult does when feeling fear and doubt. I called my mother and broke down blubbing. My lovely mother, who has embodied the very spirit of hospitality lo these past few weeks, did not hesitate to invite me to sleep over. She didn't need to ask twice.

I showed up at her house after work, wheeling my polka-dot granny buggy. She cooked a simple dinner and soothed me with plentiful cups of chamomile tea. We watched Brit-coms and a documentary about an archeological dig in Turkey. (My step-dad is in Florida playing golf, so we had the house and TV to ourselves.)

It's indicative of how much time I've been spending at my parents' house that their cats have accepted me as part of the family. Last night was a critical turning point. They each claimed me in their own way. Tinker, the tubby one, curled up next to me while we were watching TV, laid his head in my lap, snuggled up closer, and fell asleep purring. Doodles took over later, when I went to bed. He slept next to me, so when I woke in the night I wasn't alone. What good boys! (Most of the time.)

Given my state of mind, I hope you won't judge me for admitting that I brought my stuffed toy dog. He always sits on my bed at home. I don't cuddle him every night, but if I'm having trouble sleeping sometimes he helps me out. It just so happens that this doggie is black and white, like my parents' cats. He's also the same size as the cats, and the markings on his face are almost identical to Tinker's.

I propped the dog up against my pillow while I was getting ready to change into my pj's. Doodles wandered into the room, hopped up on the bed, caught sight of the dog, and froze. His eyes dilated and his tail puffed up. He stared and stared at this creature who looked like his brother, but wasn't his brother. Was it a cat? Was it friend or foe? The thought bubble over his head said "!!???!!!?"

He started edging closer to the dog very, very slowly and cautiously, not taking his eyes off it. There was quite a distance to cover between the foot of the bed and the dog on the pillow, so this exaggeratedly careful approach took a while. When he was 2/3 of the way there, I moved the dog and he jumped back like he was spring-loaded. Man, it was hysterical. That was the best laugh I've had in ages.

Doodles finally came around to the fact that the dog was not a threat, although he continued to get a little edgy anytime the dog "moved". I guess we all have silly fears sometimes. Even cats.

A Busy Week

2011-11-15T21:14:00.000-05:00

This past week has been full of business, most of it good.

Ken is mostly over a horrible flu that had him out of commission for at least a week. At one stage, in a fevered delirium, (while I was at work), he shaved off all his hair because "I was too hot". In the state he was in he couldn't do a very good job of it, so the poor guy ended up looking kind of like this skinny pig (including the squinting).

It was pretty sad. Then of course not fifteen minutes later he hit the shivering stage of the fever, so he had to put on my bright turquoise knitted toque to cover up his scruffy, mostly-bald noggin. He looks nice in that shade of blue.

Fortunately we discovered some unexpired Tylenol in his medicine cabinet, and once that was in his system he felt a lot better.

He got over the worst of the flu just in time to attend his father's memorial service. There will not be a funeral as Ken's dad donated his body to research. The memorial was very sweet. Ken's dad was, among other things, a fairly well-recognized Canadian visual artist. He worked in watercolour, oils, ink, and pencil. He painted the most luminous landscapes. His friends, also artists, read poems they'd written for him and one woman composed a beautiful song in his honour and sang it while accompanying herself on acoustic guitar. Ken seemed to get a lot of good energy from seeing all his family's closest friends and sharing stories about his dad.

It was a weekend for family. I went out with my mother for a stroll and a cup of tea on Saturday. I showed her the Nexus S smartphone I bought on Friday evening, and she was suitably impressed. (I'm a little disappointed because this phone doesn't get network service in my office, but then again I do have an office phone on my desk, two e-mail addresses, and instant messaging at my disposal. For the great deal I got I'll probably stick with this phone and the carrier at least until my monthly arrangement pays off the handset.)

I also had a dinner with the other side of my family: dad, step-mom, sister, grandmother, and some first cousins once removed (I had to look up "wiki cousins" to make sure I got that right). That was bonus, because three of the six of us are gluten free, so we had an entirely gluten-free meal, including incredible chocolate cupcakes home-baked by my sister, with choco icing, a slice of strawberry, and coconut sprinkled on top.

Work has been going well too. I feel that I've been going from strength to strength lately.

Everything was going along tickity-boo until I got tripped up by some digestive upheavals last night. I'll spare you the details, but picture the worst stomach flu you've ever had and you're probably close. I'm not sure exactly what caused it. I ate dinner at home, and within 2 hours I was a very unhappy camper. Let's just say that I am feeling much better today. My tum is so sore and inflamed that I haven't been able to eat much, just a little bit of brown rice, but I'll get there. Maybe one more day to get my eating back online and I can go back to work, I hope.

So, maybe this will be the last crisis for a while? I really feel like it would be fair to have some smooth sailing for a change. Thank God, Ken has been saying that his heart arrhythmia seems to be getting better on its own, so maybe he won't have to carry on with trying out scary medications or pursuing surgical options. I think it was the stress of his dad's suffering that was breaking his heart. Now that his dad is resting in peace, God willing, his heart can heal.

Create New Post

2011-11-08T13:03:00.000-05:00

On Saturday I changed my shower curtain liner. The old one was getting kind of ratty. Also, I bought it in a hurry when we moved in, to "match" my sage green cotton shower curtain - in a shade of nasty, dark, garbage-bag green. It makes the whole showering experience dim and depressing.

My new shower curtain liner has been sitting around for, oh, maybe a year? I just hadn't gotten around to putting it up. But this weekend, in the spirit of committing fully to making positive changes in my life at all levels, I finally changed out the old liner for a translucent, colourless one. My morning showering experience is much improved.

God or The Universe, as you prefer, is meeting me halfway on this New Good Things commitment.

The Toronto public transit system is phasing in brand-new, high-tech subway trains. The first two were put into service during the summer. Every time I took the subway I hoped for a new train, but never saw one. This weekend I had the luck to ride on the new-style trains TWICE.

The new trains are worth all the hype, in my opinion. They are pretty, shiny, and full of neat features. They have maps with a light for each station that changes colour to show which stations are past, which are yet to come, and which one is approaching. There are additional LED signs showing you the name of the next station and which side the doors will open on, which is an invaluable little detail. Most impessive is that instead of having separated cars, the whole train is connected by accordion sleeves, meaning you can walk between cars completely unhindered. The people who seem to enjoy this most are the crazy ones, as it gives them a wider audience for their antics. I was entertained by a very well-dressed man (pinstripe suit, shined shoes, brown fedora with a little feather in the band) whose pleasure it was to go down the entire train, stopping for each group of passengers and doing a happy little dance, which mainly consisted of shaking his caboose. He wore a big, wide smile the whole time, and was chuckling to himself, so who could object?

When I got downtown, I found that the Eaton Centre Mall had opened up their brand new Urban Eatery food court. They transformed the entire basement floor of the mall for this project. I have to say, I was very impressed. I've never been wowed by a food court before, but this one is stunning. It's enormous, and has been meticulously designed. Even the KFC and the MickyD's outlets look classy.

Later, I met a friend to see Puss In Boots. We didn't realize until we bought our tickets that it was a 3D presentation. I've never seen a 3D movie in my life. I was expecting to get those red and blue glasses of ye olden days, but as you probably know, there is better technology today. The movie was fun, but the 3D experience was what totally blew me away. I am now a convert. I would like to see all my movies in 3D from now on, thanks very much.

So, the New Good Things thing is working for me. Now I just have to get my learner's driving permit, and then the real work starts.

Up from the Darkness

2011-11-03T20:09:00.001-04:00

My progress is "miraculous". This from a medical doctor. It's as though Glinda the Good Witch of the East touched my brain with her magic wand of calm and contentment. I may not be quite back to my old self yet, but I'm not far off. A few more days and I'll find out what happens when I surpass my old self and go even further away from fear, if that's in the cards.

I've always been relatively anxious. I've fought my fears for as long as I can remember. Will a day come when it's no longer a struggle? Could I just relax into acceptance and faith instead of constantly having to talk myself up into deliberate optimism? A friend told me the other day that sometimes my cheerfulness strikes her as a bit desperate. She's a perceptive one.

This past week has been busy. I made some resolutions to boost my confidence in my ability to take care of myself and others, such as learning to cook properly so that I can host people at my home, and spending time every day enriching my supportive relationships. I have been too introverted for my own good. I need a bigger dose of quality human contact in my life.

Since Sunday I have:

Successfully cooked two kinds of vegetable stew (one based on eggplant, one on butternut squash).
Signed up for e-mail updates from the Better Homes and Gardens website, so that I'm constantly being reminded of my resolution to become a hostess with the mostest. I'm allowing myself to enjoy the creative entertaining and decorating ideas, rather than sneering at them, even if some of them are silly.
Spent Hallowe'en with good friends and their 4-year-old son.
Had dinner at my parents' house (Ken cooked meatloaf wrapped in bacon with perfect green beans and mashed potatoes with gravy).
Returned to work! I've been able to tolerate it for up to 6 hours at a time. It's really good to be back.
Seen the therapist who works with the psychiatrist I'm seeing, and she was so impressed with my progress and on-the-right-trackness that we agreed there was no need for us to book a series of weekly appointments. I will call her only when I need some help getting over any roadblocks.

Apparently it takes 6-8 weeks for most people to get back to this much functioning after the kind of breakdown I had. Can you say "2.5 weeks since I was barely able to get out of bed"? Ya. I'm a bouncy one. Thank God.*

*I mean that literally. I've been praying lots, and I have felt my old friend JC boosting me up. It's been a long time since the two of us hung out. It's a good thing. There's one more relationship I plan to nurture!

Gratitude and Fear

2011-10-28T20:03:00.000-04:00

I am grateful for my my mom and step-dad. I have been in touch with them every day since the beginning of my breakdown, and lately more often than not I have been spending time at their house. They have been providing me with hugs, reassurance, encouragement, and tempting snacks.

I am grateful for my furry brothers (my parents' cats). They have been available for playing and belly rubs. I have a couple of scratches on my wrist from that time when they were trying to get me through the rungs of the bannister, but it was worth it.

I am grateful for my (human) sister, who has come to visit me for dinner twice in the past week, despite the fact that she lives way across town and doesn't have a car. She brings engaging conversation and lots of hugs. Just hanging out with her is good medicine.

I am grateful for the beautiful, sunny days we've been having. Seeing a brilliantly golden maple tree lit up against a vividly cerulean sky reminds me why living is good. Getting outside for walks has been one of my highest priorities now that I have my strength back.

I am grateful for all the interesting little shops and boutiques around my parents' new home. My mother took Ken and I out for an exploratory adventure today, and we poked around in businesses such as a store specializing in horseback-riding equipment; a completely gluten-free grocery store/deli/bakery; and a Scottish import store with a wide selection of sporrans.

And of course I am grateful to Ken, who has been such a love to me all this time despite the fact that he is going through his own very dark time. Currently he is in bed, exhausted as a side effect from a heart medication that he just started taking yesterday. He had a pretty good few hours in the middle of the day, when we went on our walk, but the rest of the time this stuff is making him feel like crap.

I am having a very hard time being strong. I know that the medication needs a few days to settle in, and that the side effects might not wear off for a couple of weeks. I know that the side effects are only uncomfortable and inconvenient, not dangerous. But when I see my husband looking ill and down, and crawling helplessly into bed, I feel terrified. Every 30 seconds or so I remind myself that everything is OK and that this too shall pass. I calm down a bit. And 30 seconds after that I'm back to a state of anxiety again.

I am grateful for Paroxetine for giving me the 30 seconds of calm per minute. Without the medication I think I'd be a lost cause.

How do all of you get through when you have to watch a loved one suffer? Have you ever had to face an illness that you didn't trust attacking someone you felt you couldn't live without? How did you get through and get the better of your fears?

Mind Games

2011-10-25T18:14:00.000-04:00

Today I went to see a psychiatrist. It wasn't my first psychiatric visit ever, but probably the first useful one. I went to see a shrink for a year and a half starting when I was 15, for talk therapy. It helped a little, but not very much.

This new psychiatrist, Dr. A, doesn't do talk therapy. He assesses and prescribes. Fortunately, he's covered by OHIP so I don't have to pay anything for my visits. Today we started the assessment process, which he said usually takes three sessions. His very confident initial diagnosis is that I have an anxiety-depression disorder which is causing ALL of my physical symptoms. He seems very sure that I can be completely cured. I pray to God that he's right.

His first recommendation is to increase to a full therapeutic dose of Paroxetine, which means I should stop splitting my tablets in half. I am a tad nervous about trying this, in case of side effects, but ideally this could double the benefit I'm already getting from it. I still haven't managed to go 24 hours without a panic attack, so that'd be a welcome change.

His second recommendation is that I go for talk therapy. He doesn't do talk therapy, unfortunately, because OHIP pays crap for it. It's not worth his while. However, he does have a wife in the business, whom he highly recommends. He could be a little biased? It would be convenient to have them working as a team, and he is so well-recommended that I have some trickle-down confidence in his wife. At any rate, I am going back on Thursday for a free trial session with her. We'll see how that goes. If it goes well I'm in for some expensive talking, but I have saved for a rainy day, and it sure as hell is raining now, so I guess this is what I saved for.

Actually even if it doesn't go well I'm still in for it; it just means I have to look a little further afield to find the right person. I have at least one more recommendation I could look into.

In general it's all great news. I won't hesitate to invest whatever it takes to get well. I couldn't be more thrilled to be mentally ill. Anxiety and depression are well-known and widely-treated. They are infinitely preferable to having a mysterious physical condition which is little-researched and has no known cure. Stigma? Whatever. I would walk around every day wearing a bright pink T-shirt that says "I have mental disorders!" if that was what it took to put hope on the horizon.

Aren't I just the most optimistic and cheerful chronically depressed person you ever met? Man, the brain is a funny, funny thing. I'm already looking forward to doing stuff I've never been able to tolerate. If I can tame my fears I could learn to drive, enjoy travelling, try all sorts of new things... Please God let this work! I have my hopes up.

Finally, I must mention that Ken's father finally passed away this morning, shortly after midnight. It is a mercy that he's gone. He was suffering horribly in his last days. Ken is doing alright so far. He was as ready to let go of his dad as anyone can be. I'm glad that I'm feeling well enough now to be of some support to him. These times have been rough, but I think the two of us are going to be OK.

Progress!

2011-10-21T13:04:00.000-04:00

One week ago today I was barely able to get out of bed. I was in constant torment and could barely eat. My family was seriously discussing checking me into an inpatient program at the mental hospital.

Three days ago I was mobile and up watching TV for much of the day, and even got out of the house for two little five-minute walks around our property. I was afraid to climb stairs because the last time I climbed a flight of stairs my heart started racing. But I did it. I climbed up and down the three little stairs that are built into the walkways around my building, and felt a huge sense of accomplishment.

Two days ago I got dressed and Ken drove me over to my parents' house. I brought an extra plastic bag in the car in case I had a panic attack that made me sick to my stomach. (I hadn't actually hurled but was into some serious retching as part of my panic symptoms, as recently as that very morning.) I was nervous but OK during the car ride. It was the first time I'd been anywhere in two weeks.

I sipped watered-down scotch and let Ken do all the talking. Mostly I held myself very still and tried to breathe through the panic, or tried to hang on to what delicate state of relaxation I had achieved by not moving and not talking to anyone. When I did start talking a little later in the afternoon, it came out mostly as incoherent sobs. I cried all over my mother and all over Ken, telling them everything I was afraid of, which was basically everything in life, while they gave me lots of hugs and tried valiantly to reassure me.

That evening, still at my parents', I ate dinner sitting up at a table for the first time in two weeks.

Yesterday morning the panic was still there, but no retching. Ken went out on an errand and I didn't melt down from fear of abandonment. Then Ken returned and asked me if I wanted to go out for lunch. I figured that if the panic is all in my head there's no time like the present to get back on the horse, so to speak, so I got myself presentable and we went out.

We were seated in a friendly all-day-breakfast restaurant with brightly cheerful decor including a wallpaper border of chickens running all around the walls and booth dividers. A chipper, blond waitress brought us menus. I was as terrified as I might have been in a dark, slimy dungeon being confronted by a jailer-torturer. At first I wasn't sure that I could manage to stay. Then it took all my effort just to choose something from the menu and ask the smiling waitress for it. I wanted to run home and hide under the covers. However, I managed to eat around half of my western omelette with fried potatoes, and the fear did ebb away a bit after the first 20 minutes.

We went to the bank and I deposited a birthday cheque from my grandmother that had been sitting in my wallet for two-and-a-half weeks, since getting to a bank had been out of the question. That was another major accomplishment.

Then we went back to my parents', where, exhausted by the effort of eating lunch out and going to the bank, I fell asleep on their couch. Later that evening I started feeling almost like myself again.

This morning I woke up feeling better yet again. The panic is still there, and always worse in the morning, but this time it was just uncomfortable, not disabling. I didn't feel the need to dissolve in floods of tears when Ken asked me how I was feeling. I have left a message for a well-recommended psychiatrist, so it won't be long before my medication habit is being professionally evaluated. But it's pretty obvious to me that it's working.

There are a couple of good things that are coming out of this ordeal. The first is that I'm renewing my relationship with my mother. I've always been on pretty good terms with my step-dad, as we sometimes work together, but I had been keeping my distance from my mother over the past couple of years, due to self-preservation, as my parents went through their separation and reconciliation. I couldn't spend too much time with her during that phase - it was literally exhausting. I felt that she needed so much from me and I couldn't ask for anything from her in return. Now she is supporting me, and the balance is returning to our relationship.

She's also really happy to have me and Ken hanging around her new house every day. Since she moved a month ago she hasn't felt very at home in the new place, but she says now that it's filled with her family she's starting to feel settled-in. We're going back over there for dinner tonight, and my step-dad is happy to have us too. We're breaking in that new house and making it into a home.

The other thing might turn out to be even bigger. Now that I see the power of mental stress over my physical health, it's making me question where my ME symptoms come from. It's a bit of a chicken and egg situation because ME can cause anxiety and depression, and anxiety and depression can cause physical symptoms, so it may be impossible to sort out which came first. However, the question is: if a capable psychiatrist can supervise a proper course of medication for my poor, bustificated brain, will that cause my ME symptoms to lessen or even disappear?

I mean, think about it. If pure stress was enough to weaken me to the point where I couldn't get out of bed for more than a few minutes without collapsing, certainly it could be at fault for any of my lesser symptoms. There's only so much will-power and positive thinking can do to fight that kind of problem. The undertow of my subconscious mind is frighteningly powerful. If those fear reactions can be tamed, will that release me from some or all of my physical restrictions? If so, this whole ordeal will have been well worth it. A week of hell is a small price to pay for increased freedom for the rest of my life.

Some people need to bottom out before they can get off drugs. I had to bottom out in order to learn that I should be on drugs. This may turn out to be a turning point to a much more positive future. One of the best things to ever happen to me? Let's hope so. Keep your fingers crossed.

Paroxetine the Wonder Pill

2011-10-17T18:18:00.000-04:00

I never thought I'd be a happy pill-popper, but that's how life goes. You never know what's around the next corner. It might be a complete and utter nervous breakdown. And then it might be a teeny-tiny, rust-coloured half-tablet that saves your freaking life.

Paxil, a.k.a. Paroxetine in the generic version, is one of the most bizarre things I've ever come across. I swear that in the half-hour after I take each dose I can feel the stuff re-arranging my brain. Weird sensations course down every nerve in my body, like cold water mixed with a slight electrical buzzing. And then, day by day, it gives me back to myself.

It's only been 5 days since I've been on it, but apparently it's not uncommon, in my step-dad's doctoring experience, to get results this fast. Just a few days ago I had to sit on the floor to brush my teeth (spitting into the toilet) because standing up for five minutes would raise my heart rate enough to trigger a rush of panic chemicals that could last for hours. It was like being caught in quicksand that sucked me down the more I fought against it.

Today I'm dressed in clothes I could wear outside, and even put on some makeup so that I didn't scare myself every time I looked in the mirror. For the first time since last Thursday I can tolerate sitting up with my feet on the floor indefinitely. And I'm eating. Thank God for that. Food actually tastes like it should again. For days everything I put into my mouth made me want to gag. Every texture was nauseating, and every taste was too strong. Today I'm trying to pack in as many calories as I can, complete with big glasses of chocolate soy milk, handfuls of caramel popcorn, and potato chips. It's a tough job, but I've got to think of my health.

It's doubtful that I'm going to have any side effects at the low dose that I'm on (5 mg). Dr. Dad says I'd be experiencing them already. There's also a less than 10% chance of a severe withdrawal effect if I ever try to come of it, but pffft. Do I care? I am not planning on ever coming off this stuff. God willing it'll serve me well for the rest of my life, putting my hyper-sensitive nervous system back on a level playing field with all the healthy people.

I've still got a ways to go before I'm back to my normal, but I can see now that I'm going to get there. I'm gonna keep on truckin'.

Good News Post!

2011-10-15T20:00:00.000-04:00

Let's all join together in a big sigh of relief. I am feeling much, much better today.

The turning point came last night. After another tortured day of feeling too physically overwhelmed to get out of bed, I was at my wits' end, and so was Ken. I had not been able to eat much for the last few days, and since I don't have a spare pound anywhere on me, this was frightening both of us. Ken kept encouraging me to eat, but I had very little appetite, and half the time when I did eat I felt sick afterwards. I was so wretched and he was so worried that we summoned my step-dad again.

My step-dad has a remarkably reassuring presence. Nothing seems to phase him. Sometimes this is a problem, because he doesn't worry about things that in fact merit his concern. My mom is always after him to pay more attention to unpleasant realities and details. He's a very "don't worry be happy" kind of guy. So while this may be a mixed blessing, it's definitely a boon anytime there is a crisis. Even when he's quite concerned, as he was in this case, he always stays calm and always seems to know what should be done. I haven't had to call on his help very many times in my life, but boy was he there for me this past week.

(At this point I also want to give a shout-out to my bio-dad, who showed up on Tuesday bearing lunch and a big pot of yellow chrysanthemums. He also has a very reassuring presence, and offered to be there for me in whatever way I might need. I called him in tears at least once (the details are already fuzzy on whom I called when these past nightmare days), and he was rock-solidly there for me. I am unbelievably lucky having two dads to lean on. Frankly I needed all the parenting I could get this week, so lucky me - suddenly that childhood divorce is bearing dividends. Two sets of parents! My mom has also been there for me by phone every day, and my step-mom generously offered that I could "lean on" her and my bio-dad. Step-dad gets to be the big hero because a) he's a doctor and b) he and my mom live much closer to me than my other set of parents. However, I am quadruply lucky that I know I could call any of my fantastic team of super-parents at any time of the day or night and they would be there for me.)

So, my step-dad showed up and said he'd been thinking about the situation, and in his professional opinion my main problem at this point wasn't the myalgic encephalomyelitis per se (although that was definitely playing into it) but that the physical symptoms which felt so much like extended panic attacks were, in fact, extended panic attacks. ME can definitely change one's brain chemistry by suppressing all the nice neurotransmitters, like GABA and serotonin, which keep one calm, balanced, and sane. Anxiety and depression are listed among the official symptoms. Take that and add on all the stresses that I've been going through this summer, and it created a perfect storm.

So, ta-dah! The good news is, most of my problem is in my brain! It's simply a mere panic disorder! This is much better than what I thought might be happening which is that the ME itself had taken my body down a road to complete and utter destruction on all fronts. When I was working with that hypothesis, it seemed like everything was going down the tubes and I might actually waste away and die. It is possible to die from severe ME, or to get so sick that you wish you were dead but don't die for ages, and there are way too many unfortunate people suffering unspeakably in that condition which I have read about online and thereby filled my imagination with worst-case scenarios. I have read a quote by a doctor saying that ME can be like the worst of MS, lupus, and AIDS all rolled into one. Obviously this information seared its way into all levels of my consciousness and scared the living crap out of me.

When I crashed after the simple task of taking the bus home from work, on one level I was in shocked disbelief that I could be so disabled, even if it might only be temporary; on another level I was frustrated beyond my limits by falling seriously ill again only three days after my careful and otherwise successful return to work; and I was desperately trying to strategize how to maintain any form of normal life in this state of unpredictable fragility. It had never been that bad, and I guess at the deepest level I lost faith that day that there was a limit to how low I might get. It felt like I was losing my whole life at an accelerating rate: all my thoughts were shot through with horror at how vulnerable I have become, terror at being so helpless, and an endless cycle of desperately calculating how I could possibly carry on with such reduced stamina.

It was all mixed up with the continued worry about Ken's heart condition (he has a consultation on Monday to see if he's a candidate for that outpatient surgical procedure), my Zaidy's death, the politics on my mom's side of the family which have been greatly exacerbated by Zaidy's death, big projects afoot at work, and a million other things that a mind can find to worry about.

I still don't really know how to face up to all of that crap, because it hasn't gone away, but at least I can tell myself that I'm not going to die a slow and agonizing death in the foreseeable future. As soon as I accepted that my symptoms were a result of pure panic, a lot of the anxiety abated immediately. Today, although I still feel quite drained, I am miles better than how I was feeling yesterday. I guess now that that's taken care of I just wait to see what happens when the Paxil kicks in. Four more days and hopefully the magic pills will start to cut those other worries down to a more manageable size.

It's going to be a slow road, one little step at a time, but I'm going to get my life back. You hear me? I am!

This had better be rock bottom.

2011-10-13T18:00:00.000-04:00

I'm still hanging in there, but I am sicker than I've been in my adult life. I'm not able to get up out of bed for more than a few minutes at a time. Besides staying sane, the biggest challenges I'm facing are maintaining basic personal hygiene (which I am managing, thank God, although not quite up to my usual perfect standards) and trying to eat enough to not shrink away (although I only have so much control over that because forcing myself to eat beyond my tiny appetite just makes me feel nauseous).

I think it would be fair to call my situation a complete physical and nervous breakdown. My nervous system is hyper-stimulated, and it's creating a self-reinforcing cycle of stress that I'm not sure how to break. I am running a fever which is why I am so weak. I can't take NSAIDs so there's not much I can do to bring the fever down. At certain times in the day I have enough energy to accomplish some small tasks, like take a 3-minute shower, and at other times just shuffling to the kitchen for some juice is enough to make my whole body feel totally stressed.

And when I say stressed, I mean super-stressed. I mean heart-pounding, adrenaline surging, short of breath, nauseated, anxiety spinning out of control stressed. At first there was nothing at all that I could do to address this, so I was spending hours each day after the smallest triggers riding out these waves of psychic suffering like a panic attack that just won't quit. Then finally I figured out that a little sip of vodka in water acts as an emergency brake. If it can't stop the feelings entirely then at least it dials down the volume to a bearable level.

Of course psychological stress plays into it too, and there's plenty of that to go around.

It was my step-dad who suggested I try vodka. He's a doctor, so it's an official doctor's order. He knows that I don't tolerate sedative medication, otherwise he would have set me up with some Valium. I think it was the 3rd day of trying to tough out the sensations when I cracked. It feels like pure suffering. I couldn't do anything but lie on the couch watching the clock tick and praying for it to pass. On the third night I was trying to get myself into bed, when I just gave up and lay down on the floor with my head on my folded-up pj's. Ken, beside himself with worry, got me to lie down in bed. I cured up in the fetal position and told him to call my step-dad.

My step-dad showed up, checked my vital signs, and pronounced me relatively fine, despite my discomfort. Could've fooled me. I was ready to lie down and die. Since then, he's been on the case to help me get well. He has consulted with his colleagues. Thank God for his help, because there is no way I could tolerate getting to a doctor's office. I can't even sit up beyond a 45 degree angle for more than a few minutes.

What was decided was that I should start on a low dose of Paxil, an anti-depressant. It's not that I'm depressed per se (although I can't say that I'm cheerful about my situation). It's that it seems the best way to try to get my neurological chemistry under control. After 39 years of fighting through all sorts of tough times without medication, this morning I gave in and took my first little pill. It seems like my best hope of getting my life back. Please wish me luck. I won't know how it will work out for at least a week, and then it's a question of will it do what I need it to do, and will there be side effects, will we have to try a different drug, etc. I am praying for a home run on the first pitch.

I'm just trying to get through one day at a time. Sometimes, especially when the stress chemicals start to flow, I feel desperately miserable. I am terrified by how vulnerable I have become, unable to even fix a meal for myself. When Ken has to leave the house even for a short time I feel like a lost child. I have my mom as backup, although she hasn't needed to come by yet. I'm more comfortable with just Ken. Having other people around is overstimulating, so despite my loneliness and desperation for company, I've been telling people not to drop by. Even certain TV programs are overstimulating. I'm making do with radio, podcasts, and reading. This is the first time in a few days that I've attempted to use the laptop and I'm actually pleasantly surprised at how well I'm doing with it.

I wish I could have more engaging distractions. I'm reading a wonderful book, but alongside the voice in my head that is reading it is another voice going over and over all my worries about the future. I have to keep going back to re-read sections because I've been distracted by the worry voice. I can't get that second voice to shut up. I wish that I could get up and putter around the house. It's impossible to keep from worrying when you can't occupy your mind with some other task. And the really crazy, impossible fact is that there are plenty of people sicker than me. How do people spend months in the hospital without cracking up permanently? I hope I never have to find out.

Anyway, this is a long and rambling post because I've been saving up all this junk in my head and have been desperate to be well enough to write it down. So I guess I can take it as a good sign that I feel up to being online today. It's hard to define progress since I've been up and down so much over the week, and gains made today might be lost again tomorrow - but then again they may be retained.

All hugs, prayers, and words of encouragement are greatly appreciated in advance, in case I'm not able to be online to reply to comments. Love and hugs to you all!

Breathe In, Breathe Out

2011-10-06T16:19:00.000-04:00

Yesterday things were looking good. I woke up before my alarm clock. I felt optimistic enough to dig my lightest hand weights out of the back of the closet (I graduated from those little things months ago and hadn't looked back since) to do a few arm exercises. I went to work and had a day that felt almost normal. So when it came time to leave, instead of calling for a cab I decided to try taking the bus.

There is a bus stop right outside the building, but that bus only comes once every half hour. It's a beautiful walk, slightly over 10 minutes at my normal walking pace, to the next major intersection, where the buses come on average every 5 minutes. I had been cooped up inside for so long, and I wasn't carrying anything heavy. I took the longer walk.

By the time I reached the bus stop, my legs felt heavier than when I'd started, but everything else was fine. The bus came quickly and I got a seat. It was all good.

When we pulled into the station and I had to stand up, I realized how exhausted I was. Uh oh. Too late now. That's the problem with this condition: there's no fuel tank indicator to warn me I'm running near empty. I'll think I'm well enough to do something, and by the time I figure out that's not so, it's too late. I had a five minute walk to the taxi stand, and then I had to wait for a taxi. I was spent. I couldn't go to work today, and probably won't tomorrow. There are other symptoms too, but I'll spare you.

As if that weren't enough, I was lying on the couch, drained to the dregs after a short day of working from home, when Ken came back from his cardiologist appointment. He requires a catheter ablation procedure. They are going to schedule it in a couple of weeks. This is a fairly simple procedure with a very low rate of risk, but still. He's my husband. He's going to the hospital so that doctors can stick a probe into his heart and mess around in there. I can't not worry.

Ken also produced a bottle of medication that the doctor had prescribed for him. We're both a little scared for him to start taking it, due to the risk of side effects and all that. As a matter of fact the medication looks riskier than the surgery. He decided to start taking it tomorrow morning, so that if it slows his heart down too much he'll be awake and we'll be able to deal with the situation safely.

As if that weren't enough, Ken found out this morning, just prior to his cardiologist appointment, that his dad was moved into a hospice. I could tell you some details about that situation that would cause your heart to break too.

Things could be worse. We have our comfy home and savings in the bank. My boss is cooperating with me on finding ways for me work as effectively as possible without overdoing it. We have supportive family and friends.

Although I'm not planning to lean on anyone else too heavily. Right now just about everyone I know is wading at least hip-deep through their own swamp of personal crap. Everyone has health worries and/or child-care worries and/or elder-care worries and/or financial worries, etc.

People say kind things but when you come right down to it we're all stretched pretty thin. You can't expect more from anyone than a sympathetic ear and a little encouragement. (A little can go a long way.) It doesn't help that none of my support people live in my neighbourhood. Lately I've been feeling very physically vulnerable due to being so weak and effectively isolated. I've been worrying over and over "What will become of me? What will become of us?" There are no answers.

I keep tripping up because I've been basing my estimations of my own strength on past experience. This is the worst crash I've ever experienced, so I guess none of that past learning applies. I've never been this slow to get my energy back. I wonder if I will ever get it all back. I wonder if I am permanently disabled. I'm too weak to leave the house today, again. It's scary.

I've been trying to watch uplifting and humorous movies and TV shows to distract myself, but there's only so much you can stuff that kind of fear under the rug of cheerfulness.

Right now I'm deliberately slipping into survival mode. Just get through each day, and if that gets too tough, just get through each hour, or each five minutes, or each breath. Beyond making sure there are enough groceries in the fridge for the next meal, try not to think of the future. The future will have to take care of itself.

A Happy New Year Story

2011-10-01T17:17:00.000-04:00

Wednesday evening was Rosh Hashanah - Jewish New Year's eve. In the Jewish calendar the year is now 5772. Welcome to the future. The future is now.

Normally my family would gather at my middle aunt's house to celebrate the occasion, however middle aunt and her family are travelling in Israel. One of my mother's many cousins invited us to celebrate with her and a variety of close and distant family members. It was a good thing. We were able to mark the holiday, which is an important family tradition. At the same time, we were able to avoid an immediate family gathering so soon after Zaidy's death. If it had been only the usual suspects around the usual table, his absence would have been very vivid. This way there was no empty chair to make everyone feel sad all evening.

My mother's cousin R and her husband T live in a lovely, big house. It's filled with beautiful paintings done by R and by her late mother, Auntie A. R and T have three kids, whom I last saw around 20 years ago. Their eldest son is now working as a hazzan in London, England. Their daughter, whom I remember as a little girl, is in medical school. And the younger son, who I remember as a six-year-old with a headful of blond ringlets, is now doing his Ph.D. in mathematics.

Two elderly cats live in the house. The dinner guests kept leaning down to say "Here kitty kitty! Aw, isn't she cute!" "Be careful," warned our hosts, "they're incontinent. And they throw up everywhere. Does anyone want to take them home? You can have either or both for free."

I have always thought it was very cool that R and T's house has an elevator. R has rheumatoid arthritis, and since it was impossible to predict how bad it might get in the future, T had a little elevator installed in the house when they moved in. Fortunately R is doing well and is completely mobile. I'm sure the elevator comes in handy anyway.

When we were seated at dinner I ended up sitting beside the younger son, the math Ph.D. student. I asked "Is there any way that you can explain what you're studying to someone like me in a way that I can understand it? At all?" In fact he could. For the record, he is investigating algebra-geometry equations that involve counting the number of points along a particular curve. Apparently this is applicable in cryptography, for example, in the algorithms that are used to secure transmissions such as cell phone calls. The conversation floundered a bit after that, because what can I say about encryption algorithms? Er, neat! *crickets*

Later we talked about more normal things, like how many puns you can make on the word challah. Ken came up with the Challah-Deck, which would be a Star Trek-themed Jewish restaurant and bakery. Math son came up with Challah-Back girls. I asked if anyone has got around to marketing a candy called Jew Jubes. I just Googled it and apparently it's getting some use as an offensive phrase. That's too bad. It has so much potential.

After dinner we gathered around the enormous TV in the family room to look at scans of old family photographs. The generation ahead of me was making all the points in the game of "Identify That Relative!" Most of the photos were from the 1930's and '40's. I saw pictures of my mom between the ages of 3 and 12 that I'd never seen before. For some reason there was also a shot of my younger aunt and cousin R each perched on one of Santa's knees. How is it that two Jewish kids (of observant parents) had their photo taken with a mall Santa in 1966? These are the mysteries of our mixed-up culture.

Dinner was lovely and a good time was had by all. See? Good Adventures in Sparkland are not over yet!

Overstim

2011-10-01T12:06:00.000-04:00

I went back to work for the first time in 2 weeks yesterday. Hoo boy, that was so much harder than I thought it would be. I figured if I could work at home, sitting up at a desk, and talking to people on the phone much of the day, how different would it be to do it at the office? My fever was gone, I wasn't collapsing for a nap mid-afternoon, and I was talking slow walks around my neighbourhood a few blocks at a time. It seemed like the right time to go back.

I was happy to return. Besides the fact that I'm clean out of paid vacation days, I was starting to go a little psycho from being stuck at home. I thought I'd go back, sit down at my desk, and although I might be a little tired I would primarily feel relieved.

The experience was overwhelming. One symptom of Myalgic Encephalomyelitis is nervous system hypersensitivity, and that kicked in big time. Being around so many people, even on a quiet Friday, was very difficult. The sensitivity manifested in physical-emotional stress: waves of anxiety almost like a panic attack that crested for a few minutes at a time with a few minutes of calm in between each wave. I thought if I could tough it out and show my body that there was nothing to be afraid of it might pass, but it didn't.

(I had successfully pushed through similar feelings of overstimulation at a Rosh Hashanah dinner on Wednesday night, surrounded by a crowd of happily enthusiastic relatives. Between the first course and dessert, the anxiety went away and I was able to enjoy the rest of the evening.)

By the time I got home I was feverish and so overwhelmed by feelings of anxiety that I couldn't to do anything but curl up on the couch and try to breathe through it. I wasn't able to eat the lovely dinner that Ken cooked. I went to bed and dreamed that I was in a hospital, where I felt safe because the medical professionals there would know how to make me feel better. When I woke up I was disappointed that there was no such hospital.

This morning I'm doing a lot better. I had a good sleep. When the anxious feelings tried to come back, I did half an hour of yoga and that calmed me right down. I have almost nothing that I need to do this weekend. Hopefully I can continue to rest and recuperate so that I feel significantly better by Monday. I committed to attending an important project planning meeting at 2 pm on Monday. Of course like anything it could be rescheduled (or it might be possible to attend by phone), but I am trying to hold faith that I'll be able to do at least half a day of work without falling apart by then.

I have to walk the line between wretched, depressed hopelessness and ignorant overestimation of my abilities. That is not an easy balancing act. I obviously cannot successfully predict how I'm going to feel from one day to the next, or what my limits are going to be. I'm confused and worried, but trying to stay positive. I've been heading in the right direction, but I need to get a little further yet before I'm out of the woods.

Getting There

2011-09-25T12:52:00.000-04:00

That's my stock answer when people ask me how I am and I can't tell them "fine". "I'm getting there." I say it even when I don't even believe it myself, or when I'm not sure where "there" is. At least it sounds optimistic.

Today, however, I truly am getting there. Yesterday evening my fever finally broke, after a week. I was starting to think it might go on for months. It felt like it had already been months. When I saw the normal temperature on the thermometer, I was ecstatic.

I'm going to my Zaidy's Shiva this evening. It will be the first time I've seen any of my relatives since before his death. My friend Val came to my home and sat with me during the afternoon of his funeral. I showed her some photos of him but in the end we talked mostly about other things. Every time I got emotional I got so short of breath that I had to lie down or I felt I would faint. I figured I'd better put that grief on a shelf until I have more stamina. There will be all the time in the world to miss him and remember him later.

I'm going to take it very easy this week. I plan to work primarily from home. If and when I do go in, it'll be for half-days. I cannot risk triggering myself again. In order to help myself, I have written some Rules of ME Survival. These are the lessons that I seem to forget in between crashes, so I need to be reminded of them every day.

If you "feel fine" but the thermometer says your temperature is up, shut up, lie down, and rest. The thermometer is always right, and you are always too optimistic.
Do NOT exercise while your muscles feel weak, not even with the lightest hand weights. Overexertion in this condition can actually kill the DNA in your cells, resulting in cell death. This is a medical fact. You will be more prone to muscle cramps. If you trigger a back spasm the pain will trigger a downward stress spiral. DON'T RISK IT. Mild stretching ONLY.
Do not attempt to stand for long periods of time relative to your strength. Same thing for walking. Slow baby-steps only, and sit down BEFORE you're exhausted.
Outdoor environments are more stressful than indoors due to temperature variations. Go outside minimally: only as much as you need to to stay semi-sane.
Social activities are exciting, and excitement is a positive version of stress. Therefore, minimize socializing to phone calls during a crash. Re-introduce social activities slowly, and if in doubt CANCEL, even if it is something you were really looking forward to, or something super-fun, or if you already have the birthday gift and card ready to go. A few hours of fun can lead to a week of illness.
Although you hate taking cabs because they are expensive and smell funny, do NOT attempt to take public transit for at least 3-4 days after returning to work. Start with a half-day of work, and increase from there. Work from home when possible. While you are still tired you are at risk of triggering a fresh crash.

Believe it or not, there is a way in which I am struggling to accept the fact that I have a chronic illness. Despite the fact that it's been in my life for 8 years, I can't get used to the idea. I've coped via denial and bottomless optimism for as long as I can remember, and trying to turn that train around is no easy task.

I now have complete sympathy for all the people who stop taking their meds when they feel better, no matter what their ailment may be. It's my personal experience that humans are able to understand "the present" in a time span no longer than three weeks, so whatever condition persists for more than three weeks feels convincingly permanent. If I feel healthy for three weeks or more, it's easy to forget how vulnerable I am. It stops feeling real. (Conversely, once I've been ill for three weeks I start to believe that I'll never recover.) This is all quite predictable, and even knowing this doesn't take its power away.

In order to hammer home the reality of my situation (and because a doctor relative of mine advised me to do so) I've started a symptom diary. This will hopefully force me to think about my ME every day, even when it's not actively causing problems. I have put my Rules of ME Survival at the top of the journal document. The stupid and annoying thing is that there's nothing so dangerous to me as feeling healthy, because that's when I will over-exert myself. Somehow I need to minimize that as much as possible.

A Bittersweet Ending

2011-09-21T19:02:00.000-04:00

At 6:00 pm on the button yesterday, my grandparents, Buby and Zaidy, called to wish me a Happy Birthday, as they have done every September 20th since I can remember. They wished me good health and blessings. Zaidy said he hoped he'd have the chance to wish me these things again next year. Then, with love, they rang off.

They sat down to dinner together. After the meal while my Buby was getting Zaidy his cup of tea, he slumped over. She called 911. The paramedics made attempts to resuscitate him, but in the end they couldn't bring him back. He was 94 years old.

My mother called me at 9:45 pm with the news.

I don't think he could have asked for a better death. He was in his own home, at his own kitchen table, with his beloved wife. It doesn't seem as though he suffered. I will certainly miss him, and feel sad that he's gone, but I'm more worried about my mother and my grandmother and my aunts than about myself. I can let him go. It was his time.

My Zaidy was a man to be reckoned with. In his prime he was 6'3", strong and lean. He had high standards and a short fuse. He was not easy on his three daughters. He used that inner fire to blaze a trail into the aviation industry at a time when anti-semitism made that a very tough path. He got his pilot's license, and served in the Canadian Air Force as a test pilot and airplane mechanic. After the war he flew private jets for CEO's, and later still he became an airplane salesman.

He was in a plane crash once, during the war. He and two of his colleagues had just fixed an engine on a two-engine plane, and had taken it up for a test-drive. The other engine died, and they went down. He pulled open an escape hatch as they were falling, and was able to crawl away from the wreckage. The other two men lost their lives. He had scars all over his legs, or so I'm told, since I never saw him wear shorts.

He had dozens of other aviation stories, which he recorded in a self-published memoir. My mother has a copy. It reads like an action movie script. One time he saw a man get decapitated by a propeller that was turned on at the wrong time.

To me my Zaidy was the absolutely solid, reliable patriarch of the family. He was larger than life. He always sat at the head of the table. Before he went blind, he drove an enormous burgundy Cadillac, with wine-red velour seats. He watched hockey and football from a giant-sized, dark brown leather La-Z-Boy recliner in the den. He had big, bushy eyebrows and a deep, booming voice. He was always slightly disappointed that he never had any sons or grandsons. He ended up with three daughters and three grand-daughters, to his occasional chagrin. It was a family joke, which he played along with, that he ate "Ogre Flakes" for breakfast.

And of course as he aged he got more mellow and sentimental. No longer an ogre, he became a sweet, frail old man who never got tired of telling his family how happy he was to be with us.

My only regret is that I will not be participating in my family's memorial service and funeral tomorrow. I had just started to feel a tiny bit better by yesterday evening, enough to feel that things were on the upswing, when I got the phone call. My fever shot back up within the hour. Today between waking up and crashing hard I managed 5 hours of uptime. If that's where I hit the wall in my own home in my jam-jams, there is no way I'd be able to tolerate the stress of the funeral. I cannot risk fainting at the cemetery. I can't put other people in a position where they have to look after me instead of participating in the ceremony for Zaidy.

Ken has been representing for our team, ever since we got the call last night. He rushed off to the hospital, he helped organize the family for the night, he went to the funeral home this afternoon and helped my Buby to pick a casket. (They chose a shiny reddish one, like the cars Zaidy used to drive. He would have liked that.) I truly, truly wish that I could be there, to support my family, but I'll have to send my best wishes from home. I will say goodbye to him my own way in my own time.

I don't mind sharing my birthday with the anniversary of his death. I will always be glad for an opportunity to remember my Zaidy.

Birthday

2011-09-20T16:47:00.000-04:00

The good news is that my heart is in great shape. The bad news is that to find that out I spent $160 on a heart monitor that I didn't really need. It's not returnable. The only useful bit is the wrist part that doubles as a digital watch. I've been meaning to get a legible timepiece to put on my bureau. This heart monitor is my new, very expensive digital clock.

My resentment at the heart monitor softened this morning when it did something very thoughtful: it remembered my birthday.

Isn't that cute? It got me a digital cake. Even more thoughtful is that this cake does not contain anything that I'm allergic to. It also contains no calories. It is almost the perfect cake. If it were tasty it would be perfect, but sadly when I licked the watch face it was bland. Oh well, as they say you can't have your cake and eat it too.

I took the day off work for my birthday. Sort of. It might be more accurate to say that I haven't been to work since last week. My Art In the Park adventure turned out to be too much, and even though I knew my temperature was up I defiantly went out for dinner with my parents that night, thus almost fainting into my bibimbap and sealing my fate of more downtime. I am supposed to be a smart person but sometimes I think I'll never learn.

I mentally disciplined myself, and didn't even think of leaving the house for the next two days. I went out for a baby-steps walk close to home this afternoon, for 20 minutes, and have shown admirable restraint by resisting Ken's offer to take me out for a special birthday dinner. I am in that dangerous zone in which I feel well enough to say yes to outings that sound fun and harmless, but am still fragile enough to get knocked back onto my butt. I did drop a hint that I would be very pleased if Ken felt like bringing me home some yummy take-out.

Ken has already more than done his husbandly birthday duty by cleaning the house, AND gifting me with two beautiful pairs of pearl drop earrings: one plain white, and the other pinkish with little diamonds. They are stunning. I am wearing the white ones, with my pyjamas.

Rocking On

2011-09-17T17:42:00.000-04:00

There have been times when the significant man in my life has hefted my handbag and asked me "Whatcha got in here anyway? Rocks?"

Today, the answer was "Yes, I do. You wanna make something of it? 'Cause I'll hit you with my purse if you tick me off." I took a stroll through an outdoor art show, and bought something made out of a fist-sized stone. I cannot tell you exactly what it was because it's a gift for someone who may read this post, and I want it to be a surprise.

I bet everyone reading this post is now hoping that they are that person. Oh boy, a rock! I sure hope it's for me!

Trust me, it is a very nice rock.

It was a big treat to be out and about today. It was the first time I've gone out and purely enjoyed myself for a couple of weeks. Blue skies, interesting people, lots of cute dogs and babies, and a variety of neato created objects. The prices at most of the stalls were a bit out of my range, but it was cool just to see it all.

Last weekend Ken and I went to my cousin's engagement party. I'm glad that I went to wish her and her man Mazel Tov, but unfortunately my body was not cooperating. I felt faint and we couldn't stay long. I went back to work on Wednesday, but I'm not at 100%. I still have that attractive ancient-person shuffle-walk.

Of course I have continued to obsess about ME. I think it's going to be a while before I'm done rabidly consuming all related information on the internet, and speculating about how I can apply it to my situation. For example, I have heard several ME people say that wearing a heart monitor is helpful in that it helps you to listen to your body and avoid overexerting yourself. So naturally I immediately purchased a heart monitor.

A little research revealed that, ironically, the place with the most selection in wristwatch-style heart monitors is The Running Room. Ken drove me to the nearest location. A helpful saleswoman approached us.

Saleswoman: Can I help you?

Me: I'm looking into getting a heart monitor.

Saleswoman: What length of marathon are you training for? Does it need to have GPS?

Me: Er... not so much.

I explained that I wanted something to monitor myself for a medical condition. She brought out a number of options. Let me tell you, the wrist units for all the available heart monitors are freaking HUGE! I mean, they'd be big on an average-sized person, let alone on my dinky wrist. There was one in particular that looked like a tablet computer. In the end I got the simplest and least eye-catching one, in case I ever feel the need to wear it out in public.

Even the "simple" monitor comes with a mind-boggling array of features and a thick instruction book. I haven't cracked open the package yet. Maybe tomorrow. I need to get psyched for this. At least I don't have to worry about learning how to upload my workout stats to the online fitness tracking spreadsheet. My "calories burned" rating will probably be in the single digits. It appears that there is no way of activating the heart monitor function without creating a whole "exercise file" with all the associated stats and crap that I don't need. I guess it could prove to be interesting. If it is, you can bet I'll let you know.

Solving Medical Mysteries

2011-09-13T20:04:00.000-04:00

I crashed out again physically over the weekend, but right now I'm feeling elated. I have been spending my time off researching Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, and all the crazy, mis-matched jigsaw puzzle pieces of my health that I've been struggling with for the past 8 years are finally falling into place. I cannot begin to tell you how satisfying that feels.

For example, you may recall that one year ago my doctor prescribed Imovane (a.k.a. Zopiclone) to see if it would provide me with a more refreshing sleep, which would lessen my fatigue. I took one half of the lowest possible dose, and had a truly horrible reaction. Guess what? ME patients are expected to react badly to benzodiazepines, the family of drugs to which this medication belongs.

And say, do you remember that time I ended up in the emergency room last November, with a scary-fast heart rate? I figured that one out too. According to the sources I've read, around 90% of ME patients have a condition known as Orthostatic Intolerance. I found this wicked cool online document which explains it very clearly. In a nutshell, it means that one's heart rate goes up and blood pressure goes down upon assuming an upright position, which includes standing up and even sitting up.

When a normal person assumes an upright position, the body releases small amounts of norepinephrine and epinephrine (a.k.a. adrenaline), which cause blood vessels to constrict, forcing blood to circulate all the way up to the brain. When an ME person assumes an upright position, the same process is initiated, but the blood vessels do not respond properly. Therefore, the body produces more hormones in an attempt to compensate. Norepinephrine and adrenaline/epinephrine are part of the body's fight or flight reaction. Although the blood vessels may not constrict, the ME person's heart reacts normally, resulting in a rapid heart rate and feeling of excitement or anxiety. There may also be lightheadedness or faintness if insufficient blood is circulating to the brain.

There are several aggravating factors for Orthostatic Intolerance, including low blood volume due to dehydration and/or insufficient salt intake. Sufferers are advised to drink plenty of fluids, and to supplement with drinks containing sodium, such as sports drinks or tomato juice, as required.

My story started with a stomach flu. For around a week after the first nasty 24 hours, I ate a very simple diet in order to go easy on my digestive tract. I ate unseasoned veggies, plain brown rice, and baby food. There was almost no salt in my diet. I had never heard of OI. I didn't know that I was setting myself up for a fall. My symptoms can be summed up as a severe OI reaction. It gives a whole new dimension to the jingle "I should have had a V-8!"

The mechanisms of OI explain why I often feel speedy and jittery just before a crash. The OI symptoms are probably always there to some extent, but not so that I'd notice them on good days. When I'm starting to get over-extended, the norepinephrine and adrenaline factors increase, but because I have never felt dizzy or faint I haven't taken that as a signal to slow down. I have always ridden the adrenaline wave to the bitter end, in an anxiety-fueled whirlwind, trying to relocate my feelings of calm and well-being by getting to the end of my to-do list. Starting from now I'll know that those jitters are an early warning signal from my body, and I have to do the non-intuitive thing in the middle of my fight-flight reaction: stop and rest.

I'm planning to experiment with wearing a heart rate monitor, as a quantitative measuring device for my body's stress levels. I'm often too busy to pay attention to small, subtle cues. Perhaps if I actually have an alarm beeping on my wrist that might make me take notice.

Anyway, I'm feeling better today than I did a couple of days ago. It's obvious now that a lot of my emotions, including my anxiety about my health and my future, are triggered when my body is overtired. When I rest, I feel calm and centred. When I'm too active, I get all hyper and freaked out. It's the adrenaline talking. I don't feel horrible today, but I'm still pretty speedy after even slight activity. I think I'll give myself another day to rest.

My Secret Life

2011-09-11T10:44:00.000-04:00

It's Sunday and I'm starting to come out of an ME setback that's had its hooks in me since Thursday evening. More accurately it's been in the works since last weekend, but I was able to work on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, although at one point on Thursday afternoon I had to lock my office door and sit on the floor with my head between my knees for a while. Then I unlocked my door and carried on with my afternoon like everything was normal. On my way home, I noticed when I was paying the dry cleaner that my hands were shaking. I went out for dinner with my husband and parents and let on to my mother that I was feeling "a little shaky" so that it wouldn't come as a complete shock to them if I lost my composure. My mother advised me to "shrug it off". I didn't tell her that coming in waves throughout the evening there were times when I felt like I might collapse.

A lot of my life is spent in this manner: minimizing symptoms, hiding how I feel, pushing through. Pretending to be fine.

In some ways, this is a choice. Sometimes I do it because I don't want to have to deal with peoples' reactions. If I told my mother how I was really feeling she would panic and fuss. I could not rely on her to be comforting and reassuring. Usually what ends up happening in any upsetting situation is that I end up comforting my mother.

Sometimes I do it because I want to forget about feeling ill and pretend that everything is fine. For example, I have a set of friends, a married couple. I'm pretty sure the wife-friend sometimes reads this blog. (Hello wife-friend! *waves*) So she probably knows that I'm dealing with a debilitating chronic illness. But we don't talk about it. I'm sure that I could bring it up, and they'd be sympathetic listeners. But they're super-fun to be with, and I don't want to waste my time with them talking about my troubles. I want to put all that aside and just enjoy my time with my friends.

Sometimes I do it because I want to be a cheerful and reassuring person, and don't want to burden others with my worries when they have worries of their own.

At work I stay quiet out of fear for my job.

But the truth is, this illness is gradually taking up more and more of my time and energy. I'm doing less and less outside of work, and I still can't seem to avoid triggering setbacks. Any little overexertion cuts the legs out from under me for days or even weeks. My last sin was venturing out during a heat alert. Ken wanted me to go down to the lake with him to tour a Canadian Navy battleship that was docked at the harbour, and it sounded like fun. I thought: we'll be by the lake, so it'll be cooler there, and it's supposed to be overcast, so no direct sunlight. I calculated how long we'd be walking outside. It seemed doable. And it would have been. Except the boat wasn't in the harbour where we expected to find it. Ken was like, oh, gee, it must be in that other harbour, down the shore a ways. So we decided to walk further, 2 or 3 times as far as the original walk, which would have been fine if it weren't for the heat alert. We were halfway there when suddenly I couldn't go on, and we had to take a very expensive cab ride back home.

What used to happen when I had heat exhaustion was I'd go home, rest, and be fine the next day. Now when I overexert myself my body winds itself up into a tizzy. For a couple of days I feel unwell on that end of the spectrum. Then I start to unwind. For a few days I pass through a part of the spectrum that appears to be normal, so I think I'm over it. But then I keep going down, into a crash. That lasts another few days, at least the worst of it. And then it takes more time to even out again.

So, usually what happens is that I start out feeling pretty good. I assess something simple, like taking a walk by the lake, and figure I can handle it. Then I'm having such a good time being out and about and pretending that I'm a normal, healthy person, that I get over-confident. I agree to walk a little further than I should have, or I stay out an hour past my bedtime, or whatever little thing that would barely ruffle a hair on the head of your average human. Then BANG! I'm reacting. It takes me the rest of the weekend to get back into a condition where I can comfortably leave the house and function. Then I go to work, and even my short week feels too long, and by my work-from-home Friday I'm crashing again. So I spend another whole weekend cursing my fate and barely leaving the house, gathering my strength for work on Monday. It takes another week or so to feel like "myself" again. And then when I'm finally feeling good and optimistic again, the next trigger will kick in and start the cycle over from the top.

These cycles have taken over my life. I no longer have any hobbies outside of reading, blogging, and going for sedate walks. My social life is minimal, and I regularly have to cancel or turn down engagements because I'm trying to save up my energy for work. People at work ask me how my weekend was and I sometimes don't know what to say to them. "Fine" works some of the time, but I don't want to appear stand-offish. I like to be able to share a little something of what I've been up to so that we can have a human social bond. But I sure can't tell everyone that I spent the weekend with my feet up, feeling like crap, recovering from another relapse of my chronic illness. It's a lonely dilemma.

Frankly, sometimes I'm terrified about my future. Although it's hard to say for sure, I feel that I'm slowly deteriorating, getting more sensitive to all the little stresses that challenge my homeostasis. I've been reading more about Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, and that reading is both confirming that I fit the profile of the disease and scaring me half to death with seeing how bad things can get. This condition is an amplifier, making every stress multiple times more stressful. I just learned this week that it does that by screwing with one's neurotransmitters. Neurotransmitters are the communicators whose job it is to keep the body in balance, so when they're screwed up, anything can go wrong. That explains why the symptoms are so wide-ranging and unpredictable.

I feel very vulnerable. Some days I feel like I'm barely hanging on to passing for "normal". It wouldn't take much of a push to destroy that delicate balance. A car accident, another illness, a major life stress... And then what?

I guess I'll have to burn that bridge if and when I get to it, to use my favourite mixed metaphor. I do have a support system. I'm not alone. People would help me. I wouldn't die homeless and starving in the streets. But still. My identity and my freedom do not feel secure. I am feeling insecure. Pretending that everything is fine makes me feel more alone and unsure of my support systems. Next week I'll probably feel better, and even taking a few steps away from that cliff edge will allow me to relax for a while. But the next setback is always just around the corner, and I just pray with all my heart that that's not going to be the one that pushes me over the edge.

Mysterious Codes

2011-09-07T15:54:00.000-04:00

No news is good news in Sparkland. All is well. My energy levels are decent and my back is in good shape. Ken is hanging in there, waiting for his cardiologist appointment. He has learned to live within the limits set by his atrial fibrillation until it can be treated.

Work is pretty good, all things considered. I am only trying to deal with one semi-crisis at the moment. This situation was brought to us courtesy of the government. It is a taxpayer-funded crisis.

It's common knowledge that Canada has a public health care system. How it works in Ontario, my province, is that doctors submit their billings to the government via a series of codes. X units of H345, Y units of J567. The Ministry of Health's computers validate the billings.  If the code combinations abide by all the programmed rules, the MOH deposits the appropriate amount of cash into the doctor's bank account. If the billings do not abide by the rules, we get back error codes and empty pockets.

Our lovely government published a new set of billing rules. I found out about the changes at the end of the day on August 30th, for changes to be effective as of September 1st. It's my understanding that the change bulletins went out to all the technical billing agents on August 30th in the morning.  This is what I like to call INSUFFICIENT NOTICE.

The old rules were complicated, but we understood them. The maximums, the dependencies, the limits on procedures per patient per 12-month-period, etc. The new rules are just as complicated, and now we are confused. The Schedule of Benefits is written in a dialect of legalese which is difficult to understand. Considering that the income of our business depends upon a clear understanding of these rules, this situation is causing no small amount of panic among the ranks.

It will be sorted out eventually, even if it means that initially we get back a lot of error codes. My biggest frustration is my own lack of knowledge. I am responsible for supervising data entry for billing, and I knew the old rules backwards and forwards, but I sure couldn't tell you which procedure X478 stands for and why it may or may not be mutually exclusive with X479. In other words, my understanding does not go deep enough for me to interpret the Schedule of Benefits myself.  Every doctor I've spoken to has their own personal interpretation of the changes. That's why we're down to trial and error for figuring out what we can and can't bill.

Usually the system works very well. I only wish that they'd given us a little more lead time to figure out these new rules before going live with them. One month would have been nice. We have a pretty good government, especially compared to what's going on elsewhere in the world and all, but still. Sometimes it is time to complain.

The New House

2011-09-03T19:33:00.000-04:00

My mom moved into her new house on September 1st. My step-dad is still, for a little while longer, living in the rented apartment he moved into when they separated. Even though they've been back together for a year, he didn't give up the apartment. First it was too soon to talk about moving back in together. Then he had hip surgery and it made more sense for him to stay in a home without stairs. Then they started the whole house-selling process, and realized that it would be very convenient to have an extra place to store things (including the cats) during the staging and moving process. The three of them (step-dad and my cat-brothers) will be joining her soon.

The new house is beautiful. It has higher ceilings and bigger rooms than the old house. It has brand-new wooden floors that don't creak. It has bigger windows, and a skylight, so every room is full of natural light except the (fully finished) basement. It has a proper garage, which they didn't have before (only a parking pad and a street permit for the second car). It has central vac. It has a beautiful view from both the front and back, and a park across the street. It's only 13 years old. It has a good vibe, that house.

On Friday around noon I called my mom to see how everything was going in the new place. I called her cell phone, but she told me that her land line was already in and working fine. She had a team of workers from the Red Coats moving service in there unpacking all her stuff. The piano movers were on their way with the old upright. Everything seemed to be going well. She asked Ken and I to come on over and see for ourselves.

So, we did. It's only a 20-minute drive from our house to the new place. We did a walk-through and were impressed by just about everything we saw. My mom is already itching to repaint, change the window dressings, and re-do the kitchen. She especially dislikes the digitally-controlled oven. We had to read the instructions at length just to figure out how to program it to bake at 375 degrees. Personally I prefer the old, simple way: stick a dial on the front of the oven, marked from "OFF" to "500F" and leave it at that. One should not have to puzzle for 15 minutes before figuring out that you have to press '2' to make the temperature go up and '7' to make it go down.

But seriously, that place has great bones. It's definitely a big step up from the modest, post-war house I grew up in. I'm happy for my parents and expect that they will settle in quickly and live happily ever after, or as close as humans can get to that, for a while.

How My Brain Resists Marketing

2011-08-29T13:03:00.000-04:00

I'm downtown passing through a fancy department store, and I see a display advertising this new perfume called Womanity. I don't know much about it, but the bottle is super-cool.

Seriously. I love this design.

Where does my brain go with this image of enigmatic beauty and strength? It fixates on the name "Womanity" and goes here (original LOL created by me to illustrate my thought process):

I apologize to all the people who put a gajillion dollars into marketing this perfume. That is how my brain works. If you see me walking alone in the mall, snickering to myself for no apparent reason, that is why.

Spaz

2011-08-27T19:45:00.000-04:00

I don't have a bad back, it's just misbehaving. Since I've been Tweeting about it all day I may as well tell the whole story.

Almost two weeks ago I was relaxing on the sofa, leaning back against a pillow, watching TV. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, my entire lower back went into spasm. Every muscle spontaneously curled up into an angry, inflamed fist. I sat there for a minute, dumbstruck by pain, thinking this is probably just some weird tic that will shortly pass. NOPE! No such luck.

For a couple of days I was in obvious pain. I winced and sucked air through my teeth every time I had to get up out of a chair. Someone on my staff felt so sorry for me that she loaned me a heating pad to keep me comfortable at my desk. (Although I never did use it, because I couldn't think of a way of sticking the damn thing to my back where it was so sorely needed.)

I took it easy, slept with a pillow under my knees, and in a few days I was feeling much better. As soon as I felt halfway normal I went back to my morning yoga routine and BAM! Back to square one. Absolute agony. The second time, I waited a full week before going back to the yoga. I was sure I was all fixed up. And BAM! I triggered it again.

That was yesterday morning. All day long, I was in constant pain and felt incredibly frustrated. There is no over-the-counter pill that I can take for pain and inflammation; every NSAID on the list shreds my stomach. My other remedies (homeopathic tablets, topical cream "for lumbago", my bed) were at home. At least I had a massage appointment already scheduled for that evening. Except that my RMT, skilled as she is, could not cure my pain. Not even close.

It was a disheartening 24 hours. Every little twitch, even while lying in bed, triggered the spasms. Fortunately I sleep like the dead, so I didn't wake myself much by moving around. This morning, the pain was the same as it was last night. I had forgotten how draining chronic pain is on the body and soul. I was starting to feel a little crazy.

After a day of being out and about, I'm feeling a lot better. My back, like a cranky baby, wants to be walked all the time. It doesn't like to be put down. It seizes up when it's not mobile. And obviously I can't do my morning workout for a long time, just to be sure I don't re-trigger the spasm. I'm thinking I'll wait at least one month. It's going to drive me crazy to skip my stretches, but I can't risk doing this to myself again.

I've been doing yoga just about every morning for the past 15 years. I don't feel ready to face my day until I've done my stretches. My favourite one is the most dangerous in my current condition. That's the plough. It's always such a relief to bust that one out and drain all the tension from my back and shoulders.

The plough is the pose that just about killed me yesterday morning. I knew as soon as I threw my feet over my head that I had made a terrible mistake, with immediate and severe consequences, but by then it was too late. By the time I got myself flat on the mat, my back was freaking.

So the question remains, WTF is wrong with my back?! My cranky, whiny, demanding back. Is it not good enough that I've done yoga every day since I was 23? And that I lift hand weights every other day for good measure? WAS THAT NOT UP TO YOUR STANDARD, BACK? WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?! I HAVE NOTHING MORE TO GIVE!!!

So. Yup. I think I'll live. I'm not sure what I'm going to do in the mornings without my body-mind quality time. Maybe a little Tai Chi? I'll let you know.

Thank You Asian Immigrants

2011-08-24T13:38:00.000-04:00

The time has come to pay tribute to the Asian immigrants of Toronto. To them I owe a debt of gratitude. They have improved my life substantially in two very important ways.

1. Smallness
I reached my full adult height and weight by the age of 16. That was (and is) 5'4" and 115 lbs. Back in 1988 I was considered scrawny.

I recall being both disappointed and insulted when I went to the Eaton's young ladies' department to find a prom dress. A section of the store had been set aside to showcase the beautiful, floor-length gowns in a rainbow of lace, satin, and sequins. I tried on dress after dress in the smallest sizes on the rack. They were all too big. I could look down each cavernous bodice, shout "HELLOOOO!" and hear my own voice echo back to me a moment later.

The helpful saleswoman advised me to go to the children's department. I was 18 years old.

That's just the way the clothing industry worked back then. In most adult stores, the smallest size was too big on me. Throughout my 20's and even into my early 30's, I dressed mainly in clothes that didn't fit, or stuff I picked up at second-hand stores in the kids' section. It started out as a necessity and turned into a bad habit. Little did I know that as time passed and the Asian population of Toronto grew, stores had begun to stock smaller sizes to cater to their new, tinier clientele.

Now my two favourite stores stock one size smaller than my size. I am only XS, not the ridiculously mini XXS. Compared to some of the girls in my neighbourhood, who totter around in frilly mini-skirts and kitten heels on their wee bird-legs, I feel substantial and robust. I also enjoy being able to buy sophisticated and stylish business-wear with ease. Thank you, Asian ladies, for swinging the size statistics in my favour!

2. Rice
Now that I am living wheat-and-dairy-free I eat almost excusively at Korean, Japanese, or Chinese restaurants. European food relies too heavily on bread, pasta, and cheese. If I go to a White People restaurant, I am more or less stuck with potatoes as my only starch option, which isn't all bad because it gives me an excuse to eat french fries.

I still miss wheat. I haven't yet managed to convince my brain to remove it from the category of "food" and transfer it into the category of "toxins". I still look at wheaty treats and feel a strong impulse to eat them. I also feel sad every time I forget and then remember again that something I used to look forward to is now something that I can no longer have.

Hey, we're going to for Indian tonight! I can't wait to have some hot, fresh naan... wait... DANG! Say, there's that roti shop that I haven't been to in a while. I'd love a nice fresh, roti in a soft, chewy wrapper of... wait... MAAAAN! Passing a platter piled high with chocolate chip cookies at the buffet... reaching for one... wait... remembers... BOOOO! Well at least I can have fish and chips at this place, except... the fish is breaded... BREADed... GRRRR! And on it goes.

Thank you Asian immigrants, for providing me with many restaurants in which I can not only eat, but have multiple ordering options! Without needing to request substitutions!

Smile at an Asian immigrant today, on my behalf. Thank you.

Post Number 519

2011-08-20T18:18:00.000-04:00

This post is assigned a number not because I feel that 519 is a meaningful landmark. I didn't even notice #500 come and go. The title is a tribute to the Abstract Expressionist artists whose works are currently on as a special display at the Art Gallery of Ontario. A lot of their works were given numbers instead of titles, I guess for maximum abstraction.

I met my mother and her friend there. The friend is an AGO tour guide, and although I wasn't expecting it she gave me my own personal tour of the exhibit. It was interesting, although socially awkward because I never know what to say about art. She'd do her spiel about the history of this guy and how he was inspired by that guy and how ultimately it was all about Freud and digging down into the subconscious, and then I'd just kind of nod and try to look pensive. The best I could do was "Wow, that's really trippy."

It's not as though I didn't get anything from the paintings. It's just that what I was getting was happening in the non-verbal spaces of my brain.

I especially liked the Mark Rothko room. His paintings are very simple, primarily horizontal blocks of colour on a contrasting background. They're the type of work of which you could say "I could do that" or "My ten-year-old kid could do that". And maybe you'd be right, but I still got something from them. It was an atmospheric sense, the feeling that each one was representative of one particular type of specific emotional space one might exist in in a dream, one that cannot ever be fully grokked by anyone else no matter how much you try to define that feeling in words upon awakening, because it was too all-encompassing and powerful and it defies explanation or translation. I guess that means he successfully used his work to dig down into the subconscious.

My mother and her friend were all about taking time with each painting. They told me to get up as close to the canvas as possible (without setting off the proximity alarms), try to let it fill my entire visual field, and then wait for my subconscious to take off into the piece. Frankly that didn't work for me at all. I found that as soon as I clapped eyes on a painting from across the room, I had a visceral first reaction to it that set the stage for everything else I subsequently experienced about it. Getting right up close to the canvas and staring at it just made me feel awkward and like I was trying too hard. For want of something to do, my brain would start analyzing what was in front of me, which only served to dilute my initial gut reaction.

I liked being there in the gallery. Some paintings were more pleasing than others. The overall experience was kind of fun, like being on drugs without the drugs. The only one I really couldn't get into was a completely square, completely black canvas; I'm pretty sure it was by Robert Motherwell. You're supposed to be able to stare at it and after a while you can perceive that it is actually made up of "shades of black" and some kind of shapes appear, black on a blacker background or something like that.

I stared at that painting until my eyes stung, but all I could see was a uniformly black square. Everyone else around me was all "Oh yes, I see it!" It was like being the only person who can't see the sailboat in a Magic Eye picture. Either my eyes aren't magic enough, or it's the Emperor's New Painting. However, I don't feel that I have the authority to call b.s. on this canvas because I do have terrible night vision, so it's entirely plausible that my eyes just aren't up to the job of appreciating it.

I didn't stay long. Not only did I feel no need to stand and gaze upon the paintings for any length of time, the gallery was freezing cold and grew more and more crowded the longer we stayed. I thanked my mother's friend for the tour. After a lengthy conversation between my mother and her friend about how the friend's fridge was breaking and where could she rent a bar fridge to tide her over until the new fridge was delivered on Wednesday? and would the rental place deliver? and what would it cost do you think? the friend took her leave of us. My mother said her goodbyes too.

I bought an apple juice and a nut/seed/dried-fruit bar and went outside to sit in a little downtown parkette. I watched small birds hop through the grass and kept an eye on a guy at the opposite end of the park who was practicing his juggling. I like the AGO, but it doesn't take long in there for me to want to get back outside into the warm sun and normal life.

Note To Self

2011-08-17T17:32:00.000-04:00

We've all heard about nurturing one's Inner Child. Lately I have been more concerned with taming the Inner Animal. I am currently seeing through a perceptive lens that accentuates all the things that humans have in common with animals: instinctive fear, instinctive social bonding, the urge to violence, selfishness.

I am experiencing these things in myself as much as in other people.

You may have seen in my Twitter feed that I crossed paths with a madman last week. It was Friday morning. I was on the bus. At a major intersection, a man who looked not at all right got on. He was pale in a yellowish way. He had a 3-inch open cut on one hand that wasn't bleeding, but hadn't yet scabbed over. His hair was crazy-person hair. He was carrying a small paper cup of coffee.

He went to sit down, and spilled some of his coffee into his lap. He jumped up and roared "F***!" as loud as humanly possible. He wasn't far from me. I froze. He kept yelling various things. I kept my eyes forward, watching him from my peripheral vision, like a rabbit who's just noticed the approach of a fox.

Within two minutes the madman had decided, of his own free will, to leave the bus. He was intent on going back to the coffee shop to yell "F***!" at the unsuspecting counter staff. I felt sorry for them.

My fight/flight reflex had kicked in and didn't begin to wane until I got off at my stop. On top of the stress of worrying about Ken, my animal brain was overloaded with fear impulses. I felt skittish all day and had trouble falling asleep that night.

On Monday morning I was listening to my iPod when I arrived at the bus station. I wasn't thinking about Friday. But, my animal brain remembered. I started feeling afraid as soon as I got on the bus. I had to stop and think before I remembered why. I told myself: you've been taking this bus for over a year, and you know this guy is not a regular. Animal brain didn't care. Animal brain does not like to negotiate. I felt physically afraid until we'd passed the stop at which the madman had gotten on.

Fortunately my "PTSD" only lasted for one day. Still, I've been dealing a lot lately with emotions felt as reactions in my body rather than as verbalized thoughts. Animal brain tries to take over. I have resorted to talking to myself very purposefully and assertively in order to maintain control. Sometimes I even talk to myself out loud. If that's what it takes, then I'll do it.

I am at least partially trained as a psychotherapist. I use all my best tricks on myself. Active listening, role play, bait and switch, etc. Actually I am a great therapist for myself. Give me 15 minutes or so without any interruptions and I can sort out just about anything, or at least make myself feel significantly better.

That is what is going on in Sparkland. I am talking to myself in order to be not-crazy. Paradox?

What do you think, Spark?

I think life is full of paradoxes, and that's what makes it interesting.

Well put Spark. I knew I could count on you.

Fibbing

2011-08-14T21:49:00.000-04:00

There is a little something I neglected to tell you about, because I figured I'd already put enough on your plate and you might be getting full. However, since I myself am feeling so much better now I will explain what's been going on with Ken.

He was with me last Monday at the doctor's office, when I got my Big Diagnosis. He wanted to investigate an unpleasant fluttering/fast heartbeat he'd been having on and off for a month. "Actually," he told the doc, "it's happening right now."

Doc whipped out his stethoscope, and had a listen. Oh yes, he could hear it. It's atrial fibrillation, he said. Not to worry, there are easy fixes for that, like medication or sometimes they put a catheter into your heart and just burn off those misfiring cells.

Now I wasn't too worried because my own grandfather has been living with atrial fibrillation for almost a century now and he just had another birthday so how bad could it be? I looked over at Ken. His face was flushed and perspiration had beaded on his forehead and upper lip, although the room was cool. I think basically what he heard the doctor say was "blah blah HEART CONDITION blah de blah SURGERY OPERATION BURN YOUR HEART WITH AN ELECTRICAL PROBE blah etc." So right at that very moment, despite Doc's good intentions, Ken wasn't feeling at all reassured.

He scooted straight downstairs to the lab where they ran an ECG strip. Doc made time to look at it right away. He took one look, laughed in a relieved way, and said Oh, you're fine, don't worry about it; it'll probably resolve on it's own. Then he sent us on our way.

Ken wasn't convinced, and since the whole problem was/is triggered by stress and he was seriously stressing, it suddenly got a whole lot worse. All week he was bedevilled by a racing heart rate and a very disconcerting rhythm irregularity whenever he exerted himself at all. I watched my husband go grey around the mouth, break out in a sweat, and complain of chest pain on a daily basis. At first I thought it would pass, and avoided worrying, but by the end of the week when things weren't letting up I started getting scared too.

I looked up the symptoms for atrial fibrillation and the symptoms of a heart attack to make sure that I would be able to tell the difference between the two. Ha ha ha joke's on me! Guess what! The symptoms are almost EXACTLY THE SAME! So then there were two of us pretty much convinced that Ken might drop dead of a heart attack at any moment.

I started checking to make sure he was still breathing when he was asleep. Then I started planning what I would have to do when I became a widow, like figure out how our home computer is actually set up with all the external hard drives and the backup and whatnot, so that I could maintain it myself, and I didn't see how I could do it. That and other things, like I've always counted on him to make the homemade guacamole for our Mexican dinners. I started feeling depressed.

Anyway, fortunately things took a turn for the better, and today we were out trampoosing* around what we call The Etobicoke Park by the lake for the better part of an hour, and he didn't turn grey or get overexerted, which made me feel much better. (*For a full definition of trampoosing please refer my Twitter feed.) He's still planning to follow up with further medical attention, but is worrying less, I think. I am no longer planning my future as a widow. I think that we're both going to be OK.

My Mayan Destiny

2011-08-11T13:31:00.000-04:00

It's pretty much a fantastic all-around day. I woke up with 100% energy; the weather is perfect; and everything at work is copacetic. There's nothing quite like the feeling of being totally healthy after weeks of dragging my butt. It's like I was walking around with lead shoes on for a month and I finally managed to kick them off. Hallelujah! I'm FREE!

Last week half my staff were at each others' throats and generally driving me crazy. I held some meetings in which I pointed my finger in peoples' faces and said things very firmly, and everyone appears to be getting along now. I walked into the main work area late yesterday afternoon and a couple of them were singing together, then grabbing each others' shoulders and almost falling over with laughter. The others were enjoying the show. I like to see that type of thing on a regular basis. It's good for team spirit.

One of my co-workers recently received a gift from a client who had travelled to South America. She brought it to my office to show me. It was an unglazed clay sculpture around 6" high of a dude who looked like an ancient Mayan or something. He was sitting cross-legged and had a big vase or pot in his lap, round at the bottom, with a narrow neck. My co-worker explained to me that the Mayan had a gift for me hidden inside the pot, and indicated that I should lift it up. I don't know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't a giant dong. Yup, that Mayan guy was really happy to see us. I was in a very serious work mood, until I saw that big dong staring up at me. I stared back at it for a beat, and then burst out laughing. The Mayan (modestly covered by the pot) is now sitting on her desk.

Diagnosed!

2011-08-09T16:23:00.000-04:00

This is it, ladies and gentlemen! The moment we've all been waiting for. Spark's diagnosis. The medical mystery is finito, or so it seems for now.

I brought this article to my g.p. I had gone over it with a highlighter to indicate which symptoms, in my humble lay-person's opinion, apply to me. According to my interpretation, I fit the criteria of a mild case of Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (the condition previously known as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome).

Post-exertion neuroimmune exhaustion: check. Neurocognitive impairments noticeable when I'm in a setback: check (mostly my short-term memory fizzles and I have to make significantly more effort to recall words and construct grammatically correct sentences). Non-inflammatory pain: check. Prolonged sleep: check. Muscle weakness: check. Sensititivities to food and medications: check. Low grade fever and intolerance of extreme temperatures: check. Fortunately I don't experience all of these all of the time. Most of them only affect me if I've overdone it again and am in an exhausted state. Only the food sensitivities are with me all the time.

My g.p. scanned the article, nodded, and said "Yep, that sounds right." Then he typed it into his computer, turned back to me and immediately started talking about treatment. Of course, currently there is no treatment for ME. Some of the symptoms can be medicated but the essential condition itself, no. It's still in the process of being accepted as a bona fide illness. Even the name ME for this condition is relatively new. The article I linked to was published mere weeks ago, in the July edition of the Journal of Internal Medicine.

The only thing my doctor could think of to offer me was anti-depressants, as they have been used off-label to treat chronic fatigue. I declined. He may as well have said to me "Hey, how'd you like to have a bunch of unpredictable and horrible side effects?" Because that's what most medications do for me: make things worse.

I explained that I only wanted the diagnosis on file just in case. In case I get called for jury duty and need a doctor's note to excuse me. In case, God forbid, my situation gets worse after my good boss retires, and I have to deal with a mean boss who wants to give me a hard time about my hours: I'll need to be able to point to a documented medical condition in order to be accomodated in my workplace. It also does feel better just to be able to tell people that I have something concrete. I'm tired of talking about my "mystery" or "chronic-fatigue-esque" condition. It sounds lame even to me.

It was a bit of an anticlimax. I thought that at least my doctor would want to refer me to a specialist for confirmation. But that was it. He typed the diagnosis into his computer. That was pretty much all he could do for me.

The best part has been telling a few select people. It is so good to have a proper name for it. Myalgic encephalomyelitis. It still takes me a few tries to spell it right. It does flow off the tongue in a satisfying way.

Hyper Alert

2011-08-07T08:39:00.001-04:00

A friend of mine who has dealt with chronic health challenges since her teens told me she saw a study that showed a higher incidence of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder in people with chronic illness. I totally get it, at least the obsessive part.

Have you ever seen one of those service dogs on TV, the ones that watch their humans for signs of seizures or narcolepsy attacks? The dogs can sense an attack coming on, and they can alert their owner to lie down in a safe place or seek help. Those dogs never stop watching their human. They are never far away, and 98% of the time they are staring at their person with an unwavering intensity, concentrating like crazy, looking for those subtle signs. It would appear completely neurotic if it weren't their job to be an alert dog.

These days I watch myself with almost that degree of intensity. Anytime I'm not focused on a particular task at hand, I'm checking in with myself. How am I feeling? Am I cold? Hot? Sweaty? Thirsty? Hungry? Do I need to put on a sweater/eat a snack/drink some water? How tired am I? Are my limbs feeling at all weighted or weak? How much effort am I having to expend walking this mildly uphill stretch of my commute to work? Am I having any aches and pains? How tender is that sore spot on my back today? Am I feeling grumpy or irritable? How is my breathing today? Any chest tightness/coughing? Etc.

I have learned to be my own alert dog. No one else is going to do it. I've learned the hard way that if I overpush myself I'll end up in a setback. Low fever and fatigue for 4-5 days. I spent last weekend (it was a long weekend in Canada) pretty much stuck indoors, recuperating from fatigue leftover from Val's birthday party the weekend before. I was fine that Monday, but I had taken myself right to the edge of tolerance, so when Tuesday and Wednesday turned out to be tough days (physically and psychologically) it pushed me over the edge. I'm pretty sure I was working with a fever on Thursday, although I didn't measure it when I got home. I didn't want to know.

If I stay out until I actually feel noticeably tired, I've already gone too far. I have to stick to schedules and bedtimes. I have to watch for tiny signs of stress or fatigue and respond to them. This is not how I want to live. I would like to be one of those people who throws caution to the wind and has at least moderate adventures. I would like to be able to stay out late and watch fireworks displays down by the lake. I would like to travel across time zones. I would like to push hard through a physically challenging day and collapse at the end of it, deliciously exhausted, knowing that I'll sleep like a log and wake up feeling fresh the next day. I'll sleep like a log alright, but I just don't bounce back so easily.

Because I don't look sick, I worry that people are going to think that I'm babying myself unnecessarily. I don't want to come off looking like a neurotic hypochondriac. When people ask me how I am, I always weigh how much truth to tell. If I say "fine", other things I come out with later aren't going to make a lot of sense. But if I'm always complaining, well, no one wants to hear that. The message I have to get across to people is "I'm fine/functional today, but that is always conditional on my strict adherence to my body's rules, and therefore I cannot ever come out with you to a late-night event, and no matter how gently I schedule myself in the end all my plans are tentative, pending another possible setback."

I worry that my family will think that I'm lazy or ungrateful because I don't invite them over for dinner to repay their invitations. Frankly I'm scared to set up that much of a commitment of my energy. Some weeks I barely have the resources to get through work without showing any weakness. I need keep my weekends fairly clear so that I can rest as much as I need to. I'll go out for meals at restaurants, or visit others, because those things aren't very draining, but planning to have people here - that feels like too much of a commitment.

Sometimes I'll have several good weeks consecutively, when I start to feel almost normal, but I've learned the hard way not to get cocky. Feeling normal is not the same as being normal.

I even worry that all y'all are going to get tired of hearing my health woes. This isn't a journal, it's a blog, and the truth is that no one wants to read about someone else's obsessive worrying time after time. I can only write so much about the subject here before I wear out even my loyal readers. I'd better switch it up with some more entertaining fare on a regular basis. That proves to be a challenge sometimes.

When I was 6

2011-08-05T08:53:00.001-04:00

When I was six I started first grade in a French Immersion program. My teacher was a young, pretty Parisian called Mademoiselle R. I am told that my step-dad was unaccountably interested in attending parent-teacher meetings that particular year.

Mlle. R. decided that my class would put on a theatrical production: a musical adaptation of Little Red Riding Hood, a.k.a. "Le Petit Chaperon Rouge". I had my eye on the leading role, but there was one other girl who also wanted to be a star.

I recall scheming, even at that young age, to tip the situation in my favour. When Mlle. asked who wanted to audition first, the other girl's hand shot up. I didn't raise mine. I knew that if she went first the teacher would give her feedback, and I could listen in and apply that feedback to my own audition. It worked out exactly according to my devious plan, and I got the part.

The soundtrack for the play was to be a children's album by Nana Mouskouri. The songs that I can remember were called "Le Tournesol" (The Sunflower) and, randomly, "J'ai un Haricot Dans L'oreille" (I Have a Bean In My Ear). Would you believe that YouTube has totally failed to provide me with any sample of these songs? That is indeed a pity.

The wolf was played by a little boy called Drew. His parents went to the trouble of creating a helmet-style wolf's-head mask out of paper mache, but he couldn't see out of the eyeholes. For the sake of health and safety considerations, the wolf carried his head around under his arm for the entire play. Even at the tender age of six I thought it looked stupid.

There was one scene in the play during which Little Red is wandering through the forest, admiring the natural beauty of her surroundings. She comes across some flowers, and smells each one in turn. Three of the flowers smell great. She appreciates them. The fourth one, the orange flower, smells bad. She turns to the audience a delivers the comedic line "Que ca pu!" (What a stink!). Here the audience was supposed to laugh, but I don't remember if they did. It occurs to me only now that many of the parents in the audience probably didn't speak French, so they wouldn't have known what the hell was going on.

Of course no one wanted to play the part of the orange flower. When Mlle. was trying to fairly determine who would get stuck with that part, one of the girls, fed up with all the fussing, said "Fine, I'll do it." She was a sensible girl without a big ego, even as a child. We became best friends in the fourth grade when we were seated next to each other, and I'm still in touch with her. The stinky flower is now married to a doctor, has three children, and is still counted among my best friends, although I only see her around twice a year because she lives so far away.

And so I had my 15 minutes of fame as Little Red Riding Hood. At least, that was it until I played Mary Poppins at camp when I was 11 (complete with all the singing solos). But that is another story for another time.

Sweet Monday

2011-08-03T08:25:00.000-04:00

Monday was a statutory holiday in Canada. On Monday morning, my step-dad called to see if Ken and I would like to give him a lift to the airport. Our favourite all-day-all-night breakfast-and-souvlaki joint is out there, so we hopped in the car and went to pick him up. Fortunately we only got two exits down the highway before he realized that he forgot his cellphone on his kitchen counter. There was bound to be something. He's a true absent-minded professor. Fortunately Ken drives fast. He pulled a wicked U-turn and we went back for the phone, and still made it to the airport in time.

Another good reason to go to the airport is because it has a monorail. That gives us an excuse to sing the Simpsons' monorail song. "What about us brain-dead slobs? You'll be given cushy jobs! Monoraaaaaaaaaail, monoraaaaaaail, monoraaaaaail!"

After dropping off my step-dad we sat in the diner with our breakfast platters, watching air traffic through the big picture windows. The closest runway was being used for both take-offs and landings, so after we ate we drove a couple of blocks down Airport Rd. and parked in front of the TD Bank. There is a grassy boulevard between the parking lots of the local businesses and the road. In front of the bank, the coffee-and-donut shop, and the Wendy's (with it's giant BACONATOR COMBO sign out front), families making a day of it had set up blankets and folding, aluminum-frame chairs in the path of the runway. Every few minutes another airplane on final approach roared overhead, across Airport Rd., and then touched down seconds later on the other side of the airport's chain-link and barbed-wire fence.

We spread out a flannel blanket in the shade of a small tree. I took my shoes off. The sky was a sapphire vault. The clouds overhead were wispy. At the horizon off to one side, they were piled in high, folded peaks, like whipped cream. I lay on my back and saw a white dragon above me, its back arched, breathing fire, drifting in the blue.

Under the next scrappy little tree, a young family was spread out on a blanket. The mother cradled her toddler in her lap, rocking him gently, smoothing his fair, silky baby-hair over his forehead.

A young man somewhere around the age of 20 paced around with a big still camera, pointing its long lens at the sky, snapping pictures of the planes as they tore past.

We stuck around until the wind changed and the airport switched to a different runway. It wasn't a long stay, but it was enough, and a much better Monday than most.

3 Odd Coinkydinks

2011-07-31T21:14:00.000-04:00

A week ago I was walking home from work, totally absorbed in work-related thoughts. As I approached the gate to my condo complex, I dug absentmindedly in my bag for my keys. I grabbed them, stuck one in the lock, and turned. The knob would not move.

I sighed in exasperation and started wiggling the key. The property, which covers half a city block, is surrounded by a fence, which has several gates in it at various intervals. Because the gates are outside, exposed to precipitation and all the extremes of outdoor temperature, the locks regularly jam. Sometimes wiggling the key will free up the lock. Sometimes I stick my hand through the bars and put the key in from the other side (you need the key to get in and out of the complex, so the locks are double-sided) and sometimes that works. Sometimes I eventually give up and walk to the next gate.

On this particular day I was tired and annoyed, and I didn't feel like walking to the next gate. I wiggled and jiggled the key until the lock slid open. I went through, and as I proceeded homeward I looked down at my keys, intending to locate the key for the entrance to my building, which is on the same key ring.

Except it wasn't. I realized that I was holding my work keys. I had been thinking so hard about work that I took my work keys from my bag. Physically it bears no resemblance to my home keys. I have five home-related keys on a big ring, each with a brightly-coloured key cover. I have two work keys, not covered, on a yellow plastic clip-fob.

I had opened the gate with my work key. That shouldn't be possible. The key to my complex has extra security - a second set of teeth carved into it where other keys simply have a smooth groove. I'm not sure how I got that door open. It was very odd.

***

On Friday I visited my much beloved massage therapist. Her office is on the 29th floor of a 30-storey office building. There are six elevators which serve the top floors. It is almost inevitable that I have to wait for an elevator, unless someone else has already arrived before me to summon one.

After my massage, I walked into the hallway where the elevators are located. As I approached, there was a "DING", the red "down" arrow lit above one set of elevator doors, and the doors slid open. I had not pressed the call button. There was no one in the car. There was no one in the corridor. There were no cleaners' carts in sight. It seemed strange to me, but convenient, had I been heading straight down.

I was not. My plan was to vist the nice, clean, corporate-calibre facilities in the office tower before heading home. There are washrooms in the mall below, but they are usually disgusting. I passed the waiting elevator and went around the corner.

On my way back to the elevators from the ladies' room, I again noticed no one in the corridors, and no cleaners' carts anywhere. I approached the bank of elevators. I did not get a chance to press the call button. Once again, there was a "DING", the red "down" arrow lit up, and a set of elevator doors slid open just in time for me to walk straight into the empty car. It was downright creepy. I half expected the elevator to take me down to some kind of supernatural underworld, but it did not.

***

The best odd coincidence was experienced by my friend Val, the bingo and karaoke queen. After her birthday party last weekend, she happened to be out on her balcony at 2:15 am, having a smoke. From where she was standing she had a clear view of the entrance to the underground parking garage. She happened to be staring right at it when the door opened and a tow truck drove out - with her car attached to the back. She had an extreme WTF moment, and promptly called the police. Turns out that the tow was a repo man, and it was a case of mistaken car identity. He had taken the wrong vehicle. He had snuck into the garage by tailing a resident's car as it went in. The odds of Val being out on her balcony, staring right at the garage entrance, at 2:15 am when the repo man drove away with her car are pretty impressively against. I don't know whether to call this lucky or unlucky. Maybe equal portions of both.

Health Newsletter

2011-07-29T15:10:00.009-04:00

This week, work was a challenge. I can't get into the details, but there were scandals, deadlines, confrontations, staff absences, and critical meetings. I was doing fine on Monday, even after pushing my health luck at that party, eating cake and staying out late and all. But the week took it out of me, so I'm at home today, keeping in touch with the office via e-mail. Fortunately there's sweet f.a. going on over there today, so it all works out. And Monday is a statutory holiday in Canada, so I get a superlong weekend!

I continue to do sporadic research into my chronic-fatigue-like condition. I go online and see if I can drum up anything new when I'm not feeling well. On my good days I just forget about it for a while.

I've had a curious new symptom that appeared at the same time my wheat intolerance spontaneously manifested itself. It's back pain, but not the type I'm used to. I've had my share of muscle spasms, but this is not a muscular pain. There's one particular vertebra, right in the middle my spine, T-something, that hurts under pressure, i.e. if I lean back against a hard surface it hurts. It gets worse when I'm feeling tired or unwell, and much worse if I eat wheat. At its worst it's very sensitive; when I lie down on my super-soft pillow-top mattress, the pain makes me say "ow".

A doctor friend of mine poked at it through my shirt and said it didn't feel like anything special. I said "Am I just getting old?" and she said yes, probably. It might be arthritis. I shouldn't worry about it unless I see that the joint is visibly red and swollen. So that's something for the "hmmmm" files. I will mention it to my g.p. next time I go in, but it seems to be stable so I don't see the point in making an appointment now. Do any of you other persons of a certain age experience anything like this?

I found something in my research that seems to correspond to some other symptoms I've had. It's a condition called "Central Sensitivity Syndrome", although it also goes by other names. I've seen it defined a few ways. The more narrow definition refers to a sensitization of the nerves that causes normal touch and pressure to be perceived as pain. The broader definition, which is supported by several first-person blogs I've been reading by people who have CFS/ME (the naming convention is not yet settled in the literature), refers to an overall neurological sensitization which makes all sensory stimulation more acute, and sometimes uncomfortable or even unbearably stressful. CSS goes hand in hand with CFS/ME and fibromyalgia, and possibly other conditions.

With regards to pain, fortunately I only have one small area of hypersensitization: the nerves in and around my ears. If the temperature is at all chilly and there's any wind at all, I need to wear earmuffs or I get excruciating earaches. I mean, other people are walking around in T-shirts on some days when I'm wearing my earmuffs, if it's cool and sunny but quite windy. It makes me look like a dork but frankly I'd rather look stupid than suffer through the pain.

I also have trouble with certain styles of glasses, and even certain hats which come down far enough to press on my ears. I can't wear my current sunglasses for more than 20 minutes before the pain kicks in. Yes, I suppose I should just get new sunglasses, but the problem is I have to wear the glasses for 15 minutes before I can tell if they're going to trigger the pain. This makes trying on frames a frustrating process. Sunglasses tend to be more problematic than regular glasses because they tend to have big, wide arms to block out the sun from the side.

With regards to overall sensory hypersensitivity, I do believe that I qualify. My levels of sensitivity change, corresponding to how overtired my body and nervous system are on any given day. On good days I don't like rock concerts and crowds. On the worst days, days when I'm in the middle of a flare and have very little energy, anything can be overwhelming. The noise, motion, and vibration of riding in a car can cause my heart rate to skyrocket. Even eating food that is rich or tasty can be too much, although thankfully that was a phase that I only went through once, for around a week. I had never heard of anyone else having that kind of reaction, but even with the limited amount of blog reading that I've gotten around to, I have found someone else who has trouble eating due to it being perceived by the body as a stressor. I never had it as bad as this blogger; I was able to do alright if I stuck to baby food and brown rice for that week.

I try not to research these things obsessively. It's important to be informed, but it won't help to focus only on my health concerns. On one hand it's a relief to know that I'm not alone with my bizarre symptoms. On the other hand it's scary to see how bad things can get. It's a good reminder to me to take my body's cues seriously and not try to push my luck very often. I have read many times that people ignored their fatigue and to this they attribute their current state of affairs, which is worse off than where I am. I am grateful to them for posting their experiences so that I can learn from them. I am not in any way wiser than these good people, just randomly lucky to have online resources at my disposal that didn't exist back when these other bloggers were starting to have problems.

I don't know if what ails me could correctly be termed Myalgic Encephalomyelitis or Chronic Fatigue Syndrome with all the capitals, but there are certainly similarities, and either way it can't hurt to respect my body's signals. I don't get a sore throat or swollen glands when I'm down, which I believe are elements in an official diagnosis. So, who knows? Whatever it is, I'm still managing, and if I ever feel sorry for myself, all I have to do is take a look at some of the people who are unable to work, or even housebound, and suddenly my life looks pretty sweet.

P.S. Shortly after posting this I was directed to this recent article defining Myalgic Encephalomyelitis and it certainly does appear that I could qualify as a mild case, if I'm interpreting it correctly. I will be printing this off for my g.p. to review.

The Cake Hangover

2011-07-24T15:08:00.000-04:00

Last night I went to Valapalooza, the 45th birthday party of my friend Val, the bingo and karaoke queen. It was rad. This time, karaoke came to us. Val rented the party room of her co-op. Another friend of hers runs a small business; he has a van full of karaoke equipment, which he set up in the party room. It was all the fun of public karaoke without having to listen to a lineup of drunken strangers.

Ken and I were the first guests to arrive. Second was Bob, Val's friend whom I'd met several times before. I was startled to see him walk in with a bird perched on his hand. It was Amy, an African Grey parrot. I've read about African Grey's before. They're one of the smartest birds known to humans. They can learn hundreds of words, not just as mimics, but with some understanding. When Amy wants something you have, she says "Share with the bird!"

Of course I was completely fascinated by Amy. She was shy and didn't want her feathers touched, but Bob got her to perch on my hand. I let her stay there for a good half hour, and would have been happy to keep her all night if someone else hadn't wanted a turn. On of the guys at the party who couldn't remember my name referred to me as the Amy-sitter. (I considered titling this post "Amy Sat On My Finger", but I thought it might be too vulgar out of context.)

Bob managed to get Amy to demonstrate some of her repertoire. She's shy around strangers, so he had to coax her. She whistled at the pretty girls, answered the phone: "Hello?", laughed for us, and did a bizarrely accurate imitation of two beer bottles clinking together.

Once Amy went back to her perch the party was all about karaoke. Each of us went up in turn to belt out a song, while the audience participated by singing along, dancing, and other shenanigans. As the evening progressed and drink flowed, the shenanigans got wilder. Someone had bought some glowing-rainbow-light-sabers from the dollar store, and they were employed in every possible phallic context. One of the women, a large lady with a strong and gorgeous voice that just about took the roof off the place, stuffed two balloons inside her T-shirt and did a burlesque number that involved much butt-shaking, fake-boob stroking, and ended with her taking a pin and popping both balloons. I would have paid admission to see that act, I tell you.

It was all great fun. Even Ken got up and sang. His best number was "Rock This Town" by the Stray Cats. I got the most props for "We Belong" by Pat Benetar.

There were bowls of chips and party mix scattered around the room. I was on my sixth pretzel before I remembered that I shouldn't be eating them. The wheat thing, as you know. Anyway, I stopped, but within half an hour I was feeling no ill effects, so when the big, goopy, delicious-looking chocolate birthday cake was served, I took a small piece. Maaaaaaan, that cake was superfantastic!

Sadly, I got a cake hangover. All I drank all night was fizzy water with lime. It was the cake (on top of the pretzels; I'm sure it's a cumulative thing) that did me in. Last night I had a little chest congestion, but it wasn't too bad. I thought I got away with it. But by this morning my chest was all heavy and achey and blech. I coughed and coughed and couldn't get it clear. Eventually I gave in and took some cough syrup, which helped.

Unfortunately, although that cake was mighty fine and I only half regret eating it, on the balance it wasn't worth it. Three minutes tops of cake enjoyment vs. hours of feeling gross the next day... it's not a good bargain. Add to that the fact that I'm always trying to keep my physical stress load to a minimum, so as not to trigger a fatigue episode, and I think that might've been the last chocolate cake I'll ever eat. At least I really paid attention to it, just in case it came to this. At least (*sniff*) I had a chance to say goodbye.

To end on a positive note: It was a fabulous party, and I enjoyed every minute of it! :-)

The Awful Waffle

2011-07-22T13:09:00.000-04:00

There are not many adventures happening in Sparkland. I do not object to this state of affairs, because I am happy to live a quiet, peaceful existence. By nature I am like an 88-year-old trapped in a 38-year-old's body. Maybe that's what people mean when they tell me I'm an "Old Soul".

Last Sunday, the day after the patio party, I had plans to meet my sister for lunch. It was supposed to be a scorcher, but I figured I only had some short distances to walk between home and transit and the restaurant. I'd be in air conditioning the rest of the time. Right? Wrong, of course!

First I got all turned around trying to find the place where I'd agreed to meet my sister. The building numbers on the east and west sides of the street were 170 numbers off from each other and I was walking along the wrong side of the street. I'm not sure who is responsible for that stupid state of affairs, but really, isn't it possible to fix it? After walking an extra four blocks in the 35 degree heat (that's over 100 F for you Americans) with God-knows-what humidex on top of that, I was severely disappointed to find out that the restaurant was not air conditioned.

I repeat: Restaurant. Not Air Conditioned. Not only that, but the only free table was right next to their open kitchen, where they were cooking waffles and frying omelettes. Lord have mercy! Amazingly, I tolerated the heat, and managed to enjoy both my sister and my gluten-free waffles (the reason for our pilgrimage to that specific place).

I did worry that I might not make it home without passing out. There was a little flutter to my heartbeat here and there, but I made it. I was comforted to know that if I passed out in my neighbourhood someone would probably find me and call for paramedics. It's not one of those neighbourhoods in which you just assume people on the sidewalk are drunks and step over them.

After that little adventure (if you will allow "going out for waffles" to be classified as an adventure) I didn't do much all week except go to work and home again and try to stay cool. All y'all know my delicate health requires much coddling, and therefore I made sure that I stayed as stress-free as possible. It's working. I'm all good.

Incidentally, the waffles weren't awful. I just couldn't resist the rhyme. In fact, they were super-duper, and as soon as the weather becomes more hospitable I intend to go back to the weird, hipster, eco-guiltfree restaurant for more. If you're planning to stalk me there, better wait until October.

Summer Sun

2011-07-17T11:51:00.000-04:00

The sun and I don't get along. I appreciate it's ability to bring life and warmth to our good planet, Earth, but I'd rather not have much direct exposure personally. I do not photosynthesize.

Rather, I wilt in the sun. I burn, and I swoon. Being out at midday without a hat for even a few minutes makes me dizzy. I swear the sun's radioactive rays slant straight into my brain and cause cascading synaptic fission. One of my childhood memories consists of lying on my bed, skin burning, as my mother lays wet tea bags all over my body. This remedy was supposed to "draw out the heat" after my summer camp counsellor allowed me to be out all afternoon without sunscreen. It didn't work.

Melanoma runs on both sides of my family. In every generation at least one person has been killed by melanoma around or before the age of 40.

I cover up. Sunscreen, long sleeves, hats (I have a collection of them). Being indoors is the simplest solution. And considering that this summer is supposed to be extra-hot, I am that much more willing to stay inside. Summer becomes a bright, aesthetically pleasing version of winter: a case of cabin fever surrounded by blossoms instead of snowflakes.

Yesterday, I spent 2 hours on a sports bar patio in the mid-afternoon. This was done in the name of workplace solidarity. A colleague organized this outing, and I felt that it would be best to make an appearance. Reluctantly, I slathered myself with SPF30 and braved the heat. I sipped ginger ale from a plastic beer-logo cup and held ice cubes from the Coronita bucket against my wrists and the back of my neck.

The patio filled to capacity in short order. The clientele was almost all white with an average age of 26. The girls wore baseball caps and skimpy tops with bra-straps sticking out. The guys wore oversized board shorts and flip-flops. They all talked loudly, lounging in the sun on wooden benches or standing six deep by the bar, waiting for more beer. They all had sweaty hair.

My work group was a nice bunch, but the place was so loud and it was so hot that we couldn't keep up the necessary energy to maintain a workable conversation. The server accidentally kicked over one girl's bottle of beer and didn't bring her a replacement. No one bothered to confront him. After 2 hours I felt I'd done my duty and retreated. Maybe next year we could meet inside, where it's quiet and air-conditioned?

The Other Side of Mom

2011-07-13T13:35:00.000-04:00

Recently I posted a rant about my Mom, stating that she was driving me crazy with her Drama Queen ways. Of course, as soon as I had done that she found an opportunity to demonstrate all her best qualities to me, and I felt I had been a bit harsh. AUGH THE GUILT!

(I have always preferred the Charlie Brown official spelling of "augh!" to "aaaaahhh!" It has more character.)

So now I must redress the balance. By no means do I retract anything that I wrote previously. I am simply adding to the portrait to make it more whole.

Firstly, my mother has always fed me well. It's not only that I never went hungry. It's that she went to great pains to feed me the best food available. For many years, store-bought cookies were not allowed in our house. Soda was only permitted on special occasions. Even when she was a single mother living on a shoe-string budget, she never brought home fast-food take-out (or any take-out for that matter) or frozen TV dinners. I had a hot breakfast every winter morning, a homemade lunch pre-packed the night before, and a from-scratch dinner. She got a lot of mileage out of the slow cooker.

Not only was her food nutritious, but it was and is very tasty. She makes a mean beef brisket, and mighty tasty roast chicken. She also makes the best birthday cakes on Earth.

Which brings me to parties: always the happiest time in our house. She would cook up a big feast, and task me with setting the table with polished silver candlesticks and fancy napkins. The whole family came over around once a month to eat and laugh together. Of course sometimes there were tensions, but mostly everyone had a pretty good time. You couldn't eat my mom's food and stay in a bad mood.

She also threw fantastic birthday parties for me when I was a kid. She planned games for the kids to play, helped me to fill the loot bags, and made Hamburger Men for lunch: a burger patty head, mashed potato afro, pickle slice eyes, a ketchup smile, and carrot stick body, arms and legs.

My mom was a librarian, so she encouraged my love of reading, which has been lifelong. We still lend each other books, since our tastes overlap. As soon as I was old enough I loved to go to the library to pick out my own reading material, but she was always happy to supplement it with interesting fare.

For instance, I was laid up with a bad cold when I was 12 years old. She brought me a big old hardcover book called The Microbe Hunters. This book is a history of the development of microbiology first published in 1926. Just the kind of thing you'd expect a 12-year-old girl to be interested in. I remember reading about the scientists who filled an arena with sheep and experimented on them by injecting them with viruses. It was kind of disgusting but I did read the whole book and was glad in the end that I did.

More recently my mom loaned me a book on the history of glass. Again I was somewhat nonplussed at the choice of subject, but I read that book too and now I know more than I ever thought there was to know about glass. (Apparently the way that large plate glass windows are made is to float a wide, shallow river of molten glass over a river of molten metal, and at the end of the line the glass is cooled and the metal is recycled back into the river. The production line can't be shut down at night or all the metal and glass would cool and solidify. There, aren't you glad that you know that?) I credit my mom with my endless interest for random knowledge.

Both of us also read books with more obvious interest. Waiting on my shelf on loan from my mom is The Hare with the Amber Eyes. I also know that she received a copy of The Immoratal Life of Henrietta Lacks for her birthday, and I'm angling to borrow that one a.s.a.p.

My Mom has the capacity for a deep appreciation of art and nature. She is a romantic, and an idealist. She is very intelligent, but also very modest. She has a vast range of interests and is always studying, the better to be prepared for her volunteer position as a docent at the Royal Ontario Museum. Our best times are when we go out exploring together, having mini-adventures at local historical sights or poking around in the shops in unfamiliar neighbourhoods.

I hope that my Mom and I have more time to spend together appreciating our better qualities. There's definitely no one else quite like her.

Grey/White/Silver

2011-07-08T15:08:00.000-04:00

I stopped colouring my hair a few months ago.

It all started when my stylist went a little crazy and cut the back and sides of my hair so short that the scalp showed through. Not my favourite look. I like short, but I don't like scalp, at least not my own, which is a pasty greyish-white.

Hair that short is too short to colour. I would have basically ended up staining my scalp dark red, which would probably have looked pretty awful. So I skipped my colour date. Next time I returned to have my hair cut, I had every intention of going home to colour it the next day, but then my stylist complimented my natural colour. He didn't wax poetic or anything, he just said it was "good" or "nice" or something like that. So the next day, since I was feeling lazy, I skipped the colour again.

Then I talked to Ken. He seemed not to be at all concerned about whether or not I coloured my hair. I said "but I have greys!" and he said "where?" and I dug around to find the bunch that are congregated right at the front and centre of my head. At that time the silver roots were still hiding under a thatch of coloured ends. He made a dismissive hand-flopping gesture and said "mmnnyeeeh" and "whatever!".

Colouring one's own hair is not a horrifying task when it's as short as mine, but it's not fun either. It's a hassle. First, cover the bathroom counter with scrap paper so that falling drips won't stain it. Next, put on latex gloves and cover the arms of your glasses in tin foil. Then a layer of conditioner goes around your hairline so that dripping colour won't stain your skin (hopefully). (There's nothing better than finding out too late that you've dyed the tip of your left ear a rich shade of mahogany.)

Then you mix up the two different types of goop in a bowl, apply liberally all over with a dollar-store pastry brush, massage it down to the roots, and set the timer. Be careful not to get goop on your clothing/sofa/walls/husband. Twenty-five minutes later you can wash it all out, clean up the bowl and brush, and get on with your life. Like I said, not terrible, but there's around 45 minutes every five weeks that I could use for other things.

(Cost is not an issue. I buy my tubes of goo directly from a beauty supply outlet. Each dose of colour costs around $3. But I do feel guilty about washing all that crap down the drain. It can't be good for the water supply.)

Long story short, I stopped colouring. Those white roots are growing longer and longer. At my next haircut they're going to be revealed for the whole world to see. I'm hoping that letting my silver flash will make me look badass and sophisticated. I do not jest: I've seen a handful of super-fashionable women pulling off the no-colour look so well that it left me stunned.

And if not, I still have my tubes of goop and my pastry brush. It'll only take 45 minutes to banish all those greys once again.

Old House

2011-07-06T13:22:00.000-04:00

My mother and step-dad are in the process of selling their house, my childhood home. I lived there for 22 years from when I was 6 months old. I wonder how I'm going to feel when it's actually sold. Right now I'm not feeling overly sentimental. The home I remember from my early childhood has long since slipped away.

The first seven years, before my mother remarried, were the best. The house was a cute little 3-bedroom, built just after WWII. We had a sheltered front porch with an overhang; a big, open back deck; a big backyard; and a bay window in the dining room.

When my step-dad moved in, the first thing he did was renovate the house. He chopped off the back wall and put on a two-story addition (basement and first floor). The renovation took months and for some time we had to live with my grandparents. Everything ran late and over budget. The contractor (a "friend" of the family) hired incompetent workers and used cheap materials. Later on we had a bug problem in the basement. Eventually when the walls were opened up to deal with a plumbing leak, we found that the construction workers had shoved their lunch garbage into the walls to rot, which is what attracted all the bugs.

Everything familiar and pretty about the house was ripped up and changed. The wood-framed bay window was replaced by a flat modern window whose metal frame rusted. The sofa set, which had been upholstered in a sweet floral pattern, was replaced with a sofa set upholstered in a ghastly poopy-brown. The new back deck was ugly, and the backyard was cut down to half its former size. It was all horrible, cheap-looking, dark, and unpleasant.

The atmosphere in the house also changed after my step-dad moved in. My mom, step-dad and I fought almost constantly. If we weren't fighting, we were sulking and avoiding each other. All my memories of the house in that incarnation are bad ones.

Just after I moved out at age 23, my folks re-decorated, so it looked a little more cheerful. When that happened, I lost the feeling that it was "my" house. None of my memories matched up with the new decor.

The neighbourhood has also vastly changed since 1973. Back in the day it was a suburb, or at least a mid-urb. Now uptown is the new downtown. There is a mall, lots of office buildings, high rise condos and rental appartments, and most of the family-owned businesses have been replaced by chain stores. Traffic is terrible. It's grimy and crowded. There are more and more monster homes on the side streets. I feel the area has lost much of its former charm.

I may get teary and nostalgic once the house is sold, but right now I feel that this move is happening at the right time, perhaps even a little later than it should have. I can't wait to see how the house looks when the staging makeover is complete. That will be wild!

Canada Day

2011-07-01T22:06:00.000-04:00

Canada Day, July 1st, is Canada's Fourth of July, complete with fireworks and a statutory holiday. I got up early, surveyed the brilliant sunshine outside, and immediately went online to find out what events our fine city of Toronto would be hosting to celebrate the day.

Ken and I took the train to Harbourfront. The event listing stated that the celebrations being held there were free. Yes free! And I can tell you exactly why it was free. Because nothing was happening. There was nothing going on except hordes of people milling around, browsing at the outdoor mall (which is open all summer long) and providing record business for all the local hot dog carts.

The only entertainment we came across was the buskers, each of whom had such a massive crowd gathered that it was impossible to even see what type of act was occurring. There was a stage set up at the centre of the grassy area by the outdoor mall, but it was empty.

The grassy area isn't even made of real grass anymore. It used to be. Granted, the grass was kind of scruffy, and there were a lot of bald, dusty patches, but at least it was quasi-natural. Now there is a spongey carpet of fake grass in its place. It doesn't look like real grass, or like any surface that properly belongs outside. It just looks weird. I'd almost rather it be concrete, because at least that's just itself, and not a creepy, ill-advised fake of nature.

We gave up on the crowds after a short while, and started walking north. We didn't have a plan in mind, but a helpful bird provided a purpose to guide our wanderings. The bird shat on Ken. It wasn't a big goose plopper, just the wee, delicate drop of a sparrow. However, it dripped from Ken's shirt onto his pants, grossing him out to the Nth degree.

At first he tried scrubbing it off with some water from our water bottle and a page of the Employment Weekly free newspaper, but that only succeeded in smearing the newspaper's black ink all over his beige pants. He then determined that he must buy a new shirt and pants and change into them immediately. Fortunately, the Eaton Centre mall, deemed a tourist attraction, is open on stat holidays, and we were only a few blocks away.

Old Navy to the rescue. Ken walked to the cash in brand new clothes with the tags still dangling under his arm and at his waistband. I had to peel the sizing sticker off his butt. We saved his dirty shirt to bring home and wash, but his old pants went in the trash. It was a blessing in disguise as far as I'm concerned, because those old pants, with the chewed up cuffs and the red ink-stain on the thigh, should have been condemned months ago.

Another benefit is that we discovered that Ken looks great in green. I've never seen him wear a green shirt before, but that's what Old Navy had in his size, so that's what he bought. A lovely, summer-leaf green. Thanks, bird!

Smashed

2011-06-29T21:55:00.000-04:00

My friend Val the Bingo Queen showed up at my office door the other day (she works at the business next door) looking pained. Like the responsible woman she is, she had gone for her annual medical checkup. Her health would have been better served by skipping it. This is not on account of any malfeasance on the part of the doctor.

On her way back to the parking lot after the appointment, she was run down by a teenager on a skateboard. He slammed into her, paused long enough to watch her fall hard, face-first onto the street, and then sped off before anyone could react.

She skinned and bruised her knees and one elbow. The only reason her right hand was saved was that she was holding her lighter and it acted as a shield when she caught her weight on that palm. She showed me the deep scratches and scrapes in the plastic. Therefore: going for your annual medical exam can be dangerous; but smoking can prevent serious bodily injury.

Val is in her mid-40's. This type of body-slam isn't something she's going to recover from in a day or two. The impact also threw out her neck, which is glitchy from a previous car accident. I wish there were some way of showing that kid the serious consequences of his carelessness and selfishness. I hope he feels really guilty. There's every chance that he doesn't care at all.

Les Pearls

2011-06-27T16:08:00.000-04:00

Some of you asked to see the pearls that Ken gave to me on our second anniversary. That was two months ago, but I didn't forget! I just took my sweet time. Finally, Les Pearls, in all their glossy glory.

Open/Closed UPDATED

2011-06-24T17:43:00.001-04:00

I worked things out with my boss. Turns out he didn't realize that I was using up vacation days to cover my week off. He thought that I was somehow cheating the system by taking off an extra week's worth of paid sick days that I wasn't entitled to. Where he got that bizarre idea is beyond me. However, it's resolved now, and my boss seems happy again.

Last night I cleaned all the remaining wheaty treats out of my pantry. I ate a mini egg roll at a party, figuring that the amount of wheat flour in the wrapper would be minimal, and therefore a not-too-risky test of my tolerance. I'm still intolerant. I guess I'll try again in a few months to see if anything changes, but for now I'm taking a moment to say a sad fare-ye-well to birthday cakes and toasted bagels. Until we meet again, if ever.**

*Respectful moment of silence*

Speaking of silence, [this is a vain attempt to segue gracefully into my main topic] lately I've been questioning how much of myself I want to reveal to others. How much of my feelings are my business, to be dealt with in solitude by me alone, and how much do I want to share with friends and family? I'm never sure if I'm sharing too much or too little.

There's the solo meditation or prayerful approach vs. the group therapy get-it-off-your-chest approach. Realistically no one is totally private or totally open. The question is getting the mix right. Taking time alone to work things out internally is often helpful. On the other hand, sometimes you get so stuck in a rut that you need a friend to pull you out.

Sharing personal things with other people is like gambling. Some times I'm happy that I shared my troubles, because the person I chose to trust listens and provides sympathy and insight. Other times, that person may not be in the mood for sympathy, because they're dealing with their own problems, or they're tired, or I'm not expressing myself well and they don't get what the heck the actual problem is. Obviously no one can be 100% supportive at all times. Am I always in the mood to provide therapeutic listening to people in need? Surely not.

So what should I do when I feel that almost irresistible inner pressure to open my mouth and ask for a shoulder to cry on? Should I journal about it until I feel I can continue on my lonely/independent way with composure once again? Or should I make myself vulerable, reveal all my most foolish fears, break out of isolation, and risk being brushed off or told to smarten up? (My family and friends often surprise me with how insightful, supportive, and sympathetic they can be. But it's kind of a 50-50 split between that and making things worse.)

I'm not even sure that it's a conscious choice. Sometimes the inner pressure wins and the words starting coming out of my mouth before I've actually thought it through. It's such a messy business. I assume this is what being grown up is all about: trying to keep your socks pulled up and your lip buttoned as appropriate. Group therapy never did all that much for me anyway, except to convince me that other people are always unreliable.

My last point is that one of the primary goals of my life is to be, as much as possible, a cheerful and reassuring person. There have been times in my life when I'm out of sorts and someone, sometimes a total stranger, comes into my presence and conducts themselves with such self-possession that I feel better just from standing next to them or receiving one friendly smile. I would like to be that person in other peoples' lives, if at all possible.

How do you strike the balance between revealing your vulnerabilities and being a steadfast grownup?

**Ken has just told me that the wrappers on those spring rolls were made of rice flour. Therefore, I was reacting to some other allergen at the work-related party I attended, possibly all the lawyers. Or more likely my friend's cigarette smoke. This is great news, because it means I get another chance at wheat! There is hope!

Riding the See Saw of Life

2011-06-21T20:30:00.000-04:00

There have been some ups and downs in the past week.

Up: I got well in time to participate in two Father's Day celebrations. I even managed to show up bearing appropriate cards and gifts. Go me!

Down: One of my bosses decided to call me at home on Friday evening (after I'd been off sick all week) to tell me that since I was almost never at work anymore he was considering permanently cutting my hours. Er, say what? I have only used up slightly more than half of the paid sick days and vacation days I'm allowed this year. Not only that, but our company has a de facto policy of allowing trusted employees unpaid leave as needed for personal illness, family illness, appointments, or extended vacations.

I was very upset. No one else's attendance is scrutinized by this boss. Not only that, but during my past week off I spent as much time as I needed to working from home via computer and telephone, making sure everything was running like clockwork. The assistant manager did an A-1 job of covering for me. There was truly nothing to complain about.

On Monday morning I gathered all documentation relating to my attendance, packaged it up with the company policies showing how many days off I'm entitled to, and left it all on his desk. I know he came in and picked it up, but I haven't heard back from him at all yet. I'm thinking I deserve a solid apology next time he talks to me. We'll see. Maybe he was just having a bad day and needed someone to freak out at, and I got in the line of fire. It would not be an excuse for his accusations, but at least then I'd know not to take it personally.

Up: That employee that I thought I might have to fire? It looks like she might work out after all. Thanks to my painstaking facilitation, the communication problems that were causing all the trouble seem to be getting resolved. *pats self on back*

Down: Our car is dying. Poor old car. We're not sure if we're going to get a new one or if we're going to baby the old one along with an expensive clutch transplant. We'll see.

Up: It's summer and it's gorgeous out! All I have to do is go outside for 3 minutes to feel completely cheered up no matter what else is going on.

Forgive Me

2011-06-16T16:54:00.000-04:00

Generally speaking I do not to use this blog to rant about people who aren't here to defend themselves. However, every once in a while I need to make an exception. Today I am giving myself permission.

I don't know what to do with my mother. I just don't. Maybe you folks, with the benefit of perspective, will have some helpful advice for me.

My mother is a complainer. The glass is always half-empty. If things are going well, she uses the time to worry about the future. The truth is that she has been through a lot of very painful experiences in her life. No doubt. But who hasn't?

I know that my mother is doing the best that she can. She seems to be wired to worry and fuss. She fights every change in her life at every step of the way, even the good ones. And I get stuck trying to soothe her. We have these conversations during which sometimes I don't reply to what she has said, because if I can't think of anything nice to say, I don't say anything at all. If I said what I was actually thinking, it would offend her and give her one more thing to worry and complain about. It's a vicious circle.

Example: When I was a kid, I grew up in a lovely neighbourhood. My street was lined with old trees. The houses were small, detached 3-bedroom, 2-story homes with large front and back yards. Our house was adorable. There was a front porch to sit on during the summer, and a back deck for family BBQ's. It was a sweet little house. We may have shopped in thrift stores for clothes sometimes, but we always had food on the table and the house was clean and in good repair.

I never heard the end of complaints by my mother about that house. She said it was too small. She called it a "starter home" and coveted the mansions a few blocks north of us. Even at my tender age, I knew enough to be grateful for the cozy roof over my head. I loved my room. I found it embarrassing that my mother thought our house wasn't good enough for her.

Fast-forward to today. My childhood home is getting on in years. It is in need of some major repairs, but my folks are not inclined to live through another renovation. My step-dad wanted more and bigger windows because he gets SAD in the winter if there's not enough sunlight. So he talked my mother into going house-hunting, and after almost a year of not agreeing on anything they saw, they actually bought a new house.

This house is an almost brand-new, large four-bedroom home with a finished basement. It's in that fancy neighbourhood to the north of the old house. It cost a pretty penny. In other words, she finally got that mansion she'd been whining about for my entire childhood. Hurray for her! Glory day! Congratulations!

Except now she's complaining about having to move. Suddenly she can hardly bear to be parted from the old house. All the memories! The beautiful yard! How can she leave it? Of course the staging process will be a nightmare, and moving will be stressful, etc. There will be no end of things to complain about. No mention of Thank Goodness my step-dad can afford to pay for a service to do all the actual packing so she doesn't have to do it herself. Of course not.

Last night I was at home (where else? I've been stuck here all week) making the best of things. I got comfy on the sofa and found some free old movies to download from YouTube. I was feeling pretty good psychologically, if not physically on top of the world. The phone rang. It was my mother.

She was calling to check in on me, although within the first two sentences we had gone from her expressing concern for my health to her worrying about my stepdad and whether or not he's going demented. She's been worrying that he's losing his marbles since he turned 40. I have listened to this idle speculation for years. To this, I refused to make any answer. I wasn't going to get sucked in.

But she did get me with her moving stress. I thought I'd better play the good daughter, and before long I found myself reciting some inspirational story from the learning channel about a kid who overcame gross physical disabilities, just to try to give her some perspective on her troubles. The thing is, this tactic only works for 5 minutes or so. She is never able to hang on to any type of perspective for long. It's always Oh Dear and Poor Me and I don't know what to say to her anymore.

I'm certain that she doesn't even realize what she's doing. I know she makes a conscious effort not to complain to me, and sometimes it works, although when she's exercising that much restraint, our conversation is stilted. And when she's just being herself I don't know what to say anymore. Honestly, these days I have enough of a job keeping my own chin up. I don't feel that I should be called upon to comfort my mother, whose big problem is that she'll be moving into the mansion of her dreams in a few months.

Yes, moving is stressful, I grant that, and I have some sympathy for her. If only she could put her complaints within an overall context of at least a little gratitude. It's the total focus on all the negatives that really drains my patience.

My mother appreciates some things, like good books, CBC radio, works of art, music, and hearty home-made food. Those things make her happy. It's not like she's never ever got a smile on her face. Walk her through a historical building or take her to a musical play and she'll be thrilled. But seriously. When it comes to the rest of life, I don't know what to say to her anymore. I just don't have the resources to prop her up.

I should add that I almost never call my mother for help with anything. She's not good at being the strong one. If I have a problem I'll just end up reassuring her that I'll be fine so she won't worry about me. The propping up only goes one way.

I can't tell her to F off. She's my mother. I can't not care about her. I don't want to be mean or crush her tender feelings. Does anyone have any ideas about what to do? Anyone? Bueller?

My Life is Like a Fairy Tale

2011-06-13T17:29:00.000-04:00

As I suspected: avoiding wheat has not solved all my problems. Not even all my health problems. That would've been too easy, right?

Some people believe that each of us has one essential myth that rules our lives. For some it is the quest, like in Lord of the Rings or Star Wars. Me? I'm the girl from The Princess and the Pea. It's official: I am a real princess! I swear I could feel that pea through twenty mattresses and twenty eider-down beds.

What assaults have been visited upon my delicate person? The weather changed by more than 10 degrees Celsius between one day and the next, when we went from a muggy heat wave to nice fresh weather after the storm. Such temperature swings have proven to be a consistent stress factor.

Then I stayed out until midnight on Friday after a full work week to see my sister perform in a play. She was brilliant! Girl, I am so proud of you!! :-D And I truly did intend leave work early so that I could go home and take a nap. But one of my staff called in sick two days in a row, and things started stacking up, and the assistant manager had to take her kid to an orthodontist appointment... You get the picture.

I pushed through it all and thought I did OK.

I woke up on Saturday morning with the invisible ankle weights on. However, after a hard work week I felt the need to get out of my house and enjoy life. I was only a little tempted to spend all day on the couch. Ken and I went down to the lake where we enjoyed a wonderful walk by the water's edge.

We saw cool boats and interesting birds and cute dogs. There was a wedding party photo shoot in one of the parks. We stopped to look in the public art gallery and watched a glassblower at work in the open studio. We went into a shop by the docks crammed with marine paraphernalia for boat owners. There were deck scrubbers and big yellow rain-hats, Canadian flags and skull-and-cross-bones flags, sailor's blue-and-white striped jerseys imported from France, and dozens of different types of rope on huge spools.

We picked our way through an antique store that looked like a giant, dusty garage sale. Ken's theory was that it was set up to encourage browsers to break things, because that was the only way the owner would convince anyone to pay for the chipped china plates and grubby wineglasses.

We walked around for hours. I lost track of time and forgot that I was tired. I did wonder why there were so many people out in shorts and T-shirts while I was bundled up in a sweater, hat, and windbreaker. I figured they were so desperate for summer that they were all indulging in wishful dressing. Actually by then I was probably already starting to run a fever, which explains why I was the only one feeling chilly.

I do not regret that walk, or the play, or staying out late, or living my life to enjoy it. Sometimes I wonder if I'll be half-dead before my doctor figures out that there's something seriously wrong with me. If I might die young then I want to enjoy everything now. If I might become progressively more disabled, I'm going to get out and enjoy my outdoor walks, and my fun adventures while I can still have them. I mean, I'm not utterly convinced that I'm doomed, but it's starting to seem like it's within the realm of possibility. I'd feel awfully stupid if I devoted all of my energy to the office and then found out later that I had no energy left for anything else.

Hope for the best and prepare for the worst; isn't that what they say?

So there you are. I was feverish and exhausted yesterday. I cancelled my in-person plans with my girlfriend and we had a phone chat instead. This morning I felt even worse, but now I'm starting to feel better. Not sure if I'll be back to work tomorrow. We'll see what happens overnight.

I have been avoiding wheat all along. I haven't been tempted to try it again. Life's tricky enough without taking another risk. When I'm feeling well enough I'm going to make my re-wheat trial a conscious choice, in case it does make me feel like crap again. I'm going to get a really delicious cupcake. I can think of a specific one I want. I know exactly where I'm going to go to get it, and I plan on enjoying every bite. I'll definitely let you know how it goes, when I'm bold enough to give it a try.

The Storm

2011-06-11T10:34:00.000-04:00

Last Wednesday I left work at 6:00 pm. The sun was shining and I thought I might have to stop and buy a bottle of water along the way, because it was over 88 degrees out and smotheringly humid. Fortunately, I didn't have to wait long for a bus.

The first bus that came along was an old dinosaur. I knew there was a chance that it was a Hot Bus, but I got on anyway. It was the wrong decision. There is a certain type of ancient bus that the TTC runs along my route which seems to have the radiators set perpetually to "Bake". It's like sitting in a kiln. Last winter I got stuck on a crowded Hot Bus in many layers of clothing, including a wool sweater and parka (because it was a freaking freezer outside) and I literally almost fainted. We were stuck in traffic just outside the station, so I couldn't just get off the bus. It was horrible. Ever since then I have been very wary of Hot Buses, and normally just wait for the next one. But I was late already, so I got on and hoped for the best.

The weather reports stated that it was 104 degrees outside with the humidex. Well it was probably 125 degrees inside that bus. I knew as soon as I got on that it was a mistake. I got off at the very next stop to wait for the next bus. You'd think this wouldn't make much of a difference. However, I was getting deeper into trouble.

The stop where I had boarded the Hot Bus is at a main intersection. Lots of buses run along the perpendicular main street, and therefore there is always a crowd of people waiting at that stop. Sometimes the buses get so crammed that they skip the next few stops until some people get off, to make room for more people to get on. I was now waiting at the very next stop, which meant there was a high probability of full buses whizzing past at high speed.

The other problem was that it was now a few minutes past 6pm, which meant we were into the Bus Doldrums. This happens twice a day, at a little after 9am and a little after 6pm. On a busy route where the buses are officially supposed to show up every 5 to 7 minutes, there can be a gap as long as 20 minutes between buses as the rush hour shift ends and the remaining drivers all go on break. What tends to happen, especially near the station where I'll be waiting if I hit the 9am lull, is that several dozen Out Of Service buses roar past, blowing your hair back, until it seems that every bus in the city is giving you the finger and you will never, ever get to your destination. They will find a pile of bleached bones at in a neat little pile by the bus stop, and will need to identify you from dental records. I hate the Bus Doldrums.

So basically I was screwed. I decided to be stoic about it. I called Ken to let him know I'd be home eventually, not to worry. While I was on my cell phone a cab passed the bus stop. If I hadn't been in the middle of that phone call I would have hailed it, but I was distracted. I thought: there will be more cabs. I'll tell you right now: that was the last cab I saw pass that bus stop.

The bright blue sky blurred over with a haze of wispy clouds, which quickly joined forces to become a white cotton ceiling. Then it started slowly darkening, from greyish-white to grey to ominous thunderheads. Fat drops started falling slowly, here and there. I and the handful of other people waiting with me backed into the bus shelter. As the drops starting falling faster, a full bus roared past. Ten minutes later, when some serious rain started falling, another bus also showed us its taillights. Then there were three fake-outs in a row: buses from another route that wouldn't take me closer to home.

After 40 minutes of waiting, the right bus finally came along and let us on. By then it was raining steadily, and the cloud cover was still heavy. We drove past an LED sign that gave the temperature as 88 degrees. At this point I noticed a huge, coal-black storm cloud taking over the north east part of the sky. Within a few minutes the remaining light faded and the wind picked up. Trees on both sides of the street leaned over and flashed the silver bottoms of their leaves. Five minutes later we passed another LED sign. By this time it was dark as night out. The temperature was 72 degrees. The wind was whipping the world outside into a crazy furor; I couldn't tell if the hammering on the roof of the bus was rain or hail; and I wondered to myself if I would make it home alive.

Fortunately we made it into the transit station. I went downstairs to the underground plaza, just above the train, and hid out there for a while. I found a position from which I could look up three flights of stairs to an open square of sky. It was green. Alternately it flashed lemon-yellow (sheet lightening) and lilac with electric-pink (fork lightening). The lightening strikes, especially the fork lightening, came thick and fast. We were nowhere near the centre of the storm. This was evident from the delayed and muffled thunder. I wondered where all that lightening was striking. I learned later that several houses in Vaughan were struck. The lightening set the houses on fire and burned them to the ground. I'm surprised there wasn't nothing but a smoking crater left of that whole neighbourhood.

There's a taxi stand at the transit station, but not right by the exit, oh no. It's around half a block away. I waited for an interval of lighter rain within the torrential downpour, and finally got up the nerve to sprint for a cab. I got home alive and only slightly damp at 7:30 pm.

Ken was glad to see me home safe. The sky was still green, but do you know what he did? He went outside, turned on the BBQ and made salmon fillets for dinner. And clams. Did you know you can cook clams on your BBQ? In the middle of an epic thunderstorm? Well you can, if your building complex provides good shelter from the winds and a convenient overhang from the upstairs' neighbours' balcony.

As a footnote, apparently there had been golf-ball-sized hail only a few miles from my bus route. I'm not sorry I missed that. The rest of the storm was more than enough excitement for one day.

Eaties for My Wheaties

2011-06-06T15:37:00.000-04:00

The good news is that I'm feeling better.  Energy: 9/10. Yay! The bad news is: I figured out that not eating wheat is making me feel better. Wait, isn't that good news? OK, the figuring it out part is good. The "stop eating wheat" part is bad.  I'm not yet sure whether this is a permanent stoppage or only a phase. Either way, I have never craved cookies, cake, and warm, crunchy toast with butter like I have since I learned I mustn't eat them.

(Well for heaven's sake at least I'm not celiac. Oats and barley are still on the menu. Colour me odd, but I love oats and barley. I may have been a horse in a previous life.)

Skip this paragraph if you do not want the symptomatic details. It's not horribly gross. Nothing to do with guts or things that happen in the bathroom. Basically, every time I ate wheat last week I noticed that my upper chest started to feel full and achey within 20 minutes. Over the next couple of hours I felt tired and achey all over, as if I had a mild flu.  The muscles from my neck and shoulders all the way to my lower back tensed up, painfully in some spots. The aching and fluey feeling would carry on until I had coughed up a bunch of clear phlegm. The fatigue and muscle spasms took over 24 hours to clear up after the last dose of wheat.

I have never before noticed such a clear correalation between eating wheat and feeling like crap. Either this is a new development, or it's something that's been a problem all along which finally got to the point where I could no longer fail to notice it. I did not expect to bounce back so quickly from my latest bout of fatigue.  Honestly, I feel surprisingly great. It's pretty amazing.

I'm going to stay totally wheat-free for at least a whole week, and then I'm going to try it again to see what happens. I am still hoping that I don't have to give up cupcakes and bagels forever. But if I do, then I do. There will be some sighing and wistful staring into bakery windows, but I'll do it.

Paperless Bees

2011-06-02T12:58:00.000-04:00

The big debate in my workplace right now is about going paperless. Do we want to do it? If so, is this the right time? These simple questions do not have simple answers.

The business I work for provides space, equipment, office supplies, and staffing for over a dozen professionals. Each one is a private contractor, not an employee of the business, so the business owners can't dictate working conditions outright. On the other hand, all the professionals are motivated to embrace anything which might make their practice more efficient. Will going digital truly be more efficient?

My consultant quoted a professional in the industry who has already gone through this process. He said: "It's not easier, but it's better." That is a pithy quote, but it doesn't help this office make the decision. Do any of you out there have experience with computerized offices, especially the transition to such a system? I would love to get your feedback.

***

For those of you who couldn't care less about paperless office transitions, here is an alternate topic: giant bees. I am told by Ken that these are carpenter bees, so-called because they chew through wood to build their hives in buildings and presumably trees. The ones I've seen around here are at least an inch long and wear yellow, fuzzy vests, unlike the photo I linked to (which I picked for the sheer impressive size of the bee).

My first encounter with a giant bee was outside the grocery store on the first warm day of spring. The bee was hovering and bobbing in place at around waist level. It appeared to be completely lost and confused. I stopped to stare at it, because I'm not scared of bees and I was fascinated by it's redonkulous size. After a little while it flew five feet to the left, made an approximate figure eight, and flew back to hover in front of me some more. "Bee, go find some flowers!" I told it.

When I came out of the store it was gone.

Later that same weekend Ken and I went for a walk in Earl Bales park. On our way from the parking lot to the trail, we passed a wooden building. A group of giant bees were hanging out by this building, swooping around uselessly. Ken was alarmed and gave them a wide berth. Having already experienced the apathetic personality of one giant bee, I figured if I didn't bother them, they wouldn't bother me. I walked straight through their turf. I was either right or lucky.

Later that evening we went for dinner on a patio partially sheltered by sliding glass doors. A pair of bees showed up. They must have liked the looks of my sweet potato fries, because they started trying to fly through the glass right next to my face. Clunk, clunk, clunk, went their dumb little heads on the glass. If they had moved five inches east they could have flown in through a space between the glass doors, but they couldn't figure that out.

Later on one bee did make it's way in, and promptly started trying to fly out through the same window, right next to me. Clunk, clunk, clunk. We had to comandeer an empty drinking glass and a spare menu to capture the bee and release it outside.

If you have any interest in viewing these freakish bees, head up to North York, and soon. If Darwin's theory is correct, they are too stupid to live, and should be going extinct pretty soon.

Facedown in a bowl of Udon

2011-05-28T18:26:00.000-04:00

I need everyone to BOOOOOOO very loudly and resoundingly with me right now. Ready? Go!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Thank you. I appreciate your support. We are booing the return of Fatigue, yes, with a capital "F".

I had such a good month. Four weeks of normal living. It was swell. Trouble started last weekend.

I was experiencing a regularly scheduled hormonal event, which normally isn't that much of a big deal, but two or three times a year it totally kicks my ass. The pain is fierce, and I can't take anything for it. I grit my teeth and tough it out, because there aren't any other options.

By the afternoon I thought I was past the worst of it, so I set out to meet a friend for dinner and a movie downtown. I had been looking forward all week to my favourite Japanese restaurant and a movie that's been on my To See list since I heard it was coming out. I arrived at the restaurant feeling a little overheated, but otherwise alright. I ordered a Mike's Hard Lemonade, thinking that alcohol would be a helpful painkiller.

I don't know exactly what happened, but after a few sips of the cooler and one bite of Nabeyaki Udon, I started to feel faint. I put my head down until the moment passed. I was determined to soldier on, to enjoy my dinner and the movie and my friend, but I just couldn't manage it. Eventually my friend convinced me to go home. Ken zoomed downtown in the car to pick me up. I spent the rest of the evening on the couch, totally zonked out and feverish.

I would have loved to stay home from work the next day, but my assistant manager had the day off and on top of that I had an important meeting scheduled, so I went in to work and pushed through the day. I did so well that I kept pushing through for a few more days, even though every morning it was harder to get out of bed, and every evening all I wanted to do was park myself in front of the TV and let my eyes go unfocused.

Let me tell you, if The Secret philosophy were valid (i.e. if you believe it hard enough it'll come true!), I would be the peppiest, most productive woman in Toronto. Yes, there is some truth to positive thinking, for sure, but boy is it ever not the whole story. My strong belief that one more good night's sleep and some fresh air would get me back to normal did not do the trick, no matter how desperately I clung to it all week.

Eventually I gave in and took Friday off work, although instead of staying at home and resting like I intended to, I let Ken talk me into going out for lunch, which was followed by a little walk, which turned into a longer walk, with shopping, and everyone knows I can't resist shopping. In the end we stayed out all day and for dinner. On Friday evening I got home and realized that, despite having had a good time, I'd run myself down further. Reluctantly, I got on the phone and cancelled my Saturday plans. (I was supposed to meet my mom. Fortunately she was understanding, although I did feel guilty for letting her down.)

So, this is going to be a stay-at-home, layabout weekend. My assistant manager is off all next week, so I have to get myself as rested and ready as possible so that I can show up and be functional. I do not like the way my body is feeling, with the overall heaviness and persistent tenderness in some of my joints. It's not so bad that I can't distract myself from it, but that's dangerous because the more I ignore it, the worse it gets. I am praying that this bout of symptoms does not stick around for long. To do my part, I'm going to have to cut back on everything again. Dammit!

The MeetUp Group

2011-05-24T13:20:00.000-04:00

Every once in a while I get an itch that can only be scratched by going out and trying something new and social. In the past I've signed up for courses, but right now I don't feel like making that much of a commitment. I want to go out when I want to go out, rather than knowing that I have to be somewhere every Thursday from 7:00 pm until 9:30 pm, even if it's pouring rain and I'm tired and grumpy.

I found the perfect solution at MeetUp.com. There are plenty of groups that allow you to drop in for one session without making any further commitment. Plus it's dirt cheap - the moderator of the group I attended only charged $5 per person to cover the cost of reserving the meeting space. There are all types of groups: book clubs, hiking groups, singles groups, etc. I selected one that listed its focus as "discussion of current events and other items of interest".

It was definitely an interesting evening, although not always because of the discussion content. What fascinated me was watching the group dynamics of a bunch of strangers in a room together discussing "hot" topics. Different people had very different comfort levels with speaking their minds. I figured that I may as well open my mouth and disagree with people because that's what we'd all paid five bucks for, right? The chance to engage in challenging discussions. If I'd wanted to sit around and make nice I would have joined an origami group.

There was a huge range of opinions represented among the two dozen attendees. There were a couple of young bucks in suits, several people who claimed to be professional psychics, some extremely grouchy left-wingers ranting about the new Conservative majority in our federal government, a fellow who reminded me of Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man, and many more. We broke off into smaller groups, organized around suggested topics of discussion.

One guy wanted to discuss "Touch, sexuality, and love". No one went to sit at his table. He waited there like a leper for ten minutes or so, and then gave up and joined another group. I felt a little sorry for him, but it was too creepy a topic to take up with someone you don't know and trust.

The first group I joined was supposed to be on the topic "Is our society based on lies." I figured that could just be an easy and resounding YES! and then we could move on, but I was interested to hear about what lies were most troubling to my comrades. A very friendly and bubbly woman that I'd been sitting next to all along immediately launched into "All religion is a lie! Believing in God is stupid!" and so on.

Having seen that issue from both sides, I felt the need to challenge her. I asked if she meant the King James Bible God was a lie, or if any and all conceptualizations of God were a lie. "All of them!" Well, there you go. The discussion did move along, with one man at the table arguing for the existence of a Divine Something and most of the group sitting with their mouths firmly shut. I challenged her on the notion that all religion is purely Bad, which to me is clearly an oversimplification, but we didn't get far from her original pronouncements.

(I have to say that the woman who was airing her views on the stupidity of all religion seemed like she would be perfectly good company if we were not deliberately discussing inflammatory topics. On the offchance that she should stumble across this blog, I would like to state that she was not at all aggressive, just enthusiastic, and I think we could have gotten along just fine given enough time, or a less inflammatory topic of discussion. I'm sure that some of my lifelong friends may have similar opinions, and that's okay, because friendship is not based on agreeing about everything. If that were the case most of us would have very few friends.)

The biggest problem with the evening was that people seemed to know how to trumpet their own views very confidently, and I suppose there was some amount of discussion going on in the form of arguments, but I didn't hear a lot of people asking questions. There were a lot more pronouncements being made than explorations going on. It's hard to learn something in a group where everyone thinks they already know everything. Still, I'm glad I went. It was definitely a stimulating experience.

Would you attend a group like this, given the opportunity?

Cheerful Against All Odds

2011-05-18T17:31:00.000-04:00

Don't hate me for saying this, but I'm loving the endless rain. I love the lush greenery and the abundance of cheerleader pom-pom dandelions. I love watching big, squishy worms ooze along the sidewalk. I love falling asleep to the sounds of drips, drops, and puddles.

I'm feeling optimistic, a propos of nothing. I just feel good. Even though I may need to fire another employee, *sigh*. These things happen, and I refuse to get caught up in the drama of it as I did last time. I recognized, after weeks of being in the doldrums, that I had identified with the employee because recently the future of my job had been slightly called into question. I was thinking of how sad I would be if I lost my job. Then I got confused about the fact that I hadn't and probably won't for at least a while yet and I think that at some level I thought I was her. Once I figured out what I was doing, I snapped out of it. I promise not to do it again.

I feel good even after the fiasco on the bus. I was running for a bus that had already pulled away from the curb but was stopped at a red light with the doors open. I was moving fast so it felt natural to execute a graceful, gazelle-like leap up into the bus. It was all very Chariots of Fire until my trailing foot failed to clear the doorsill and I went down like a sack of bricks. I was carrying two bags, a full-sized umbrella, and trailing a coat-belt and a long scarf, so it must have looked like a full closet collapsed onto the floor.

From where I had fallen, I looked up into the terrified face of the driver. I could see the whites all around his eyes. I'm sure he was like "Oh shit, I didn't follow safety protocol and now I'm going to get sued and fired and probably thrown into a swamp of rabid alligators!" Technically he shouldn't have had his doors open once he was away from the curb - the extra height between the road and the bus floor was what did me in. Of course also I shouldn't have been jumping for it like an idiot. I am willing to take full responsibility for my goof.

He asked me if I was OK, and I assured him that I was fine and moved to the back of the bus. We waited there for five minutes or so. Apparently I fell so hard that I broke the bus, because shortly after that there was announcement that we were all to offload and wait for the next bus due to mechanical problems. Gee, good thing I near to killed myself running for it! Anyway, later on my knees turned purple and swole up good, but it didn't hurt much, and I got the ground-in stains out of my trousers with one wash.

I did feel sorry for myself for the rest of the evening, but I got over it, and I'm all good now.

Look Deep Into My Eyes

2011-05-13T08:40:00.001-04:00

What is it with optometrists? I don't ordinarily make unflattering generalizations, but ever since I was a teenager, I've had issues with eye doctors. We all know that looking deeply into someone's eyes creates a bond of intimacy. I suppose if you take that one step further, peering through a high-powered magnifying lens straight into the depths of a woman's retina can cause all sorts of trouble.

When I was in high school, my optometrist's name was Dr. Gross. I'm not making that one up. His real name was Dr. Gross, and he was always too happy to see me. He always greeted me with a full-bellied hug. It was like being smothered by a king-sized mattress.

I left Dr. Gross for the optometrist I still see. Let's call him Dr. C. 20-ish years ago he was young, handsome, and he impressed me with the thoroughness of his practice. Initially he was 100% professional. Over the years, however, his standards slipped a little.

The first thing that gave me pause was a moment when I was in the examining chair and he was adjusting a setting on a mechanical thing full of sample lenses. "Shall I take my glasses off?" I asked.

"Yeah baby," he said. "Take it all off."

Then he apologized. Said he'd had a long day. Sure, whatever. No harm done. It was just a joke.

However, as the years passed, he became gradually more sleazy. He knows exactly how much he can get away with, and he never crosses the line. He's careful. But he's made sure that I know I am his type. There is always a complimentary remark about my appearance. There is always a hand on my back or an arm around my shoulders as he leads me to or from his room. Well, I need assistance, you know, so blind am I without my glasses on. It's the perfect excuse.

Then there's the gazing. You know what I'm talking about. I call it "googly eyes". It's not lecherous leering. I wouldn't put up with that. It's more of a smitten, wistful stare. He quits as soon as I look over at him, but I know what he's up to.

The second thing out of his mouth each time I see him, after "How are you doing?" is always "So how's married life?" I can tell he's always hoping to hear that my marriage fell apart.

Why haven't I switched to a new optometrist? Well, he does take very good care of my eyes. Every once in a while he waives the fee on a follow-up visit. Hope springs eternal and I think he wants to stay on my good side. The location of the office is convenient. And I really can't be bothered to go shopping for a new optometrist. I have enough other things to do with my time.

So, for now, Dr. C gets to look into my eyes to his heart's content. How he finds this attractive, as I tear and squint through the horrible dilating eye drops, is beyond me, but I guess it takes all types. Maybe that's why he became an optometrist: a fetish for nasty, veiny eyeballs. Blech. He's not a bad guy, but he shouldn't hold his breath for me.

The Funky Ooohs

2011-05-10T13:03:00.000-04:00

I went to a strange event last week. I believe it was simply called "choir". The MC half of the hosting team kept saying "Thanks everyone for coming out to choir!"

My sister signed me up for this group on Facebook, and soon I received an invitation to take part at a venue called Double Trouble in Kensington Market. I always enjoy singalongs. Singing is fun, however my singing voice is only passable to mildly good, depending on how much I've practiced recently (usually not at all, because I don't want my neighbours to hate me). If I'm singing in a group, so long as I'm in tune and on time, the sonic quality of my voice is not important. I tra-la-la quietly away under the radar. I can be nasal, weak, and otherwise displeasing, without worry. The good singers (and there are plenty of them at this event) belt it out and drown my voice completely. Maybe eventually I'll practice a little and then we'll see.

The date for the event arrived. My sister couldn't attend, so I was on my own. I located the address which I had carefully Googled ahead of time.  The storefront was a Portuguese Bakery. I checked my paper again. Nope, that was definitely it. No sign of Double Trouble. ???

Fortunately just then I noticed a gate to a narrow alley down the side of the store. A black, metal, unmarked door was open and people were milling in and out. People who looked like they just might be there to sing.

I climbed a creaky set of wooden stairs up to a room over the bakery. It was crammed with artsy-nerd types, mostly grouped into tight cliques talking excitedly at each other. The din was incredible. I picked up a set of lyrics sheets from the front and then stationed myself by an empty section of wall.

A woman around my age was nearby, also unengaged in conversation. I introduced myself and we got acquainted.  It was also her first time there. I was all proud of myself for making a new friend. Ten minutes later my new friend said "Are they going to start soon? I'm not sure if I'm going to stay." Five minutes after that (by which time it was 20 minutes after the supposed start time) my new friend decided to leave. She was not enthused about the crowds and the disorganization.

Then I was friendless.  Each clique around me resolutely kept a wall of shoulders facing out. This is typical Torontonian behaviour. If you don't get in at the ground floor when new social connections are made, the cliques solidify quickly and you can rarely wedge yourself in. It makes me kind of sad, but at least I've seen it often enough to know not to take it personally.

I'd come all the way from North York for the event, so I wasn't about to give up and leave. After waiting another fifteen minutes, standing awkwardly in the steadily increasing storm of conversation, the hosts, one MC guy and one mainly musical guy, got everyone's attention and we got started.

What it boiled down to was we took two popular songs, broke each one down into four-part harmony, and sang them as a choir. It was pretty cool. The mainly musical guy plays guitar and sings extremely well. The MC guy went around making sure that each group knew their part of the harmony. I think we could have used a little more specific direction at times, however for two guys running a free event and trying to corral the attention of 50+ excited attendees, they did very, very well.

I'll be going back soon. Maybe when I'm there with my sister I'll meet some more new people. She's the extrovert of the family, my happy, shining, smiling sister.

Worm Hopping

2011-05-04T12:51:00.000-04:00

First I need to make an announcement: I am well! I have been back to my normal for a while now, but didn't want to jinx it by making premature pronouncements. I feel rested after 8 hours of sleep! I've been making plans! With friends! And making plans to make new friends! It's fantastic!

No big surprise: the gloom I was feeling is also drifting away, like fog in bright sunshine.

Bright sunshine has been in short supply weatherwise. I'm not sure how it's been for folks elsewhere on the continent, but Toronto has seen a ridiculous amount of rain.

You know what time it is when the rain starts pouring down. It's time for WORM HOPPING! Those of us who are soft-hearted (and possibly soft-headed) walk slowly when it rains, scanning the sidewalk ahead with urgent concentration. We are looking out for our helpless friends, the worms. Here are some tips to make your worm avoidance techniques more effective.

A live worm's body will be oriented in a more-or-less straight line. When a worm is cruising, he will point himself towards his destination, and go for it. Flies buzz around aimlessly, landing here, then there, then going back to where they started from. Worms are much more purposeful. Worms have goals, and they achieve them.
A curled-up worm is most likely a dead or dying worm. The poor little things crumple in their final agony of suffering. If you spot a curled-up worm feel free to step on it - if you don't mind getting worm-goo smushed onto the sole of your shoe. If you don't care about being gross, go for it.
Convenient though it may be to bring your waterproof shopping buggy out in the rain, it will be much more difficult to avoid all the worms when you are trying to keep track of both your feet AND two wheels. I will not address this message to those who ride bicycles, because it's illegal to ride on the sidewalk in Toronto, so goodness knows you will NOT be up there running over worms, will you now? And women pushing infants in strollers, well, new moms have enough to worry about without worrying about worms. Which brings me to my next point.
If you do step on a worm by accident, don't feel too bad. There are lots more worms where that one came from. Why do I even try to avoid them? It's irrational. But then again, so are keeping pets, giving birthday gifts, and writing blog posts. Some of the best things in life are irrational. Like me. I rest my case.

The Importance of Soup

2011-04-30T11:01:00.000-04:00

I've been in my current job for 9 years. I don't think I could find a better one if I tried. That's one of the things that's been bumming me out lately; the owner of the business is now in his 70's and talking about retirement. I'm not sure if the business will be able to survive without him*, and if it does it might not maintain the warm, supportive culture that makes it so special. I know I should just count my lucky stars that I've had so many good years and leave the rest in God's hands, but it's tough not to cling to something so good.

*I'm not exaggerating about the survival question. The nature of our business is such that the owner has had to face continual legal and financial challenges to keep it open. Most of those challenges involved locking horns with powerful authority figures including the government and government-sanctioned regulatory bodies. He's beaten all the challengers so far over more than 20 years. I'm not sure if anyone else is up to the task.

It's a nurturing work environment. I feel that my co-workers are closer to me than many members of my family. Last week a woman on my staff brought in a giant container of homemade soup for all of us. I was in the middle of a super-busy afternoon when she showed up at my office door with my portion, served up hot from the kitchen in a proper soup bowl, with two slices of multigrain baguette, still warm from the toaster, resting on a little napkin.

I swear that was the best bowl of soup I ever ate. Carrot, potato, leek, and ginger, it was, with some magical blend of spices that made my eyes roll back. I could probably get paid 30% more per year for what I do, in the corporate sector, but I bet I would be miserable. I've worked in other companies, and they couldn't pay me enough to stay more than 6-12 months at a stretch. Seriously, that soup was priceless. It was made with love.

I'm praying that we get to enjoy love for as long as possible.

2nd Anniversary

2011-04-26T17:42:00.000-04:00

Yes! We made it! Ken and I have been officially together for 10 years. We took our sweet time getting married. Yesterday was only our second wedding anniversary, but really it meant more than that.

Ken surprised me with a gift. A genuine Tokidoki handbag! It's very cute, on a fantasy theme, with fire-breathing dragons, genies, and fairies printed on it. Obviously awesome and a very generous gift. Those bags don't come cheap.

He also said he would take me out for dinner, but first I should check in our furnace closet because there was some kind of leak and he was worried that it might have damaged something I had been storing in there. Feeling a bit worried about the state of our pipes, I went to the closet and opened the door. Everything looked normal. I was confused.

Ken was right there behind me saying "Hey, look, no leak! But what's that on the floor?" I looked down. There was a big bag on the floor. A Birks bag! For those among you not in the know, Birks is the fanciest of all the Canadian jewelry retail chains. Birks is the kind of store you go into to gawk at the $20,000.00 engagement rings and then run the other way quickly when the salespeople start to move in.

The Birks bag was full of boxes, all a signature shade of bright blue and tied with brown ribbons. I was a little overwhelmed and couldn't bring myself to dig in right away. Ken urged me on. "Start with the smallest one," he said.

I opened the blue box. The top lifted off smoothly to reveal a little brown box-within-a-box. I took out the smaller box and popped the top. It held a pair of lovely pink pearl earrings. Don't let me hear you asking if they were real. Everything at Birks is real.

I put on the earrings immediately. They are gorgeous, of course. The next box revealed a pearl bracelet, and the next a matching necklace. Not round, white pearls, but a soft selection of slightly odd-shaped ones in shades of pink, peach, ivory, champagne, pale plum, and soft grey. They are highly iridescent, some of them almost to the point of appearing metallic. Lovely, amazing, breathtaking. I put them on. Their weight rested smoothly against my skin.

I thought back to our conversation of the previous evening. Ken had been casting about for a gift idea for me for our anniversary. I suggested a piece of costume jewelry. He asked me what I thought of pearls. I said I liked them, but did he know that they're made of oyster snot? They're basically, like, really expensive oyster boogers.

I would like to revise that statement publicly, if I may. It was love at first sight with my shiny, silky pearls. Ken never does anything by halves. I love that about him, and it's one of the reasons why I married him. He picked the perfect gift to always remind me of why he's the best husband in the world for me.

Weighty Cosmic Ponderings

2011-04-24T10:24:00.000-04:00

I have gone all introverted lately. I have given myself permission to set aside my sense of humour for a while to ponder the weighty matters of life. I feel that it's appropriate to do so "for a season", to borrow the Christian phrase. Of course this makes me phenomenally boring and self-obsessed. It's not a state of mind that is conducive to blogging.

To sum it all up with minimal loathsomeness: Though I am aware that life is a constant cycle of death and rebirth, every loss leading eventually to some type of gain, lately I've been feeling like everything is rapidly dropping off the end of a swift and merciless treadmill. There have been a lot of changes lately (at work, with my health, with friends and family), and more changes coming up on the horizon, that all seem to be on the loss side of the equation. Normally I think I'm pretty good at taking life as it comes, with a reasonable amount of acceptance, but I got overwhelmed and now I can't seem to help fighting against the changes. Of course one can't win that kind of fight. I just end up feeling helpless and exhausted.

One thing I never thought about when it comes to aging: everyone around you ages all at once. That sucks! I always thought I could age gracefully, and accept my parents' aging, etc. Thinking about each person aging and eventually dying one at a time wasn't so bad. It seemed natural and bittersweet. But you don't get to deal with it one person at a time. The whole parade of people I care about are all marching towards the cliff's edge, and although it might seem stupid it's something that only struck me recently. My beloved friend Val had a stroke last week. It was minor and she will fully recover, but yikes! Not to mention she revealed to me that she could drop dead without warning at any time from a brain aneurysm, due to the way things are set up inside her body.

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So anyway I've gone all emo and am grappling with issues of mortality, existential angst, and too much time spent listening to the news, which makes the entire world seem constantly embroiled in horrible catastrophes. I suppose it's an appropriate mid-life crisis, and I'll get through it eventually, when I can work through to some kind of more peaceful acceptance of Everything.

Yesterday helped. I went downtown and met a friend for lunch. It was raining and chilly when I left my house. By the time we paid our bill, the sky was a brilliant blue and the restaurant had propped their doors open to let a warm breeze waft through the dining room. I packed around 20 pounds worth of now-unnecessary warm clothing layers into my bag, and we set out on a gorgeous walk. I managed to heroically walk and shop, carrying this stupidly heavy bag, for several hours. This is a good sign. It means I'm physically stronger than I thought.

Spending relaxed, quality time with my friend was lovely. However, the most remarkable event of the day took place on the subway train on my way downtown. I took a seat near a man with a violin case at his feet. One stop later, a family got on with two young boys, aged around 3 and 5, who were fussing and bored. The violin man took out his violin. First he quietly plucked "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star". The smallest boy sang along. Then he took up his bow and played "Old MacDonald Had A Farm". He got a smattering of applause at the end. He went back to Twinkle Twinkle and played it, this time with two-string harmony and all sorts of fancy little embellishments. More people were getting on at each stop. A crowd gathered round, smiling, oohing and aahing, and encouraging him with applause.

Pretty soon the violinist stood up and treated us to a beautiful mini-concert. He was good, too. Really good. His tuning was absolutely perfect, his timing and dynamics creative in a way that gave each piece character. He was obviously a musician all the way from the soles of his shoes to the calluses on his fingers. It was amazing to be there for that spontaneous concert; to witness how music powerfully shifted the mood on the car from glum boredom to engaged happiness. That man made everyone's day by doing what he obviously loves to do. It was a splendid creative act. It gave me faith that not everything is dropping off the end of the treadmill.

Spring Collection 2011

2011-04-17T20:18:00.000-04:00

OK, all y'all deserve something a little more upbeat from me, and here it is! Ken took me shopping at Vaughan Mills mall on Sunday, and it was super-awesome-fun. I forgot all my troubles, had a chocolate-soy-ice-cream waffle cone, and got all stylish for spring. There are a couple of purchases here that didn't get got on Sunday. I will explain as we go along. But first, I introduce you to the world's greatest ever socks, courtesy of the Holt Renfrew Last Call bargain outlet:

(In case you can't quite make out the image, that's a stag's head looming out of a profusion of wildflowers. Also, feel free to be impressed by my ability to balance on one leg while taking a photograph with no flash in low light with almost no blur. I balance good!)

These shoes were purchased on Queen St. West a couple of weeks ago at Get Outside. They are supremely comfy and OMG the coolest. I am also proud to add that they are made in Canada, are water repellant, and have some kind of high tech lining that claims it will keep my feet cool in the summer and warm in the winter. Whatever, I'd wear them even if they weren't marvels of modern technology.

Impulse buy at Bass Pro in Vaughan Mills Mall. Was: $140, marked down to $43. Who could resist?

The truth is that I had just bought a new spring coat, although maybe it was more of a fall coat considering that it's black. So I guess I still needed the other coat to be my spring coat, right? Anyway, the black coat is more fantastic that you can even see from a still photo. The "white" bits are sparkly silver tinsel. It's all very fancy.

I found it at a little boutique in my neighbourhood. The saleslady claimed that her sister owns the coat factory in Korea. I'm not 100% sure that that's true, but it's a compelling story.

My first ever pair of leather gloves from Danier at Vaughan Mills Mall. I could not resist the pretty shade of teal. I'm into teal these days - you can see they almost match my shirt. Unfortunately in this shot they look quite like the rubber gloves I use to wash dishes. Really, they're quite classy and sophisticated.

Finally, a cautionary tale. My favourite winter slippers crumbled just before the season was over. Since I never know when I'm going to be down for the count with a fever and feeling chilly-toed, I went on a quest to find a replacement pair toot sweet. Retail stores had very little slipper selection left, since everyone was thinking about spring even though it was still snowing. So I took a leap of faith and went online to make my purchase. I spent many hours choosing the exact right slipper of my dreams. I located the one and only online store that could ship them to Canada. When the box came I was all excited, until I ripped it open and found these:

As they say, close, but no cigar. I had spent a fair amount of time deliberating between these two styles, the Juliet (on the left) and the Bootee (on the right). What I had in fact ordered was the Bootee. And now I have one of each. At least I can say for sure that the Bootee was the right one for me: it's a little roomier in the toe, although otherwise they fit almost identically.

I e-mailed the vendor, shoebuy.com, to let them know what had happened, but no one replied to my e-mail. This immediately raised warning flags in my mind. If I were to box up the slippers and send them back over the border they might get caught at customs, or they might go back to the warehouse but there was no guarantee that I'd be issued a proper refund. I mean, if they can't return a simple e-mail at the customer service desk, how can I trust them to get my shoe order right if I give them another chance? They might send me another order entirely next time: men's size 12 extra-wide white running shoes or something.

I assessed the situation. I have one right shoe and one left shoe, both in Ladies size 8 which fit just fine. The Juliet slipper is a little tight in the toe, but it's sheepskin - it'll stretch. They look fairly similar and if I walk around in them without looking down I can barely tell that they're not a matched set. Then, one chilly evening, I wore them while watching TV, and OMG my feet were SO WARM AND COZY AND COMFY!!!1! That clinched it. I am keeping them. Some people wear mismatched socks. I can wear mismatched slippers. P.S. Don't buy from shoebuy.com because they'll get your order wrong and not care.

If anyone out there has the matching opposite pair of slippers, (someone must have gotten them by now), please let me know in the comments and we'll arrange an exchange.

What do wireless networking and cantaloupe have in common?

2011-04-16T16:57:00.000-04:00

I got my blood test results. They were reassuringly and frustratingly normal. I have one hormone that's a little low, and I could stand to take more vitamin D. I am no closer to understanding my strange bouts of aching fatigue.

I brought the test results to Dr. H (the ex-MD turned homeopath). He gave me another go at the machine that goes FWEEEP, this time testing for food sensitivities and, subsequently, the condition of my internal organs. Nothing special came out of the organ testing. When it came to food sensitivities, a few more no-no's were tacked onto my existing list: mushrooms; cantaloupe; cane sugar; all forms of vinegar; green tea; and chocolate. That's right: the machine said that sugar and chocolate should be completely eliminated from my diet. :-ppppp That's all I have to say about that.

After the machine testing, I was ushered into Dr. H's consulting room. I swear, the man talked at me non-stop for over an hour. He has a lot of opinions, and while I do believe that some of what he had to say might prove to be useful, the more he talked the more my impression of him dimmed.

Dr. H is an extremist. If I hadn't spent 4 years working in the alternative health industry in my early 20's, I probably would have been overwhelmed by everything he said, and I might have tried to implement all of his suggestions. Fortunately, I've long since learned the lesson that there is a law of diminishing returns. Some lifestyle changes are worth making: like eating more vegetables. Others aren't worth the trouble. I'm picky enough about everything in my life without adding unnecessary rules. The line between fastidious health maintenance and paranoia is a blurry one.

Here are some of the notes I made during my meeting with Dr. H:

Discontinue all use of wireless electronics immediately.
Battery alarm clock - not plug-in.
Get rid of microwave oven.
Walk barefoot on wet grass.
4-day rotation diet.

I am not planning to follow up on any of these suggestions. Yes, I do believe that I am sensitive to electromagnetic fields. I got rid of my electric blanket for that very reason. However, were we to shut down our wireless network, our home would still be flooded by signals from the 19 of our neighbours whose wireless networks are available from our living room. We may as well leave ours on and enjoy it.

With regards to the other suggestions, I must wake up with the CBC morning news. Nothing else will do. I refuse to trade my clock-radio for a travel alarm clock that ticks in my ear all night, then wakes me up with ugly beeping and honking.

Eliminate all use of microwave ovens? Let me get this straight. I am not supposed to store my food in plastic containers. I am not supposed to eat food made with yeast, which eliminates bread (and bagels!) and therefore sandwiches. I am not supposed to heat food in a microwave oven. And I'm not supposed to eat fast food. Gee, looks like I won't be eating lunch on work days anymore! Unless I care to consume cold leftovers, which I would need to bring to work in a glass jar.

See how easily these things can get out of hand?

Other things he told me. The FWEEEPing machine indicates that I am sensitive to mould. No headline news there. Mould isn't good for anybody. What else? He claims that I have the "imprints" for Lyme disease. Did I spend much time in the country as a child? Go camping? Ride horseback? Have I ever been bitten by a tick? No, no, no, and not to the best of my knowledge. Could I have been bitten by a tick and not known it? I suppose anything is possible. Considering that there is no definitive blood test for Lyme, we'll probably never know. Personally, I think it's very unlikely.

So, what does he want to do next? Test me on the FWEEEPing machine to see which supplements would be best for me. OK, I'm game. What else? He has something he calls the Biocomp which supposedly emits vibrations which cancel out the bad imprints he found, like the one for Lyme disease. Well, I'm not so sure about that, but I suppose it's worth a try.

The bottom line is that he's not nearly as cutting-edge and knowledgeable as I had hoped. Most of the advice that he gave me consisted of things I've heard a hundred times before. EMF = bad. Organic = good. Black mould = bad. Please, tell me something I don't know.

I thought he might have access to European studies on alternative medicine that no one is paying attention to yet in North America. I thought he might have run studies himself. I thought he might be able to do decisive tests to find out what is actually wrong with me, if anything. Sometimes I think that I'm fine and it's the world that's just too much: too tiring, too polluted, too screwed up.

As my hopes faded away, I have to admit that my disappointment turned into a feeling of depression that has stuck with me for the past few days. I'll get over it. I'm actually doing alright these days. I'm tired, but not to the point of shuffling. I'm a little achey today, but that's just because it's raining. Nothing serious. In fact, my blood tests showed that my iron has gone from the "anemic" range to "insufficient": Hurray! I'm only 6 points away from the lowest "normal" count. I'll get there.

As for whether or not Dr. H is going to be of any help to me beyond lightening the exhaustingly heavy burden of my wallet, only time will tell. I'll give his Biocomp a chance. We'll see.

Weekend!

2011-04-09T11:36:00.000-04:00

I made it. Got through the crazy week. As if firing that nice woman wasn't enough, I also had to call the police on Thursday because an angry husband-and-wife couple phoned my workplace to make some threats. When I wouldn't meet their unreasonable demands, they promised me that they were on their way in to cause a ruckus. They did show up a little more than an hour later, and there were some very tense moments while I and one other manager dealt with them. In the end the worst thing that happened was some harsh words and the man pounding his fist on our countertop in frustration. The situation was handled, mostly thanks to the other manager, who knew them as clients who had been to our facility many times before. But still. It was a worry-filled day until it was clear that nothing serious would come of it.

I guess I'm taking the opportunity of these challenging times to deal with some other downers that have been at the back of my mind. If I'm going to feel grim I may as well deal with everything on the list, right? Then I can get over it all and get back to being happy and grateful for life.

The other thing I'm trying to come to terms with is that I've lost a friend. I'm not sure why. Last time I saw her was last fall when she was going through some tough times. She was depressed and in the middle of a financial crunch. I think I did a decent job of being there for her. We hung out and talked in person and on the phone, and in the end I loaned her $120 to get her through to the end of a tight month. I didn't care whether or not I ever saw that cash again. I know people well enough not to loan my friends anything I might resent later.

That was the last I saw of her. I called her several times since then, but the one time she did pick up the phone, we were "disconnected" and she never called back. I know that her phone is kind of wonky, and we'd been disconnected in the past, but she had always found a way to get back to me later, even if it meant calling from work. I also sent her a few e-mails, and only got one in return. The subject line said "Hi." There was nothing in the body of the e-mail.

I guess that's it. She was a good friend when she was around. I miss her. Lately I've been thinking of her every day, resisting the urge to call or e-mail one more time. I have a bad habit of chasing people who have rejected me, which only compounds the my pain in the end. She may yet show up again, on her own schedule, but for now I have to find my way through to where I can let go. I've had to do that before for other friends. It always takes me a really long time.

I ain't no Donald Trump

2011-04-06T21:17:00.000-04:00

I fired someone today. It was necessary. She was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. There could be major repercussions for our business if I didn't replace her.

This woman was someone I had grown to like over the better part of a year. She is admirable in many ways. She gave it her best shot. We went through many trials and confrontations trying to make it work.

I got frustrated with her. She got frustrated with me. But still, we went through all that together. We got to know each other well. Not the details of our personal lives, but something more essential. It's the kind of thing that bonds you whether you like it or not.

I'm sad. I've been feeling down all week, knowing that the termination meeting was scheduled and unavoidable. I knew that I would have to face her and say the words she'd been dreading. I would be, at least on one level, personally responsible for throwing her life into chaos and uncertainty. Mine was the hand that jerked the rug out from under her feet. I watched her face go blank with shock as she tried to digest the fact that yes this was actually happening.

There was more, but although I write from behind a screen of anonymity, I feel protective of this woman's privacy. I can't bring myself to share any further details of the terrible event.

All I can say is that I took no pleasure in it, except that I'm glad it's over.

Apocalypse Soon

2011-04-01T13:14:00.000-04:00

April Fool's Gag

The kitchen at work: I notice that someone has moved the bottle of dish detergent from the sink to the lunch table. I think: that's a silly place for the dish soap! I start to move it back to the sink, when I see a note taped to the bottle.

In Joanne's clearly recognizable handwriting, the note on the soap says: "Joanne with eat this on Thursday. Thx."

Someone moved the note from Joanne's lunch to the dish soap. I had a good chuckle at that one.

(This is one of those offices where if you leave "leftover" food in the fridge, scavengers will make off with it at the end of the day unless you specify that you intend to eat it later.)

Worst Customer Service Award

I ordered a product that should take two days to ship from the warehouse to my workplace. Two weeks later I noticed that it still hadn't arrived. I called the company. They said that they had received my order, but the order form was out of date and they needed my approval to charge the new, increased prices. It was nice of them not to bother to call me. Very thoughtful to leave my order sitting in a pile on someone's desk until I noticed the problem.

I approved the new prices. They said: "We'll ship the product today!" A week later it still hadn't arrived. I called them again. Turns out they shipped it to our old address, even though the new address was clearly indicated on the order form, for both shipping and billing. It had gone to the old address; it had been rejected by the new tenants; and then it had been returned to the warehouse. Guess where it was? Sitting on someone's desk, where it had been for a few days. Again, no one called me to check in, and they were still claiming not to have any record of our new address.

*sigh*

I gave them our new address, again. Then the sales rep asked me if I would like the invoice shipped to the same address. Invoice? I put a credit card number on the order form. Did they not read the order form at all? At that point I decided that it would be wiser to be invoiced, because that would give us the option of not paying unless I actually received the product.

It finally arrived today, one month to the day after I placed my first order. Isn't it great to have suppliers you can rely on for fast, reliable service?

The Sky Is Falling!

During the months leading up to January 1st, 2000, I became convinced that Y2K computer problems might cause the downfall of our society. I moved through the summer of 1999 with misty eyes, viewing all things through a touching lens of anticipatory nostalgia. When everything turned out to be fine, I regretted all the energy I'd wasted worrying about the worst-case scenario.

Now everyone's got their knickers in a knot over 2012. Supposedly on December 21st, the winter solstice, life as we know it will come to a cataclysmic halt. Maybe there will be a nuclear catastrophe, perhaps a meteor with smash Earth to smithereens, or perhaps space-time itself will end. Whatever, it's going to be bad times for all of us, and the worst surprise birthday party ever for my husband and my sister, who are both solstice babies.

I honestly don't have the patience to do detailed research into these predictions, but I am not impressed by what I have heard. I did watch one documentary which aired on the History Channel. It outlined how December 21st 2012 is the end of the ancient Mayan calendar. Apparently there have been previous dates when sub-cycles of the calendar came to a close. The prognosticators on the documentary pointed to these dates as evidence that something big is coming.

Their argument goes something like this: At the end of the first era, the Mayans moved from mud huts into villages. At the end of the second era, they moved from the villages into cities. At the end of the third era they abandoned their cities and started over somewhere else. And the end of the fourth era they walked away from their new cities, and no one knows what became of them.

So, let me get this straight. Due to their spiritual beliefs, the Mayans made completely voluntary changes to their living conditions at the appointed times. Life on the rest of the planet was business as usual during these transitions. The changes only affected the Mayans. Voluntarily. The sky did not fall. Space-time did not end.

At least my Y2K worries had some basis in warnings from actual scientists. I think everyone needs to calm down about this 2012 thing. Seriously, don't we have enough real problems to worry about?

Boing!

2011-03-30T12:46:00.000-04:00

That's the sound of me bouncing back. I just wanted to let all y'all know that your prayers and good vibes worked like a charm. I am back at work today and feeling surprisingly good. I guess I just needed to hit the snooze button for a day. I am grateful for all of your moral support. Take care!

Drained

2011-03-29T09:18:00.000-04:00

Last week was excellent. From the Monday after the Purim Party, I had energy. By the weekend, I even had a spring in my step. For the first time in two months I could walk at a "normal" pace, picking my feet right up and even passing other people on the sidewalk. It was fantastic. I was so grateful just to be able to move around freely.

I was a little tired after staying out late for the Turkey Dinner, but I snoozed all of Sunday and by yesterday (Monday) I was feeling great again. Like my old, healthy self. I had almost forgotten what that felt like.

But you know what's coming, since I'm writing about these good, peppy feelings in the past tense. Yesterday afternoon I went to get my blood drawn for the tests Dr. H (the homeopathic MD) ordered, and my energy levels are now flat as a proverbial pancake. :-ppppppp

Ken drove me to my favourite lab, where all the blood-sucking technicians have a light touch and are patient with my Fainty McFainster tendencies. In the past I've had to wait as long as 45 minutes for my turn, but this time there was not a single other patient on the premises when we walked in, so I didn't have time to sit around fretting about getting jabbed.

A lovely lady brought me in, settled me down on the examination table, and within one almost painless minute the process was complete. Easy as pie. They only took 3 tubes. That's like, almost nothing. After a minute or two I levered myself up to a 45 degree angle, at which point my loving husband brought me a bottle of guava juice to sip from to get my strength back. A few minutes after that I was on my feet and out the door. Success! Victory! No tears, and no drama!

But as we left the lab, I felt the gravity-enhancing field clamp down. I told myself: "It's temporary. Get home, put your feet up, have a good dinner and a good sleep, and tomorrow you'll be running for the bus like today never happened." So I got home, put my feet up, and relaxed. When I started to shiver, I hauled myself up and put on another sweater. A few minutes later when I still felt chilly, I pulled on a blanket. When that didn't work, I took my temperature. Fever. Crap.

It doesn't take much these days to throw me back into the symptoms.

I went to bed at 9:30 pm. Set my alarm for 6:30 am like usual, but couldn't bear to get out of bed until 7:30. Had a shower, and now I'm exhausted. I'm still cherishing a remote and perhaps ridiculous thought that maybe I'll get myself in to work for this afternoon, but I'm not counting on it.

I'll probably end up lazing around on my couch, regenerating hemoglobin and praying that this time the symptoms bugger off in a hurry.

Turkey Dinner

2011-03-26T12:43:00.000-04:00

Let's go shoot some turkeys! I've got my turkey huntin' hat. I've got my turkey huntin' end tables. I've got my Turkey Plinko tickets...

It all makes perfect sense, if you were at Friday's fundraising dinner to support the conservation of Canada's wild turkeys. Save the turkeys! So that we can shoot them later!

Right. So, Ken got involved because he feels strongly about gun ownership rights, and is actively involved in a few organizations that lobby the government in this regard. He has never been hunting, so far. He does target practice at an indoor shooting range. But if supporting the turkey people will support gun rights, then by golly he'll support the turkey people.

Last night we went to the turkey peoples' banquet. Ticket sales for the dinner were supplemented by several raffles, a silent auction, and a live auction. Our first order of business was a tour of the hall to view all the loot and decide which raffles we wanted in on. We bought a bunch of tickets and dumped them into open buckets by the most appealing prizes: a set of memory foam pillows, a sleek gun case, and, among other things, a two-foot-long flashlight with a bulb the size of a dinner plate. The "Cyclops Thor X Colossus" offers 18 million candle-powers' worth of blinding brightness. Ken really wanted to win The Cyclops.

We entered separate raffles for the big prizes: various types of expensive shotguns and hunting rifles. To spice things up, instead of paying a fixed price per ticket, you paid to play a game which would determine how many tickets you could put into that raffle. I rocked the Turkey Plinko board and won a ton of tickets for a pump-action shotgun.

We toured live auction items to see if there was anything we'd like to bid on. It was mostly artwork, of a style that would look at home in an old-fashioned, log-cabin cottage or farmhouse. For example, there was a bronze sculpture of three Canada geese in flight. There was a photo-realistic painting of a blond Labrador puppy with his head cocked to one side and a beseeching look in his eyes. I fell in love with a print called "Evening Echoes", which featured a herd of moose grazing at sunset in hilly terrain. The focal moose was bellowing with his neck stretched out long and low. It was as kitschy as they come, but the artist had truly captured a moment there. I could practically hear that stupid moose holler.

We found seats for dinner with some very pleasant company. I was thrilled to discover that the quiet, 60-ish gentleman seated to my left was the auctioneer. I've never met an auctioneer before. Our other tablemates immediately launched into turkey tale-telling. Like there's this one guy who lives in the country and he feeds wild turkeys in his backyard. At any given time you can go over to his house and see between 30 and 50 of them wandering around out there, no word of a lie. They come up and peck on his glass patio doors to get fed. But he's a little scared of them so he never goes out to refill the feeders without a big stick. Wild turkeys can be vicious, I heard.

One of the women at the table had helped to set up the event. Between the live auction, the silent auction, and the raffles, there were quite a few firearms on display at the banquet hall. Apparently they were all couriered to her home, and when she wasn't there to sign for the packages, including all the expensive guns, the driver left the boxes stacked on her front porch and took off. Anyone could have helped themselves to an array of high-class weapons. Fortunately nothing was stolen.

When all was said and done, Ken dropped a lot of cash, but got good value for his money. My Turkey Plinko tickets won him that pump-action shotgun worth several hundred dollars. He scored some items in the silent auction at bargain basement prices. And in the live auction we ended up impulse-buying a set of wood-and-glass end tables at $150 for the set. I swear they would have gone for at least $500 at the fancy stores on Queen St. East.

We did not buy "Evening Echoes", though I was sorely tempted. Almost all artwork went at the reserve bids. It was not an art-lovin' crowd, for sure. All the love in that room was reserved for the turkeys.

The proceeds from the evening will be put towards various means of conserving wild turkeys and their territory. I even heard talk of plans to introduce wild turkeys into Toronto's Don Valley river system. Wouldn't that be a blast. Maybe a few years from now I'll be turkey-spotting on my way to work. Or running from them, since they're so mean. Good thing I've got a turkey huntin' cap now (free with the purchase of raffle tickets). That'll scare'em good.

Purim Party

2011-03-22T16:48:00.000-04:00

This weekend I went to my very first Orthodox Jewish Purim party. Purim celebrates an ancient event which you can read about on Wikipedia if you like. The bottom line: on Purim, Jews have an obligation to PARTY. We're talking get drunk*, dress up in silly clothes, sing and dance partying. And eat a lot. It wouldn't be a Jewish party if we didn't eat a lot.

*Technically only the men are supposed to get drunk and dance around. This difference was observed in my family, but I can picture a more modern Purim party that might be possible.

My mother's cousin used to be a hippie. When I was a child there was a minor scandal amongst our family members when he got involved with a shiksa and proceeded to have two children out of wedlock. At that time, the family standard was not to go to synagogue every week, but it was expected that you would belong to one and attend on the important holidays. Also, most everyone socialized and married within the tribe.

Then something happened, and my mother's cousin, who now goes by the Hebrew name "Nacham" (pronounce the "ch" as that throat-clearing sound that doesn't exist in English), swung to the other extreme and went hardcore orthodox. His wife converted (a process which takes years of preparation and study if you're not born Jewish), and they had five more children. Their youngest is now 9. Their eldest is 29 and is currently pregnant with her 7th child. There are 11 grandchildren and counting.

As the kids grow up, they are all married off as teenagers in arranged marriages. You may or may not be surprised to learn that all the grown-and-married children appear to be amazingly happy and fulfilled. I guess their parents are good matchmakers. They are warm and smiling people, surrounded by happy and well-adjusted children.

Their community is closely-knit. Driving on the sabbath is not permitted, therefore all observant Jews need to live within walking distance of the synagogue. All up and down the street where this family lives, doors were flung wide open and young men dressed up in costumes (such as you would expect to see on Hallowe'en) romped from house to house, having a glass of wine here, a bowl of chicken soup there, and generally whooping it up. Everyone was welcome in every house.

The 24-year-old son of my mother's cousin did not wear a costume, but made up for it by wearing a stack of three hats on his head. He was dressed in the traditional orthodox garb: white shirt, black knee breeches, white knee socks, and a long black overcoat. As all the men do, he wore a long beard. At 6'4" he cut a striking silhouette. He put away a lot of wine over the course of the evening, and then loudly serenaded us with traditional Jewish songs, (out of tune) while accompanying himself on an electronic keyboard (well-played, but it was a little odd to hear these songs on the Pan Pipes setting).

His audience included his three youngest sisters dressed as a farmer, a cat, and one who was either either a sheep with very long ears or a woolly bunny. The girls introduced me to their real bunny, a lop called Snowball. One of the other guests had brought along their dog to the house. I made the acquaintance of Paddy, the Jewish Golden Retriever. Paddy got a bowl of challah bread soaked in chicken broth as her reward for good behaviour.

I have never been to a party quite like that before. I'd go again next week if they asked me. I don't regret my upbringing, but sometimes I get a little jealous of my healthy, hearty orthodox kin. They sure know how to have a good time.

Fried Green Potatoes

2011-03-20T13:58:00.001-04:00

I took Friday off as a Relax Day. After a luxurious sleep-in and unrushed yoga session, I settled in at the computer to check my work messages, just in case.

When heard on my voice mail that the assistant manager had called in sick, I almost cried. The day was toast. Who would change the backup tape? Who would take care of that important financial deadline that only she and I know how to handle? Me, that's who. Whimpering at the injustice of it all, I called in to inform the troops that I would throw on some clothes and come rushing to their rescue.

My troops, bless them, encouraged me to find a better solution.

The day was saved by my paranoid, compulsive writing of stupidly detailed protocol instructions. I always write protocols under the assumption that someone who has been on the job for only one week should be able to read and follow them without confusion. I e-mailed my Changing The Backup Tape Protocol (Go into the server room. Open the door to the big black rack by turning the handle counter-clockwise. Halfway down there is a shelf-like thing that says IBM. Press the blue button on the left side. Etc.) to a responsible secretary and she took care of it for me. I called her back to confirm that the tape drive made the sound "ZZZZHHH, ZZZZHHH, ZZZZHHH" when she put the new tape in. It did. All was well.

Then I e-mailed my Complex Financial Thing instructions to someone else, who only had to call me with one question. This operation involves creating floppy diskettes and she wasn't sure how to access the A: drive. Understandably; who the hell uses diskettes these days? It's not my choice to do so. You'll just have to trust me that at the moment there's no getting around it. Anyway, after I pointed her in the right direction the Financial Deadline was taken care of, and I was able to carry on with my day off. Hurray!

Ken and I went downtown for lunch. The place we really wanted to eat was overfull, so rather than wait for a table we walked a little further south and went into The Brownstone. It looked promising, but did not deliver. We waited a long time to receive our simple orders: burger/fries and bacon/eggs. Ken's bacon was limp and disgusting. My fries were green at the edges, just under the skin. I wasn't concerned about that - greenness isn't usually a problem in vegetables. Until Ken said:

"Don't eat that! Green potatoes are poisonous!"

No, seriously? If that were the case, wouldn't I have heard about it by now? But he was insistent, so I didn't eat the fries. Later I went online and confirmed the information. How many of you knew about this? I had no idea. Anyway, The Brownstone gets a big FAIL for serving me poisonous food. I ate half of my mass-produced, from-frozen, under-seasoned-over-salted burger, and then gave up entirely.

After lunch, if you care to call it that, Ken and I parted ways. He was off to the Sportsman's Show at the convention centre, and I had a couple of hours to kill before my naturopath appointment. I went up to 8th floor of The Bay department store where there's an old-school yet classy cafeteria. I bought a slice of sour cherry pie on a thick white plate, and picked a battered stainless-steel fork from the cutlery station.

The dining room is all vanilla white: white floor; white plastic tables and chairs. The ceiling is around 15 feet high, and the longest wall of the room is floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows, looking out onto the grand facade of Old City Hall. You can also look straight down onto Queen St. and spy on pedestrians from above. It is a very peaceful, spacious-feeling place, which is a rare thing in downtown Toronto. I'm sure it must get crowded at lunchtime, but at 3pm there's hardly anyone in there and there were plenty of empty tables right next to those enormous windows. The mall downstairs, including the dirty food court, was swarming with tourists and high school kids cutting classes, but the 8th floor cafeteria was a hushed sanctuary.

Eventually I packed up and went to my naturopath. Let's call him Dr. N. He's not a medical doctor, and has no connections to Dr. R and Dr. H. I usually see him once a month. We talk for an hour, and then he asks me to open wide and tosses some homeopathic pellets into my mouth. I don't know how much good the pellets do, but I do like talking with him once a month to take stock of my situation. It's kind of like psychotherapy, without all the tricks and whistles. He's never asked me to switch chairs and speak from my mother's point of view, or beat a pillow with a Nerf bat. He just asks thoughtful questions and provides some gentle feedback.

He analyzes my life as if it were a dream or a poem, and then selects a homeopathic remedy to cure like with like. For the last few months he was giving me homeopathic canary feather because I'm like a canary in a coal mine*. This time I said that I was craving more art in my life. Why, he asked? Because it makes the difference between living in black and white and life in colour. So he gave me a homeopathic essence called spectrum. Homeopathic rainbow! See why I like this guy? How could rainbow medicine not cheer me up?

*First to fall over when the atmosphere is less than perfect
Your sensibilities are shaken by the slightest defect
You live your life like a canary in a coalmine
You get so dizzy even walking in a straight line
- Canary in a Coal Mine, by The Police

Doctor vs. Doctor

2011-03-16T17:20:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I went to see my family doctor, Dr. R. I brought along a note from my new homeopath/ex-MD, Dr. H. The note consisted of a list of blood tests Dr. H wants done. Because Dr. H is officially retired according to the Ministry of Health, he can't requisition tests from publicly funded labs anymore. I went to Dr. R hoping that he'd want to be involved in my dealings with Dr. H, so that the three of us could team up together to fix me. I needed an MD to write test requisitions for Dr. H's blood tests, and I was hoping Dr. R. wouldn't mind doing it.

It was awkward. Doctors are used to being the expert. They don't appreciate being told what to do. Dr. R tried to hide it, but I could see him bristle at the prospect of writing test reqs for some other dude, like, what is he, not even a doctor anymore! A homeopath! (Most doctors don't think very highly of homeopaths. It was not much better than me saying "Please write these blood tests - my psychic said I need them.")

He looked at the list, and couldn't see any reason not to order any of those tests, but he did assert himself by adding a number of tests of his own choosing. That number was greater than Dr. H's number. Dr. R definitely dominated the blood test req.

Don't get me wrong. I like Dr. R. I can see his point of view. I think he might be feeling insecure because he's been unable to satisfy my health care needs. I've been seeing him for years, complaining of these same symptoms on and off, and he hasn't been able to do much for me. To be fair, I didn't push him very hard to take things to the next level. I figured that modern medicine probably wouldn't have much to offer me, considering that I react badly to 99.9% of all pharmaceutical medications. What could he do other than prescribe pills? Operate?

I have always had my best luck with natural solutions. Herbs, health food, and supplements. Dr. H knows that stuff. Dr. R, not so much. I can only hope that they'll work together to help me. If not, well, I could go behind Dr. R's back and get one of my relative doctors to swing something for me, but I'd rather not start up with that kind of underhanded stuff. I hope we can work this threesome out. It's like Big Love. Call it Big Health.

As for the day to day, my energy is up and down like a yo-yo. There are hours at a stretch when I feel almost normal, and times when I feel like I just can't make it through the day. Fortunately I have a sedentary job, and my brain is pretty clear. Physically I don't have much stamina. I get winded if I walk too fast, or too far. I'm rationing my energy. What do I want to do today? I could clean the bathroom or I could cook something for my lunch the next day, but not both. Let's see: a bagel, carrot sticks, and a tin of tuna works fine for lunch. So I'll clean the bathroom. I'm also waiting for buses to travel short distances I would ordinarily walk without a second thought. Whatever works, right? One day at a time. As long as I can continue working, I'm grateful.

To end on a positive note, life is still good. I went to the birthday party of a good friend on the weekend, and had a fabulous time. The hostess was incredibly thoughtful. She had made an ice-cream cake, which neither Ken nor I could eat because we're non-dairy folks. We're used to that kind of thing, and don't mind skipping dessert. But this friend of mine went to the extra trouble of making a second, mini-cake out of soy ice cream so that we could have some too. It was fantastic! First ice-cream-cake I'd had in 15 years. Totally made my weekend. :-)

First Impressions

2011-03-12T15:17:00.000-05:00

First of all thanks to everyone for your supportive comments on my last post. As you can imagine, these days I'm rationing my time and energy, so I may not always reply individually to each comment (as I would like to in an ideal world), but I am very appreciative of your kind words.

Due to something going on at work, this week I've been thinking about how difficult it is to judge someone by their resume and one or two interviews. Over the course of many years, my first impressions of job applicants have been hit and miss. Most of the time I can judge well enough that the hire works out, but certainly not always. That's what the probation period is for; so that when unpleasant surprises crop up you can cut your losses and move on.

I've had good luck with people who took the initiative to send in their resume when there was no job opening posted. I can recall at least two people I've hired that way, and they are both intelligent, resourceful, and responsible. I always hang on to resumes that are sent to me in between hirings because you never know when someone's going to give their 2 weeks notice and then you're scrambling to find a replacement.

I've had mixed luck hiring friends and relatives of myself and the people I work with. Usually it turns out well, but when it turns out badly, it's very bad. Once I hired a girl who was the daughter of a co-worker, and she turned out to be a good worker under my watchful eye, and a hysterical drama queen when unsupervised. One time, at the end of the day when she thought I'd gone home, she had a screaming fight with another employee and threw a chair across the office. She was out the door pretty swiftly after that.

I am almost irredeemably biased against a certain type of girl: she shows up at the interview dressed impeccably, with professional-calibre makeup and a binder containing documentation of all of her accomplishments, each page sheathed in a shiny plastic sheet protector. These girls have rehearsed their answers to common interview questions, and inevitably their references do not have a bad word to say against them. Hire one of these too-good-to-be-true young beauties, and within the first week she'll be slacking beyond belief. I can recall one such girl, who wore a different shade of metallic eyeshadow every day, who would scratch down phone messages, shove them into her desk drawer, and then forget about them. We found stacks of them jammed in there one day when we went looking for a missing document. Fortunately I only wasted a week of training on her before showing her the door.

How accurate are your first impressions of people? Do you find they're bang on, or not quite what you thought?

SENSITIVE

2011-03-09T20:48:00.000-05:00

This morning I went to see that doctor I mentioned previously; the one who specializes in freaky problems like Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS), Fibromyalgia, and Environmental Sensitivities. In other words, he deals with diagnoses that are looked upon with suspicion and confusion by the mainstream medical establishment.

This doctor is an MD, however he is no longer practicing as such because his alternative methods were not to the liking of our local medical regulatory body. He is officially retired, and practicing under his license as a homeopath. He has made quite a name for himself locally, and is well-respected by one of my doctor relatives.

First off, Dr. H. asked me to tell him my whole story. Everything. When did my symptoms start? How did they change over time? It was literally the first time that any medical professional had spent that much time with me going over the big picture. G.p.'s in Toronto generally spend no more than 15 minutes with a patient at any visit, and usually less than that. We talked for two hours. It was amazing. He really listened too; made lots of notes and marked them up with yellow and purple highlighter; stroked his chin and said "Interesting. Now tell me more about [insert symptom of choice here]."

His impressions from our interview seemed to point to a hormone imbalance. I'm going to get some blood tests done to see if he's on the right track there.

Next up was the electro-dermal testing. This is a technique of testing for sensitivities that has been subject to criticism and is not widely accepted as a standard for medical truth. However, 15 years ago electro-dermal testing was a huge help to me by identifying a number of food sensitivities that I hadn't been aware of. Eliminating those foods from my diet made a major positive difference in my health, so I'm convinced that this type of testing can be illuminating.

In a nutshell, the technique involves running a weak electrical current through the patient's body and the testing machine. A baseline test is done to establish a null response, and then various substances are inserted into the testing machine to measure how they affect the patient's electrical resistance. The output is to a needle on a gauge, and a sonic response. If the machine goes fwooop if means you're doing fine. If the machine goes FWEEEEP, that means you have a sensitivity to that substance, i.e. it stresses your body and you'd be best advised to avoid it.

My friendly tester, Wendy, informed me that they would start by testing various viruses. Obviously all viruses are bad, so I gathered that this particular test is supposed to tell them which viruses you may have been exposed to. There were around two dozen items listed on the recording sheet. I got comfortable and Wendy got started. I was feeling alright initially. The room was warm and the chair was comfy. I waited for the fwoops and FWEEPS while we made idle conversation. I've had this type of testing done twice before and it never felt like much of anything.

This time. OMG. I don't know what was in those test tubes, but as she tested me on certain ones I literally felt waves of horrible, overwhelming physical stress break over my body. At first I thought I could tough it out. Just breathe through it. I would be fine. But then I got to that point where you don't know whether you're going to cry, scream, barf, or faint, or maybe all four at once, so I called a break. Then I broke down and cried because I felt so awful I didn't even care about preserving my dignity anymore.

Wendy got up and conferred with the doctor. Apparently, even in the context of this practice, where Dr. H and Wendy have both worked for thirty years, where the clients are self-selected to be among the most sensitive, reactive humans in southern Ontario, I am VERY SENSITIVE. I am the most sensitive person of the Sensitive People. Not that there was ever any doubt.

We persevered, with several breaks for me to collect myself. With Wendy patting me on the arm encouragingly, we made it through the entire list. To be clear, I have no idea how to interpret the results. They could mean anything, and I won't know until I talk to the doctor at my next visit what it all means. However, I noticed that for every FWEEP Wendy marked a little + sign on her paper. Once when she left the room for a minute I peeked at the results so far. There was a + next to Chronic Fatigue Virus, among others. I felt a certain grim satisfaction in that moment. Although, who knows what it truly means. It's probably too much to hope that anything can be conclusive from this one, slightly sketchy test. At this point I'm still reserving judgement.

The bottom line is that it's going to be a while before I can learn anything further from Dr. H. First I have to get my blood tested for a bunch of things, which means going to my g.p. to get test requisitions (Dr. H. can't do it since he's not a practicing MD officially anymore). I'll have to split the blood tests up into two or three lots, since having a lot of blood drawn in one sitting is something that can trigger my symptoms, so that means several trips to the lab, with time in between to regenerate my precious hemoglobin. Then I have to do at least two more rounds of electro-dermal testing, because I don't have the stamina to tolerate it all in one go, which means driving out to Suburbton and back each time and poor, patient Ken kicking around in the waiting room for the duration because I don't have a driver's license. Once that's all done I can reconvene with Dr. H. and find out what all the puzzle pieces are saying to him.

I'm guessing this whole series of shenanigans and fooferah will take a couple of months. So, stay tuned. The special doctor visit is now a mini-series.

5 days down, none to go!

2011-03-04T21:14:00.000-05:00

It's a miracle that I got through this week.

No one slept the night before our big inspection. I arrived early to ensure that seven boxes of files had been prepared for the assessors as per the instructions we received. I counted the boxes, one for each professional who had been named in the inspectors' letter. Perfect.

A little later I returned to the file room for one last check - and there were eight boxes of files. What the...? I spotted the extra box. It was labelled with the name of a professional who wasn't slated for inspection. I went immediately to his secretary to find out what was going on. Having overheard some of the other secretaries talking about preparing 12 files for each of their bosses, she assumed that she was supposed to too. Essentially she volunteered her boss to be inspected.

This lady's boss would not have appreciated that. I mean really, really not appreciated it. I set her straight and she took off at warp speed to take back the box before any harm was done.

At lunchtime a colleague of mine took lunch orders from all the uppity-ups involved in the day's proceedings, and we set out together to the closest hot-table takeout place. A stout, doughy woman wearing a white apron asked me for my order. I wanted a quarter chicken dinner with potato wedges and steamed veggies. The place packs a lot of food - I've often split one of these orders into two lunches, one for the following day. They keep two sizes of foil containers behind the counter, one the size of a dinner plate, and one a fair bit smaller. The chicken dinner always comes in the large container. The woman behind the counter pulled out a small one.

"I want the chicken with two sides," I said in case there was any misunderstanding. She nodded. Potato wedges went in. Steamed veggies went in. She didn't stint on either. The container was almost full. Then she took the chicken leg and stuck it on top. The lids for these containers are flat, foil-lined cardboard disks. There is none of that extra space you get with a plastic dome.

The chicken was sitting on top of the veggies so its bottom edge was almost level with the container's top edge. The woman took the cardboard lid, positioned it on top of my chicken, laid her big, wide hand over the lid, and pressed down hard. The lid sank down, but not far enough. She repositioned her hand, and pressed harder. Man, she mashed my lunch but good. I half-expected her to turn around, jump up on the counter and sit on it. I was slightly tempted to complain, but the scene was so comical that I figured I'd rather just let her go for it and enjoy the slapstick.

For all that, lunch tasted fine. It didn't matter to me that my potato wedges were flat.

There is someone on my staff who is on vacation right now, and her absence is creating a huge volume of work. I have two people helping out, but one is new to it and the other is slow and inaccurate, so I'm doing some of the work myself and double-checking everything else line-by-line. It's basically data-entry for a never-ending stream of repetitive, monotonous reports. If I never see another one it'll be too soon. Sadly, the only woman who can save me won't be back for yet another week. When I close my eyes at night I see these reports swimming on the backs of my eyelids. I wake up with a dry mouth and knots in my shoulders, dreaming about data entry errors. Five days down this week - I did it!

Five more days next week. I can do it!

Talking about it.

2011-02-26T18:49:00.000-05:00

I went back to work for a couple of days at the end of this week, and boyoboy is there a lot going on there. Our workplace is being audited and inspected by an authoritative organization next week, and everyone is scrambling to get ready. On top of that we are starting to work toward going paperless; that'll be a major project for the next 6 months. And I'm dealing with an employee who is great in many ways (reliable, pleasant, professional), however she's not detail-oriented. I'm working with her to see if her accuracy can be increased to acceptable levels, but I'm not counting on it. I'll be spending most of my time the next couple of weeks double-checking all her work and providing corrections. At least we'll be able to say that we tried if things don't work out.

The bottom line is that I'd better get well and do it quickly, because there are things to be done that cannot wait.

When I went back to work I took some time out with a couple of the other managers whom I work closely with to let them know about my health situation. I figure the people who have to cover for me or suffer inconveniences during my absence have the right to know why I've been out of commission. I also wanted to line up their sympathies in advance in case should I need more time off. These managers are all women I've worked with for years, who know me well. We have mutually trusting relationships, and they know that I'm not the type to slack off because of laziness.

Two of my co-workers were concerned and sympathetic. Interestingly, it was the one woman who has her own chronic health issues who irritated me with her response. She felt compelled to remind me that it's important to think positive and to push through feelings like "I can't do it" and just carry on. I found this annoying, although I know she meant well, for several reasons:

1) The last time I pushed through my fatigue because I was thinking positively, I ended up in the emergency room because I had overexerted myself. The hard lesson that I have to learn is to not push myself, but to listen to my body.

2) There is an implied accusation in there that I've been a Moping Molly and need to be told to pull up my socks, keep my chin up, and put on a happy face. While I've been situationally grouchy because aches, pains, and fatigue tend to do that to a person, I have successfully not wallowed in self-pity or pessimism (this time). I find it condescending that this woman should feel compelled to tell me how to think or what to feel, especially when I don't need that type of reminder. I can remind myself, thanks very much.

3) I find any statement that sounds even remotely like "It's all in your mind" to be offensive. Just because I don't have a diagnosis for my recurring fatigue, fever, and tender/stiff joints doesn't mean that I made my symptoms up out of the clear blue sky, due to wrong thinking. I used to be quite depressed for years on end, and at that time it seemed plausible that my symptoms were related to the depression. However, in the past three years I have not had any prolonged feelings of depression. Certain elements of my job do generate some appropriate anxiety, but there has been no correlation between my anxiety and my symptoms. If that had been the case I would have been disabled last year when I was responsible for moving the entire company to a new location. I got through that OK with nothing more than a 2-day-long head cold to show for it.

The New Age movement has gone too far, in my opinion, with the "you create your own reality" business. Yes, there is certainly some truth to that statement. But we cannot control everything in our lives with our intentions, and that kind of thinking results in people blaming themselves for things that aren't within their control. It's not my fault that I'm sick. Whether it's caused by a virus, an auto-immune dysfunction, or by environmental sensitivities, it's not my fault.

I spent today searching up blogs written by people with CFS and fibromyalgia, just to feel less isolated and freakish. I know I don't have either of those syndromes because I'm not as disabled as people who earn those official diagnoses, but it still helped. I also read on one of the medical sites that for every person with full-blown CFS there are around 10 who have milder versions of the problem. There are a lot of us, although people tend not to talk about it. Right now, I can't not talk about it.

I'm still achey and running a low fever. I know that I'm not well yet when I get up first thing in the morning and put my feet on the floor. If my feet feel sore when I stand up, that means the episode isn't over yet. It's not over yet.

In which I meet two Elvises

2011-02-22T20:08:00.000-05:00

In Canada, this past Monday was a statutory holiday recently added to the calendar by our government. It's called Family Day. I guess they figured that makes it sound nice; better than the "Civic Holiday" we get in August. Yay random long weekend!

Knowing I'd be able to sleep in on Monday, I accepted an invitation from a friend to go to karaoke night at a dive bar in the east end. My friend is a regular there, and was in fact a finalist in the seasonal karaoke competition on Sunday night.

We were warned that the venue was sketchy, that it's the type of place where people get thrown out for brawling as a matter of course on Fridays and Saturdays. Sunday are supposedly quieter.

The place was pretty big, and looked like exactly what it was: a big, functional space for lots of people to do some serious drinking. There was no decor to speak of. It was dark. There were no cozy, upholstered booths and no fake British pubby-type paraphernalia. All the surfaces were made to be easily wiped down and disinfected. There were rows of plain, dark tables flanked by plain, dark wooden chairs. Everything was old and worn.

Val had arranged to meet a big group of friends there, so we pushed a bunch of tables together. At the front, a large woman in a red satin shirt was setting up the karaoke stage, along with a single led lamp which cast multicoloured, moving patterns on the ceiling. I got a can of ginger ale and sipped it all night.

There were only a couple of rowdy drinkers in the house. There was a skinny guy wearing nylon warm-up pants and an old white sweatshirt with an oil pastel drawing of a dog's head in profile and the word "Rottweiler" arching over it. He was sitting across from a woman dressed all in black with long black hair. They had a parade of beer glasses marching across their table, some full, some empty. From their behaviour I made a guess that they were also tripping on something stronger than beer. The woman kept getting up to dance in this weird, drifty way, waving her arms very slowly in the air, and watching her own feet with intense concentration. The guy was hyper as anything. He could barely keep his butt on his chair. Anytime there was music he was all over the dance floor, bashing into people and generally having himself a great time. Eventually the guy became so irritating that he got kicked out, or rather dragged out by the neck of his sweatshirt by the big woman in the red satin shirt.

The karaoke contest was pretty awesome. There were two ladies and two men up for the title, and both men were doing the Elvis thing. They both had the longish black hair and lamb-chop sideburns. One of them even had a full Elvis-in-Vegas costume: white with a gold cape, gold triangles inset into the flares of the trousers, lots of bling, and a belt buckle the size of a trade paperback. In the end, the other Elvis won. The judges had each contestant sing a song of the judges' choosing, and Brown Elvis (he was of east Indian origin) absolutely killed "It's Raining Men".

It was a lot of fun. I cheered and clapped for the good singers and only slightly less for the terrible ones. Yes I did get up and sing one song: Thorn In My Side by the Eurythmics. I was mediocre.

We stayed out until the scandalously late hour of half-past midnight, and then took our time driving home in a thickening layer of slushy snow. I was in bed before two and got eight hours of sleep. Why do I mention this? Wait for it.

Next day I went out with my sister for a healthy, vegan dinner. I had a sore throat, but I had cheered a lot the night before, so I figured that was why. I also felt tired, but that was jet lag, yes? I enjoyed a nice, sisterly bonding time over good food (yay for vegan cheesecake!) and then went out into the frigid cold to wait for the streetcar and froze my butt for a while.

When I got home I felt achey and chilled. Then my teeth started chattering - after I got indoors. I took my temperature. It was up, and kept going up. It was one of those nights. I layered on extra blankets and slept in a fleece jacket. My body was shivering but I felt like my cheeks were going to spontaneously burst into flames. I didn't sleep much. (Medical note: no I can't take an Aspirin/Advil/Tylenol/[insert drug of comfort here] because they burn holes in my guts). So, yeah. Sick again! For the love of Pete. I missed another day of work. We'll just have to see about tomorrow. I'm still not sure.

I had not mentioned that I was going to a special doctor tomorrow to find out why I feel crappy 75% of the time. He specializes in Chronic Fatigue and Multiple Chemical Sensitivities and the like. I was all set to go, until I got sick again, and then I had to cancel, because it costs $500 for the appointment, and if you don't give them 24 hours notice that you're cancelling they charge you anyway, and I didn't want to risk that, so I cancelled first thing this morning. In other words, I was too sick to find out why I'm "always" sick. Honestly. Anyway, it's rebooked for two weeks from now, and I'll let all ya'll know how it goes.

Urban Adventures

2011-02-18T22:44:00.000-05:00

This morning, for the first time in almost a month, I woke up before my alarm, feeling rested and ready to start my day. Three cheers!

Getting to work and home again has been an adventure the past couple of days. Yesterday, a sudden warm spell turned packed snow and rough ice into fields of smooth ice slicked over with water. During my walk to work, there were several patches where I had to shuffle one inch at a time over precarious footing, and even at that I almost went down a couple of times. I had to do the Wacky Waving Inflatable Arm Flailing Tube Man dance to stay vertical.

This morning the ground was less treacherous. All the ice on the sidewalks had melted - into giant, lake-like puddles. At one point I danced my way through a puddle that was eight feet long and, at the middle, four inches deep. Fortunately, I had my rubber-bottomed boots on, so my feet stayed dry. Unfortunately, I brought my stuff to work in a canvas granny buggy instead of a handbag, because I had plans to go downtown after work and bring back some substantial shopping. The wheels of the granny buggy did not quite clear the waves in this mega-puddle, and the bottom of the canvas got soaked. Fortunately, none of the contents of the buggy sustained any water damage.

My adventure downtown was more exciting than I would have liked. First I went to see my naturopath. Then I got back on the subway train to go slipper shopping. I have been inside in my jammies and slippers so much this winter that I've worn out two of my three pairs of slippers.*

*Yes, I do need three pairs. They all have a purpose. Slip-ons to keep by the bed at night, so I don't freeze my footsies when I get up; leather moccasins for lounging around in style; and big, puffy booties for when I'm seriously chilly.

When I got off the train at the slipper shop station, the platforms were packed. This station is a major downtown hub where two track lines cross. An announcement had come on the P.A. system a few minutes ago stating that one section of track, covering five very popular stations, was closed due to some poor soul sustaining "a personal injury at track level" at the next station to the north. The station was already crammed to capacity with anxious crowds. I could barely weasel my way through the crush to get out of there.

I went to The Bay where I scored a pair of $ 28 slippers for $ 9 on super-end-of-season-markdown. Sweet! Then I went back downstairs to the station, but I didn't get anywhere near the entrance. It was still chockablock with crowds.

I wheeled my granny buggy through the underground shopping tunnels on foot to the next subway station. My plan was to take the other arm of the line north, and then go across by bus. I got on a train and went to another station where I could switch to a northbound train. As soon as I arrived and dragged my buggy up two flights of stairs, another announcement declared that the delay was cleared. Alright then. I figured I'd just wait a few minutes for the crowds to clear out and then head back in the direction I'd come from. I went back down the stairs, sat down and read my book for ten minutes, at which point another announcement stated that the delay wasn't clear after all and the track was still closed. For the love of Pete...

I ended up taking the long, roundabout route home, including a ride on a packed bus in go-nowhere traffic that took around ten years, but I finally made it to my station. Then my granny buggy and I set out for the 15-minute walk home, which would have been uneventful, but for an absolutely ridiculous wind that had kicked up since I was last outside.

This wind blew in my face so aggressively that, when it was gusting, it stopped me in my tracks. Walking: it consists of picking up one foot and then falling forward onto it. The wind was so strong that it stopped me from falling forward. I ended up kind of marching in place half the time. Not only that, but my canvas granny buggy became a nice big sail, windsurfing me in the wrong direction. At one point I started laughing like a maniac because everything in the universe seemed to be conspiring against my goal of getting home.

But I did get home. And my new slippers are super comfy.