Vampires Got Me

I'm slightly feverish, but I couldn't resist writing a post to solicit sympathy. At this point there's nothing that I want more than to have as many people as possible go "Aw, poor you!" and send me hugs. There, I'm being up front about it. No sneaky manipulation on this blog.

It all started on Thursday, when I went to talk to my doctor about my blood test results. You know how when people say they "just want to talk" but it turns out they want more? Well... he can't get my anemia under control. Lots of iron going in, in the form of my daily "rust juice" supplement. Not too much iron coming out in any perceptible way. So it must be a problem with absorption or iron metabolism.

He pulled out a lab requisition and started writing a laundry list of all the tests he wanted done. To myself, I was all "Again? Dang, I just had blood drawn three weeks ago." But I didn't think much of it. As long as I lie down during the process I've always been fine to get it over with and go back to work after.

Apparently 3 weeks wasn't long enough for my blood to regenerate. I read online later that your blood pressure stabilizes within 24 hours with added water content, but all the cells that actually get the job done, like platelets and white cells, don't regenerate for 4 - 6 weeks depending on how much blood was lost. Oops. Add to that the fact that I'm small, 115 lbs, so relative to my overall blood volume each vial is a higher percentage of what I've got to work with.

I don't know how many vials they took, because I don't look. It was a fairly painless procedure. The lab tech had a very gentle touch with the needle and it was all over quickly. I didn't feel overly anxious. But I couldn't seem to get up off the examining table. Every time I swung my feet over the edge and levered myself up on one elbow I started seeing grey spots. I'd lie down and try again a few minutes later - same thing. Also, my teeth were chattering. I wasn't sure why.

Eventually they brought me some water to drink, and I ate an apple I had with me. That gave me enough energy to get up and travel back to work, but I really wasn't feeling very well. I thought I just needed a little more time to find my equilibrium.

I wasn't at work for very long before I realized I was feeling worse. I couldn't stand up for long without getting that horrible squeezing feeling in my back that I recognize as a prelude to blacking out. I could only walk at a shuffle. I kept feeling like I might start to cry.

I called Ken, who came and brought me home. I couldn't understand why I felt so horrible. This was unprecedented. Surely I'd have a lie down and feel back to myself by evening. But I had very little appetite for dinner. Then the aches and chills started. I got out a thermometer and found I was running a fever. What the heck? I guess my body got waaaaay stressed out from losing too much blood.

The night was miserable. I can't take Aspirin, Tylenol or any of that clique of fever-busting drugs. I tossed and turned and moaned and groaned. Finally at 3 am I remembered that I had a homeopathic remedy at the back of the bathroom cabinet, and dug it out. I'd never tried it before, but Hallelujah, it made me feel well enough to sleep.

This stuff works almost like magic.

Long story short, I'm still at home recuperating. Still keeping the fever down with doses of Oscillococcinum. (Sheesh - could they not have picked a name that's a little easier to spell?) Still feeling frustratingly weak. The annoying thing is that this was totally avoidable. I wish my doctor and/or the lab would have counted the days since my last blood tests and advised me to wait. You can bet that I'll be careful in the future.

So, sadly, I've been on the phone, progressively cancelling more and more of my weekend plans. I was supposed to be out right how having dinner with a friend. Tomorrow I'm missing singing practice (I'd be a fool to believe that I could stand up for 2 hours). And who knows about Sunday? If I'm not better by then I'll be missing two birthday parties. Super bummer.

Anyone out there want to give me a transfusion?

The good, the bad, and the ugly

The Good:

On Monday I went to a girlfriend's house to be spoiled. She had been to an organic farm the day before, picking veggies with her own hands. I sat on a wooden chair and we chatted as she washed, peeled, and chopped. Before long the kitchen was filled with the scent of fresh rice and vegetarian green curry.

We lounged in her bed-sitting room, which is full of pillows, silk scarves draped over things, and little fairy lights strung across the ceiling and over the window frame. Her cats snuggled up to me and covered me with the fur of their affection. We talked about all the things good friends talk about. It was splendid.

The Bad:

This week I have had troubling news of two ill relatives.

One beloved of mine had some very troubling test results, and is facing the possibility of surgery. I am sending her big hugs (I think she may be reading this - Hello!) and big love. The news is mainly hopeful, but it's still been a very scary and uncomfortable experience for her and her close family.

Yesterday I had news that someone on the other side of my family is headed on a steep downward slope towards a nervous breakdown. She is to the point where she's not eating consistently, not bathing, and not able to keep her home clean. This side of the family has always been strangled by strict No Talk rules. I.e. there are very few real things that they will actually communicate on at any relevant level. We will have to break some of the No Talk rules to save my beloved relative, if she's willing to be saved. So far she's rejected all helpful suggestions of therapists, vacations, medications, or even company for a cup of tea. It's a bad situation.

I'm praying for both of my loved ones with all my heart.

The Ugly:

(LL Cool Joe: Grossness warning!! Avert your eyes!)

This morning I coughed up an unspeakably nasty phlegm demon. At first I thought this was a bad sign: The infection is upon me! I'm getting worse again! Hustle for some antibiotics!

But then I felt so much better within the hour that I now believe it was an exorcism. My throat hasn't tickled and I've barely coughed all day. My pathetic-o-meter rating is falling as I write! (By which I mean - I am becoming tangibly less pathetic before your very eyes!)

Once it had left my body, the phlegm demon scuttled off and down into the sewer system. I heard the echoes of its evil laughter retreating. So look out. Beware of the drains. It's looking for its next victim.

(((HUGS)))

Thanks everybody for the love, support, and suggestions. It helps a lot to know that all y'all are out there, caring and sending me healing thoughts and prayers.

In answer to a couple of comments: I take a multivitamin with a B-complex every day, but it's not a "high" dose. 25 mg of each of the Big B's. It would be a good idea to add a little extra. Next time I'm out shopping I'll see if I can find an additional B complex take on top of the multi for the time being.

I have a couple of options if I'm desperate to sleep and not having any luck. I can take a herbal helper, or sometimes I'll go find Ken, who stays up late, and he'll mix me up a medicinal drink. I'm not even a social drinker, so it doesn't take much to unwind me. Booze works better and faster than the herbs, but for obvious reasons I don't want to overdo that route. Either option usually leaves me feeling much more drowsy than usual in the morning. Neither is much help if the insomnia comes at 3:30 am. I can't take a pill or a drink if I'm supposed to wake up and go to work in 3 hours.

As for other pharmaceutical options, I'm taking a "wait and see" approach. If there were such a thing as a short-term anti-depressant, I'd be thrilled to take it. The thing is, most of them take 4 - 6 months to kick in, and then they're hard to stop. I'm hoping that I can at least count on feeling better by 3 months from now! If I don't, well, whatever, I'd let them stick horse tranquilizers into my veins by that point.

I want to make it clear that while I have my dark moments, especially in the wee hours of the morning, I'm not just flopping down on the floor and giving myself over to despair. The horrible anxiety episodes tend to come at night. In the daytime, as long as I'm not ridiculously tired I can get myself dressed, put on makeup, and be almost normal.

Yesterday I went to church, which, while I have complained bitterly about some of the church politics here lately, was an uplifting, comforting experience. What I think about the church and what I feel in my heart while I'm there are often two very different stories.

Ken and I went for lunch at a favourite restaurant downtown. It's casual, cheap, healthy, and has a good view of a major intersection out the front and side windows, making for excellent people-watching. The University of Toronto Engineering frosh were up to some shenanigans on the street corner, making a lot of noise and hassling passers-by for donations to the Sick Children's hospital as part of their orientation/hazing. On our way out I dropped a Toonie into their collection hard-hat. All 12 or so students in the group pointed at me and chanted "This lady rocks! This lady rocks! This lady rocks!" which was the silliest thing that's happened to me in a long time. I mean that in a good way.

The weather was perfect. Blue skies, not too warm, the epitome of a lovely summer day. We were close enough to the Canadian National Exhibition fairgrounds that the jet planes from the air show flew over us as they looped back from their demonstration runs. For the next hour or so as we strolled along Queen St., at intervals the air would begin to tremble, then shake, then rip apart as yet another specimen of Canadian or American Air Force muscle burned a streak across the high, blue sky. Sometimes the planes were so close that we could see the details of their paint jobs as they tore overhead. Other times the entire world would fill with their vibrations, echoing off tall buildings and all around, but the planes themselves would be out of view behind a stand of trees or something, and the noise seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

The air show is an end-of-summer ritual that always cheers me up. It's fun, it's predictable, and yet always exciting. I have been to see it from down at the fairgrounds, where you can hear announcements over a wobbly P.A. system describing what type of planes are being flown and by whom, but it's actually more fun to be out somewhere random in the city when suddenly nine Snowbirds shoot past overhead in tight formation, and you're clenching your jaws to keep all the fillings from vibrating out of your teeth.

I hear they have a special clean-up crew at the CNE for after they air show. They go around with soft brooms and micro-accurate vacuum cleaners, collecting the shreds of blown-out eardrums that collect in drifts against the bleacher supports thanks to the breeze off the lake.

We stopped in a bakery for treats, and then window-shopped, swigging Perrier out of small, green-glass bottles.

We strolled through the lushly green grounds of Trinity-Bellwoods park amongst young people working on their tans and/or showing off their ink.

Despite being a little more tired than "normal" (whatever "normal" is - it's getting difficult to remember at this stage), I relaxed and enjoyed the day.

Of course I still couldn't fall asleep at night. After tossing and turning for two hours with frustrated adrenaline building up to toxic levels in my bloodstream, I went back out into the living room and let Ken get me tipsy on orange juice mixed with vodka and Disaronno. We watched Ghost World, or at least Ken watched the whole thing and I watched until my drunky eyelids started drooping and I got back into my bed and passed out. At least I got to sleep in this morning.

If I didn't have to work, it might almost be fun to live like this: stay up late with Ken every night, sipping mixed drinks and watching indie films together. Ah well. Better luck tonight, perhaps. *fingers crossed*

Struggling

I have a good life, and I know it. But right now, I'm struggling.

All last week I had just enough energy to work for around 6 hours each day, and then come home and crash out. Except the one day I came home at 4pm, had a nap for 45 minutes, then glued my contact lenses back onto my tired eyeballs and went out for an evening work event. All I had to do was sit around, eat a nice dinner, and make pleasant conversation. How could that be tiring? I don't know. But it was.

Saturday was my catch-up-on-rest day. I slept for twelve hours on Friday night, and then had a long nap on Saturday afternoon. I had made a deal with myself that I would be feeling good by Sunday. I could feel my energy returning, and I knew that it would just take one good rest to get back to myself. I was looking forward to that as my reward for suffering patiently all month with the stupid virus.

My energy did come back, but not how I wanted it to. For the two weeks before I caught the virus, I had anxiety and insomnia. It came back during the brief break between when I initially got sick and when I got re-sick. And now, you guessed it, it's back again.

Last night I woke up at 4:15 am. It wasn't just one of those jet-laggy wake-ups that happen when you've been sleeping too much during the day. It was a full-on stomach-clenching, eye-squeezing, tearful, lengthy anxiety attack. I won't say panic attack - it wasn't that severe. But it was pretty freaking uncomfortable. And unpleasantly familiar.

Great. I finally get over my illness. Now I have enough energy to go back to having anxiety and insomnia. Perfect.

I know, I know. Maybe it's just a one-off. Maybe I'm just re-adjusting to normality. I shouldn't catastrophize and assume that this is how it's going to be for the rest of the week/month/my whole pitiful life. (Yes, I am feeling a little sorry for myself.) But it's getting harder and harder to pick my chin up off the ground and keep going. The boundary between my dark thoughts and my conscious control is getting mightily thin.

Still Freaking Sick

This virus is a really nasty piece of work.

Ken and my step-dad both had it before me. They both say it was around two weeks before they felt well enough to get back to some semblance of their regular routines. Step-dad states he's still only 95% well. Ken is at 90%.

I've been sick for one week now. Chances are I'm only halfway done, based on the precedents.

I do feel a little better than I did. The low fever I was running for the first three days seems to be pretty much gone. But I still have very little energy, and my chest aches, boo hoo. At least my head is clear.

It was almost easier having the fever. I could zone out and stare at the TV all day, slipping in and out of naps. (I'm lucky that I still have cable for another two weeks.) When my brain started getting back to normal, the stir-crazy kicked in. I started thinking about work and everything that must be piling up there. So on Friday, I decided to go in for a couple of hours.

Ken was going to give me a ride. But he was still sleeping by the time I was ready to go. A combination of optimism and obstinacy prompted me to take my usual walk to work. It's only a few blocks. On a normal day I can get there in 15 minutes at a fast pace. I was feeling so cooped up. I really like my walks.

Halfway to work, I realized I'd made a big mistake. My heart was labouring and I felt the beginnings of faintness. I looked for a place to sit down, but I was on Yonge St. The sidewalk was dirty and I was wearing nice, beige trousers. I slowed to a shuffle and willed myself to keep going.

A cab pulled up and dropped off a passenger when I was three blocks from work. I should have hailed it and taken a ride the rest of the way, given the driver a really big tip. But I couldn't bring myself to give in. Surely I could make it.

I did make it, but I was completely drained. It took half an hour for me to fully catch my breath, and for the nasty squeezing sensations in my chest to settle down. Yes, I did do some work since I was there. I kept my office door closed and stayed well away from other humans, to prevent sharing my disease.

A few hours later I called Ken to come and pick me up. I was done. At home, once I was lying down, the aches came back, the fever came back... I had stupidly overdone it. So I cancelled all my plans for the weekend. Next week if I go in to work, I'll start with half days. And I won't be walking anywhere for a while.

The Experiments

Wretched virus. I've been down for the count since last Sunday with some kind of flu. It could be worse. I don't have a sore throat or tummy troubles. For the first three days I was in and out of a low fever. Yesterday afternoon I felt so much better I set my alarm to go in to work this morning. It was not to be. I'm too weak. I had to go back to bed. I'm getting sick of being sick. But like I said, it could be worse.

I don't like being off my schedule for so long. I'm an achiever. I get satisfaction from my weekdays based on how much I got done. Sitting on my butt for this long makes me anxious. What can I do about it? Sit on my butt some more and wait. :-p

For now, I'm going to tell you two stories. They explain how I finally concluded, to my satisfaction, that I really do pick up on other peoples' feelings with a sixth sense, not the regular five.

I'm a scientific woman. In high school I was that geek that got A+ on all my math, chemistry, physics, and computer science courses. I have a mystical side, but I'm not one to completely throw rationality and logic out the window. Even if I can't document these experiments so that others can duplicate them, at least I proved something to myself.

The first experience happened when I was taking a night course in intuition. I can't remember most of what we did in the course. It was pretty dippy stuff, some of it. The reason I signed up was that it was a pre-requisite for a "professional" two-year part-time program in psychotherapy at the same school. The school was New Age. Some of the things they taught had merit, and, in my opinion, other things were way out to lunch. However, it was the best school I could find at the time, so I tried to get what I could out of it.

On the last night of the course, we did this exercise. Half the class put on blindfolds and sat across from empty chairs, placed in a circle. The other half of the class walked around the outside of the circle until they received a signal from the teacher, at which time they sat down across from whomever they were closest to, musical chairs style. The sighted person gave one hand to the blindfolded person to hold. The blindfolded one had to talk for some time, maybe five or ten minutes, about whatever impressions they got from that hand.

I didn't know anyone in the class very well. When it came my turn to be blindfolded, I didn't even know if the hand I held was that of a male or female. One of the restrictions was that the sighted person was not to utter a sound during the experiment or give any type of feedback. I had no clue who was sitting across from me.

I started to ramble. It's very weird to talk to an unknown person for a long time about whatever pictures form inside one's head. I felt like I must sound crazy or stupid. I started describing a house that I saw, a very specific house. It was not in the city. It was in the country, near a lake. I saw that the main living room and kitchen did not have flat ceilings, but opened to the underside of a peaked wooden roof, like that of a log cabin. The kitchen had sliding glass doors at the back, opening onto a wooden deck, which faced a thickly wooded forest. I described a dog, and some other aspects of the house. I described activities I saw the occupant of the home doing, like jogging and embroidery. At one point the hand I held began shaking noticeably. I had no idea what that signified.

Finally we took our blindfolds off. I was sitting across from a 30-ish woman with her long hair pulled back in a braid. She told me that I'd just described her home as well as if I'd been there, including her dog and her hobbies. She said the only thing that was slightly off is that she doesn't do embroidery - she knits. The reason her hand started shaking was that she couldn't help but laugh with surprise at how clearly I'd seen her life.

I suppose she could have been lying, but she seemed genuine to me. I was pretty freaked out by that experience. I was convinced that I'd really tapped into something.

The second experience was at the same school, in the actual psychology course. We were learning techniques to use with clients to get to their hidden emotions. The technique being demonstrated that day was the use of non-verbal vocalization.

One student volunteered to be the subject, and the teacher played the therapist. They started talking about a certain topic, and when they were well into it the teacher invited the student to express her feelings vocally in a non-verbal way. The student, naturally feeling self-conscious, made a few odd noises, and then started to laugh at herself.

The teacher encouraged her to continue. She made a few more noises, and this cracked her up even more. The teacher also started to smile. The rest of the students, myself included, were seated nearby on a couple of old sofas in the corner of the room. My classmates had started giggling.

Meanwhile, out of the blue, I began to feel sad. I had felt fine when we all came back from lunch, and could not explain to myself why I had a sudden urge to curl up into a ball and hug myself.

The experiment escalated. The student up front kept sounding louder and laughing more. My classmates on the sofas laughed until they were holding their stomachs. The teacher was laughing. The student at the front laughed until she could hardly stand up straight.

I felt like I was going to burst out in tears at any moment. I thought I might have to leave the room. I distinctly remember asking myself what was wrong with me. I thought it was just another manifestation of my messed-up craziness that I couldn't join in with my classmates for an innocent laugh. I felt stupid and left out.

But then, just when I was on the verge of actually letting tears pour down my cheeks, something shifted in the room. The student at the front suddenly broke down. Her laughter turned to weeping; great wrenching sobs from the gut. This was the subconscious emotion that the teacher had meant to uncover. And I had been feeling her repressed feelings, until she finally let them out.

As soon as she broke down, all the sadness lifted off me in one wonderful, relieving wave. I felt completely fine again, instantly. Everyone else in the room calmed down, stopped laughing, and put suitably sympathetic expressions on their faces. Meanwhile, I was trying to absorb the meaning of what had just happened. It was moment of realization that I'll never forget. I can't imagine a more clear demonstration of the process. I was lucky to have been present at that class, so that I could finally understand the process of my own intuition.

I never did finish that psychotherapy course. This was years before I discovered any type of protection from all the unfelt feelings floating around in the ether, so I was a sitting duck. In that course a lot of touchy subjects came up, but there wasn't time for every student in the classroom to express their emotions regarding how the subjects of addiction, or sexual abuse, or violence, had touched their own lives. Sitting in that classroom was very difficult for me, because there was so much Other Peoples' Stuff swimming around just below the surface. I even developed physical aches and pains which I believe were as a result of all the emotional pain I was being exposed to.

I attended most of the classes, but declined to do the next step: 100 hours of case studies. I didn't think it would be good for my health to continue.

So there you go. Those are the best proofs I can offer of the truth of my abilities, for what it's worth. And I don't think there's anything wrong with asking for proof of some sort. There's way too much wishful thinking in the New Age movement. It'd be easy to get lost in a world of daydreams. I don't intend to do so.

Honeymoon Abrupt Ending

I'm back!  A lawfully wedded wife, now.  And very happy with my wedding weekend.

Why am I back at the computer blogging instead of lolling around in honeymoon paradise?  It all comes down to traffic.

We had to make several trips between uptown and downtown this weekend.  It just so happened that, (the only blot on an otherwise flawless wedding plan), the city of Toronto chose this weekend to close down the only major north-south highway running through the centre of town, for spring pothole maintenance.  We took a longer route (all the way around to Dufferin and then back to Yonge again, if you're curious) to avoid the traffic backups, but unfortunately the long drive resulted in two instances of me toughing out the discomfort of a very full bladder.  I should know better.  I should have asked Ken to pull over at a coffee shop, but on Saturday I was in my wedding gown and didn't want to attract attention to myself.  On Sunday I was tired, lazy, and it was cold out, so I didn't want to leave the car.  I really should have known better.  I've put myself in this position before.

I woke up this morning at 5:00 am, whimpering in pain.  Bladder infection.  Wicked ouch.  

At least I'm super-spoiled in one respect: I work with doctors.  I watched TV with a hot pack on my abdomen until 8:30 am and then called one of the g.p.'s  at work.  He faxed a prescription for me to a local pharmacy, and Ken's already gone to pick it up.  I don't even have to leave the house to get what I need, let alone sit in a waiting room.  I am very lucky.

Anyway, the pain's not too bad at the moment.  I'm home with nothing I need to do.  Ken's here to sympathize and bring me cranberry juice.  Life could be worse.  

I want to wait until I'm feeling better before I tell you my wedding tale, so that I can bring a full measure of enthusiasm and descriptive detail to it.  I will say this:  it was pretty much perfect.  Or at least as perfect as any earthly event can hope to be.

I actually slept pretty well the night before.  Everything was all planned out for the Big Day.  I had typed out a detailed itinerary.  The flowers were already at the church, as was the cake.  My overnight case was mostly packed.  All the participants were confirmed.

The day dawned to the most gorgeous weather imaginable.  I didn't have to rush to get ready.  We left on time, and basically ticked our way through the itinerary without a single hiccup.  We were relaxed, and enjoyed the day.  

Our friends and family are amazing.  The photos will be beautiful.  The fancy hotel we stayed in did not disappoint.  All these stories and more, coming soon to this blog.

***

But in the meantime, owie!  I knew that would happen.  As soon as I typed "the pain isn't too bad" it started ramping up again.

If you don't want to hear any gory details, stop reading now.  

I don't get bladder infections often, but when I do, SHAZAM!  It's never mild.  It's always a wake-up-in-the-night-in-agony situation.  This one that I have right now is as "mild" as I've ever had it.  Typically I'm actually panting with pain within a few hours of the onset.

I'm really hoping that the pain doesn't get any worse, now that I can't take painkillers at all due to the stomach upset they bring on.  *fingers crossed*  

Last time this happened, a few years ago, I went to a walk-in clinic to get antibiotics.  Two hours later, after the clinic had closed, the pain ratcheted itself up into the "extreme" category.  Ken drove me to the emergency room to get a prescription for pain medicine.

I'll always remember the unkind nurse who admitted me.  She asked me to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten, where ten was the worst pain I'd ever experienced.  I thought about it, and rated it as an eight.  The pain was so bad that I was clenching my teeth and whispering a breathy "silent scream" each time I went to the bathroom.  The nurse stuck her nose up in the air and told me that that was impossible, and I shouldn't exaggerate.  "It's just a bladder infection."  I told her she could put down any number she felt was correct, but that relative to my experience of pain in the past it was 8 out of 10.  She rolled her eyes and asked me for a urine sample.

I went and tortured myself in the bathroom once again, then brought back the bottle and handed it to her.  It was the bright red colour of artificially-flavoured fruit punch.  The other nurse on duty was suitably impressed.  "Um, that would be positive for blood in the urine," she said, marking something on my chart.

SEE? I wanted to yell at the mean nurse.  Look at all that nasty blood!  Now do you believe that it hurts?

Seriously.  If they give you a relative scale by which to judge your pain, they shouldn't be surprised that they don't get the answers they want.  If I'd ever had a limb amputated without anaesthetic, my answer of how bad the pain was relative to "the worst I'd ever experienced" might have been somewhat different. 

Anyway, ow.  It's starting in again, and I can't think of a witty way to wrap up.  So, bye!  I'm off to take my first antibiotic tablet.  Yaaaaay medicine!

The Naturopath

Last week, I finally got around to seeing my naturopath.  As you know, I was stuck in a loop: I don't feel motivated to go see him unless my aches and pains are bothering me, but when I'm sore and tired I can't summon the energy to drag myself all the way downtown to his office.

I used to live closer to Marty.  I've been seeing him on and off since I was in my early 20's, 13 years ago.  His office was only one subway stop away from the basement apartment I shared with my first husband before we were married.  It takes an hour to get there from where I live today.

Marty has seen me through a lot.  I'm not sure what helps me more, his skill with homeopathy, accupuncture, and flower remedies, or his kind, steady presence.  I can tell him anything, from the very personal to the very bizarre, and nothing seems to ruffle his feathers.  And yet, I know without a shadow of a doubt that he cares.

Back in 1996 I was going through a phase of severe anxiety.  I must have left a message on Marty's voice mail betraying my desperation through the tone of my voice.  I don't remember what I said.  What I do know was that I was in the middle of compulsively scrubbing out the basement apartment to burn off my nervous energy when there was an unexpected knocking.  I put down my rags, bucket, and rubber gloves to open the door, and there was Marty.  He had cycled all the way over, unannounced, because he was worried about me.  He had brought a remedy to help me.  Talk about above and beyond the call of duty. He never charged me for that house call. 

I've changed a lot since then, but Marty, steady Freddy that he is, seems to be mainly the same.  He has some grey hairs in his moustache and lines around his eyes, but his calming manner and easy laugh are just as they were 15 years ago.  His office is also pretty much as it was, except now he takes notes on an MacBook laptop computer.

Marty works from a 2-room office in a converted house.  The little room in the back contains a table where he gives accupuncture treatments.  The larger room is where he does his consultations.  It has an unused wood-burning fireplace framed by a beautiful wooden mantle.  The mantle is covered with tiny bottles of almost every type of flower essence available.

The rest of the room is devoted to wood-and-glass cabinets.  One contains large, glass bottles of herbal tinctures.  The rest are filled with hundreds upon hundreds of glass tubes, each smaller than a tube of lipstick.  This is his homeopathic apothecary.  Without exaggerating I'd bet that he has at least two thousand different types of granules.

These little tubes cover every available surface.  The tops of the filing cabinets are all populated, as is much of Marty's desk and the edges of all the bookshelves.  Everytime he shuffles papers on his desk or goes looking for a pen he knocks over half-a-dozen of these bottles which go rolling off like miniature bowling pins.  How he keeps track of them all is beyond me.

I sat with Marty for an hour and told him my tales of woe.  He took lots of notes and asked questions.  In the end he said he'd have to do some research.  He had a particular remedy in mind for me, but he couldn't remember the name of it.  It must be an obscure one.  He'll be calling me about it next week.

In the meantime I stopped at one of the health food stores where I used to work,  back in the day, and picked up an off-the-shelf homeopathic arthritis remedy.  It won't be as lasting or as personal a cure as what Marty will come up with, but it's something to have on hand just in case my symptoms start acting up.  I had a chance to take one dose that same night, and I think it did help somewhat.  Heck, I don't care if it's the placebo effect - any help is welcome.

Meanwhile, at the rheumatologist's office...

Have you ever seen the show Mystery Diagnosis? In a nutshell, it’s a documentary/reality TV show that tells the story of one person’s search for answers with respect to their health problems. It’s a gripping show, because the conditions profiled are always severe, even life-threatening, and there’s always a solution. By the end of each half-hour segment, the mystery is solved, everyone is relieved, treatment is commenced, and the patient gets to enjoy a normal life.

After 16 years of intermittent symptoms, some phases of which were so disabling that I doubted my ability to continue working full-time, I was hoping yesterday that I’d get my Mystery Diagnosis. I was glad that I’d arrived at the rheumatologist’s office early, because I felt so overwhelmed by emotion as I checked in that it took me a quarter of an hour just to settle down and collect myself.

Generally speaking I don’t allow myself a lot of freedom to feel the feelings that my symptoms trigger. I do write about the subject, or sometimes talk to someone who cares, but most of the time I’m trying to push through the fatigue, pain, weakness, and other symptoms that come and go, so that I can carry on with my life. I ignore it at work. I push through so that I can do shopping and housecleaning. I put it aside so that I can enjoy socializing with friends. But at some level I guess it builds up, because there was a large amount of sadness, aloneness, and frustration just waiting to break through.

Having hope put me in a very vulnerable position.

Eventually the doctor called me in. She was a pleasant woman, probably only a few years older than me. She went over my blood test results, the symptom list I’d typed in advance, and did a basic physical examination. Then she presented her findings.

I definitely don’t have lupus or rheumatoid arthritis. Which is good news, for sure. That means that whatever it is probably won’t kill or cripple me in any permanent way.

So what do I have? First she warned me that between 30 and 40 per cent of patients who see her for aches and pains leave without a specific diagnosis. The field of rheumatology deals with a few well-established syndromes, but there are many constellations of symptoms that don’t fit neatly into any particular diagnosis. No offence to rheumatology, but one third of patients leave with nothing but more questions? Seems to me like someone needs to hurry up with the research and figure out what’s going on, because that’s not a very good track record for the specialty.

The furthest she would go was to “suggest” that I might have fibromyalgia, with the emphasis firmly on “suggest”. Due to my place of work I know a little about fibromyalgia (FM) already. Some doctors diagnose it based on the classic criteria: 1) widespread aches and pains lasting more than three months and 2) at least 11 of 18 specific points on the patient’s body must be tender when pressed. Even given those two criteria it is a fuzzy-edged and often-disputed diagnosis. Two physicians who examine the same patient will often disagree about this diagnosis.

Another way doctors will diagnose FM is to use it as a garbage can umbrella term for any longstanding aches and pains that don’t fit neatly into another diagnosis. Considering that exactly one out of the eighteen FM points on my body was only slightly tender when pressed, I suspect that this doctor was using the latter methodology. In other words, she knew that I wouldn’t be satisfied walking out without any diagnosis, so she gave me this lame one as a peace offering so that I would leave quietly.

Imagine that you go to the doctor with red spots all over your body. The doctor tells you authoritatively “You are suffering from Circulae Scarlotum” or whatever the Latin translation of “red spots” is. You feel much better because you think this means the doctor has it all in hand, but really all he’s done is tell you in another language that you’re covered in red spots, which leaves you no further ahead. Not every diagnosis is inherently meaningful or helpful.

I have to give credit where credit is due: she was very warm, friendly, and informative. Relative to many doctors I’ve seen, she was generous with her time, explaining things to me that she must have explained hundreds of times before without any hint of impatience, and answering my questions without a trace of annoyance.

But here’s the most disappointing part: she gave me no treatment options whatsoever. No medications. No further referrals. Just advice to do moderate exercise and keep up with my yoga practice. So in that sense I’m no further ahead than before. I would have been happy to leave without a diagnosis but with a prescription for some kind of painkiller that wouldn’t completely bugger up my stomach. No such luck.

*sigh*

Anyway, I’m not giving up just yet. I made an appointment to see my naturopath on Thursday. I think it’s been five years since my last visit. He’s been my N.D. since 1993, and although his methods produce slow, undramatic results, he can often help me with problems that fall outside the scope of allopathic medicine. So, I’ll see what he has to offer.

In the meantime I’m feeling a little let down, but I’ll get over it. I’m not a giver-upper.

Saturday Stuff

A lot of really good things happened on Saturday.

I brought my wedding dress to my favourite seamstress for alterations. I was worried because the dress is beaded in the area that needs to be altered, and not just anyone is willing to fuss with undoing and redoing beading by hand. But Mrs. Lee didn't let me down. Her face lit up with delight when I unzipped the garment bag. "So pretty!" she exclaimed, "Where you buy? How much?" And when I told her: "Ah, good price, good price." Of course she can do the beading - she has mad sewing skills! So that's one worry off my mind.

I had dinner with my step-dad. We got off to a great start. He rang my doorbell to let me know he'd arrived - I could see the rental car waiting right behind him. (His regular wheels are in Florida for the winter. It's a long story.) He told me he'd wait in the car and as he turned away I shut the door to put my coat on. Moments later I opened the door to the car that was waiting outside my home. The light in the car came on - there was some young Asian guy in the driver's seat saying "No no no!" and pointing emphatically to another car, just down the common driveway. I laughed at myself. Nice one. My step-dad apologized for failing to warn me that it wasn't him parked outside my front door.

Later we closed the evening with a satisfying symmetry. A friend of his who he hadn't seen in a few years was in town, staying with his daughter. My step-dad remembered that she lived in the corner house at the end of a certain block. I waited in the car while he went to pick up his friend to go for coffee after dropping me at home. The door was opened by a suspiciously young, good-looking guy. There was a moment of conversation, and then my step-dad returned to the car, smiling and alone. Wrong block, wrong house. I guess it was that kind of night.

The point of all that was for us to have a nice dinner together, which we did. And for the first time in more than a year I found that I could be with him without feeling angry, or bitter, or resentful. Since we had our heart-to-heart talk the last time he was in, despite him still being a complete doofus about how he's handled moving out of my mom's house, I've slowly but surely forgiven him. Or mostly so. And that's a wonderful thing to have discovered, because I wasn't even aware of it until last night.

I wanted to point out all those good things, because other than that, Saturday was difficult. Although I haven't written about it in a while, I'm still having aches and pains on and off, and Friday night was a bad one. The temperature in the morning was 10 degrees C, which fell to -15 degrees C by walk-home time. Even though I brought a bag of extra layers with me to work and wore them on my walk home, my body couldn't handle the extreme change. By Friday night I was on the couch, aching from my shoulders to my toes.

I haven't been able to tolerate Ibuprofen since a few years ago. I switched to Acetaminophen (Tylenol) because that's supposedly easier on the stomach. That worked for a while, but then came the day when I took one little tablet, and got some very familiar tummy pains. I got scared off it for a while, but in the back of my mind I wasn't sure - maybe it was just a fluke and I should give it another chance. On Friday I was in enough discomfort to take the risk.

At first I thought I was OK. The pain receded within 20 minutes and my tum was fine. I was like "Score! Painkillers rock!" But it was not to last. In the middle of the night I felt the reaction come on, and all of Saturday was a misery. My stomach hurt enough that I couldn't ignore it, and at mealtimes instead of getting hungry I got nauseous. For hours and hours it was relentless. I know it could be worse, but it did get me down. The part that was most dispiriting was knowing that one more avenue of relief has been permanently closed to me. With all the other major NSAID's (ex. Aspirin) clearly warning of stomach upset in the side effects, I am left with no option but to slather myself from head to toe in Rub A535, which is better than nothing, but it's not a useful remedy if I'm anywhere other than at home. I can't very well strip down in a washroom stall at work and goop up my back under my proper work shirts.

Here's something: I have a surprise appointment with a rheumatologist tomorrow. I didn't realize that my g.p. was going to refer me. I had blood tests done in early December, and didn't hear anything back from him, so I assumed that the numbers didn't indicate anything useful. When I got a call at work on Friday stating that I had been referred, I was totally surprised. So, maybe my blood tests showed something significant after all. It would be good to have an actual diagnosis, and possibly even some treatments that don't hurt me. I'll let you know how it goes.

That being said, you might not hear much from me this week. There's a high likelihood that I'll be working with half my usual staff all week, as two ladies in my department both came down with the symptoms of a vicious cold that's making the rounds. I'll probably be working late every day, and running off my feet the whole time. So, have a good week, and keep your fingers crossed for me please, around 2:00 pm tomorrow, Eastern Standard Time. I'll be back with an update as soon as I can.

An Apple a Day

I'm resisting the urge to make a doctor appointment.

The irritating bronchitis is still sapping my energy. Also, in the past two weeks I have had three episodes of seeing strobing, crescent-shaped lights or patches of static. These visual disturbances hang around for around 25 minutes from the buildup to when I can finally see normally again. This, as you can imagine, is not very helpful when I'm trying to work. I need to be able to READ THINGS. And see people. You know, the basics.

I checked with Dr. Google, and found that the most likely cause is something called acephalgic migraine, which means you get a migraine aura without any headache. That's not too bad, compared to what people with actual, serious migraines go through. I couldn't see any mention of treatments. I think it's one of those "just live with it" things.

Then again, there's a minute chance that it could be an indication of something more serious.

So, do I bother going to my doctor? Take a whole half-day off work to sit in his waiting room for an hour so I can talk to him for five minutes? He'll probably tell me that I should get more rest, and take an expectorant for the bronchitis. Then he'll tell me that the migraine thing isn't anything to worry about and I should just make sure to stay hydrated and eat a balanced diet. Then I'll leave feeling like I totally wasted my time.

Of course, if I don't go, there's that one in a million chance that I'll be sorry I didn't. As my good friend Logan pointed out, always there to reassure me, it could be a tumor pressing on my optic nerve or something. Seriously, someone I work with has a sister going through chemotherapy for that exact problem. It happens!

I would say that 85% of the time when I've consulted with doctors they've been completely unable to help me (or at least unwilling to investigate my complaints further). For example, I used to suffer from Irritable Bowel Syndrome. My doctor said "live with it". Then I got a naturopath, and the naturopath cured me. Take THAT, allopathic medicine!

I suppose I could go see my naturopath... but he's in my old neighbourhood where I lived 13 years ago, and it's a huge pain in the butt to take public transit all the way to his office. Especially when I'm still so fatigued all the time. I'm too tired to get help for being tired - does that make sense?

Argh.

Walkabout

I love to walk.

I didn't realize how much I love my outside, fresh-air walks until I was stuck inside for 9 days, sick. I did venture out a couple of times over those days, but I didn't get far. My legs were wobbly as jelly. I shuffled to the end of the block and home again, exhausted.

On my first day back at work, it was minus umpteen outside with a wind chill. I knew that if I attempted the 20-minute walk my energy would be completely spent by the time I stepped in the door. So I cabbed it. It felt so wrong to hire a car for such a short drive.

I hated being in that cab. It was stuffy. Inside my down parka, I started sweating as soon as I got buckled in. We idled, trapped in the morning traffic. My leg muscles itched to get moving.

I worked for seven hours that day, until the office started to spin. Then I figured I'd better take another cab home. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Even though I was officially back to normal life, I still felt crappy. Depressed. I didn't sleep well that night.

The next day I felt well enough to set out on foot. It was so fantastic to be on the move, breathing un-furnaced air, getting a little sun on my face. The more I walked, the better I felt. My mood expanded like a hot-air balloon filling up. My cramped muscles heaved a sigh of relief and began to un-knot themselves. That night, I slept like a baby.

Never before have I appreciated how essential walking is to my mental health. It's my me-time, my thinking time, my prayer time. It's my appreciating-nature time. I've read that walking is therapeutic in that it harmonizes the two hemispheres of one's brain.

I can't imagine living like some people apparently do. I've heard that some folks never walk anywhere. They'll take their car to go two blocks to pick up a loaf of bread. Or maybe they live in a subdivision where nothing is in walking distance of anything else and there aren't even any sidewalks. I've visited places like that. They feel as alien to me as the moon.

What place does walking have in your life?

Control

The healing process: it's proceeding in a three-steps-forward-two-steps-back kind of way, but it's proceeding.

I ran out of patience with being sick and stuck in the house around two days ago.  Before that I was on my best behaviour, sighing only ever so slightly as I reclined on the couch with my tissues and lozenges.   Overall, I accepted my situation and kept my spirits up.

But this week, although I haven't been coughing and sneezing nearly as much, I am tired.  So tired at times that I can't sit up.  Tired in a way that drags at my eyeballs and drains my spirits.  Tired in a way that makes me as cranky as a baby who missed her nap.

My biggest challenge this week has been my inner Control Freak.  I know that there's work stacking up in my in-box; that there are concerns at work which I should be there to address.  I WANT to be there, helping my colleagues, leading my team, contributing to the smooth functioning of it all.  Knowing that my staff are struggling to cover my workload without me is very frustrating.  I want to be there to pull my own weight.

I've always been a super-organized over-achiever.  I actually created an in-box for myself at the age of seven.  It was the packaging from a Play-Doh activity kit.  I wrote "THINGS TO DO" on it in my wonky, little-kid handwriting.  I can't remember what I put in there, but at the time it seemed extremely important to keep on top of the work in that box.

I was the same way with schoolwork.  When I was eight years old I procrastinated on a project,  rushing to complete it the night before it was due.  I promised myself I'd never do that again, and I didn't.  I became the anticrastinator, doing everything as early as possible.  My mom never had to remind me to do my homework, or help me with it at all.

I was going to be the kid that learned from other peoples' mistakes, not my own.  I was going to be rich and successful by getting good grades and working hard.  The stupid kids who goofed off and didn't get their assignments done were going to work for me someday.  They might bully me today, but the future belonged to me, with my A+ average.

Well, it didn't work out quite as simply as I'd hoped, not by a long shot.  I'm not rich by First World standards, nor wildly successful in the way I'd envisioned.  I still pride myself on my work ethic and for living up to my responsibilities.  However, I'm not sure how wise it is to hang on to the high standards that demand so much from me and give little in return.  

In fact, my one resolution for 2009 is to be less willful, and more surrendered to the will of God.  On a macro level I'm pretty good at taking cues regarding my life's direction, but at the level of day-to-day to-do lists, I'm fiercely controlling.  That still, small voice within whispers lovingly in my ear, and I ignore it.  I follow my agenda instead of my intuition.  This despite the fact that sticking to my own agenda tends not to work out to my best advantage.  

I have the feeling that my days would unfurl much more smoothly and meaningfully if I could find the courage to let go.

I've been praying to God to teach me how to be more surrendered to His will.  Although I was always a good student, this is my weakest subject.  What's the best way to learn?  By doing.  And here I am, forced to surrender, because I don't have the strength to fight.  Be careful what you pray for.

So, you'll have to excuse me.  I'm off to do my homework.

Reports of my good health...

... on Twitter may have been somewhat exaggerated.

I'm no longer sneezing my way through ten trees' worth of tissues every day, nor running a fever, but I'm totally WEAK, dudes.  I feel great - when I'm lying down.

Yesterday I got really excited because I felt so much better than I had in a week.  In a burst of enthusiasm, I bundled up and took a trip to the grocery store, which is a ten-minute walk from my front door.  I got myself back, and even cooked myself a nice dinner, but by the time I'd been up and active for 90 minutes, I was beat.  I barely had the strength to sit up at the table and eat.  

It's not that my muscles are weak.  It's like, I don't know, I feel like my heart is actually labouring.  I feel drained and my heart starts to beat faster, which makes me feel anxious and cranky.  The bad feeling goes away if I lie down and stay still.  So.  Obviously I'm not ready to back to work just yet.  I could probably manage to walk myself there, but then I'd curl up under my desk and whimper piteously until I fell asleep with my head pillowed on my spare pair of shoes.

I finally caved and got a prescription for antibiotics.  I took the first dose this afternoon.  Totally terrifying.  I have a bad track record for side effects: if there's one to be had, I'll have it.  I usually avoid taking pills at all costs.  I can't even take ibuprofen anymore - the stuff burns holes in my gut.  Any cold remedy with ephedrine or pseudo-ephedrine is not an option because of what it does to my heart rate.  In my experience, the cures are usually worse than the disease.

I read all the possible side effects: nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, bloody stool, etc.  Please God, I prayed, please just let these little pills help me.  I can't take barfing and the runs after the week I've just been through. 

Then I ate a granola bar, and tossed in two little Barbie-pink pills on top of that.  So far it's been over an hour, and no dreaded side effects, so I think I'm in the clear.  It's a small miracle to me anytime my body manages to tolerate a pharmaceutical product.

The bonus part of being home sick today was getting to watch live coverage of Obama's inauguration.  I'll just say that I loved his speech, and I feel he's a breath of fresh air that will benefit the entire continent.  I was happy to be a witness to this historic day.

Now I'm a little bummed because my cable cut out at 2:30 pm and hasn't been back since.  The cable provider's service line is playing a message claiming system-wide problems.  Look, any other time I wouldn't care, but TV is an essential component of my recuperation right now.  I need my opiate of the masses!  Give it back!

Still?

Yes, I'm STILL sick.  It's a full week since my first day of feeling ill.  I did go to work Wednesday through Friday, but that was too much too soon.  I got worse.  I'm a mucusoid mess.

I haven't left my house in 2 days.   Although my sinuses are clearing up, the sickness hasn't gone.  It moved down.  I woke up in the night feeling like an overweight cat was sitting on my chest, a feeling I'm familiar with from much past experience - not from illness, but from my actual overweight cat who used to sneak onto me while I was sleeping.

Last night there was no cat.  Just a batch of horrible gunk that I had the pleasure of couging up in the morning.  Yucko.

On and off, I'm running a low fever.  My "normal" body temperature is around one degree below the average of 98.6 F.   When the thermometer says 98.7, that's more than one degree above my normal, therefore, fever.  

So what have I been doing with my bleary, sniffly, hacking, alternating-between-sweats-and-shivers self?  Watching the idiot box, of course.  This week I learned that weekday daytime TV is much more interesting than weekend daytime TV.  On Saturday all there was on was basically news, infomercials, and a couple of boring movies.  

I watched Thirteen Days, a drama about the Cuban missile crisis of 1962.  Running time: three hours.  The whole first hour was a bunch of guys in grey suits and skinny ties yelling at each other: We have to send in air strikes!  No, musn't!  Yes, we must!  Etc.  Finally things got moving into the second hour.  If you rent that movie, save yourself some time.  Watch the first ten minutes to get the characters' names, then fastforward to 2:00:00.  You won't miss anything.

I also watched Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, which has its charming moments, but what the heck kind of a plot arc is that?  I'll tell you right now: it isn't.  I lost interest shortly after they landed in Bolivia.  

Coincidentally, there was a passing mention of Bolivia in the third movie of the day, which was The Score, with Robert De Niro and Edward Norton.  That was the best movie of the three.  

Running out of steam now.  *sigh*  Better go get horizontal again...  

The Cold Post

It's cold out, and I have a cold. Welcome to winter!

I fought the cold, and the cold won. On Monday and Tuesday of this week I did nothing but recline on my couch, feet up, remote control in hand, semi-conscious and re-discovering the gems of daytime TV. There's nothing like a low-grade fever to lay a shiny gloss of fascination over programs like American Justice and Dr. Phil.

Normally I get bored after two consecutive hours of TV. It was pretty cool to just relax and veg out for two whole days.

By Tuesday night I wasn't feeling a whole lot better, but in my mind's eye I could see the work stacking up on my desk, so I thought I'd better go in. The cold (illness) waited until I was back at work to morph from a general feeling of achiness and fatigue into typical, slow-torture cold symptoms. The delicate tickle at the back of my throat that cuts me off in mid-sentence, or wakes me up at five-to-ten-minute intervals all night. Epic sneezes. My face looks like an unmade bed.

I would love, LOVE to crawl back under my duvet and channel-surf my way through to the end of the week. But I'm not quite sick enough to justify hiding out at home. Blick. At least those crunchy sounds I was hearing in my right ear didn't come to anything. (Watch - now that I've written that I'll have a raging ear infection by this time tomorrow. )

There are some good things. I always like to remember the good things.

I bought new boots on sale: knee-high and lined with lambswooly stuff that makes them very cozy. I tested them out yesterday and today, taking 20-minute walks in the deep freeze, and my feet were toasty. Huzzah! I'm incredibly well-equipped for winter this year. I have layers like you wouldn't believe. Fleeces, hats, mitts, scarves, long-johns, over-the-knee-socks... in fact, I have to be careful not to overdress. I even have snowpants, which I haven't resorted to yet this year. If I wear them in anything warmer than -25 C, I broil.

I'm not letting the cold (weather) or the cold (illness) bully me out of having some social fun. I went out for a Japanese dinner last night with my super-awesome little sister, which was great. And I have a plan to go dancing with a girlfriend of mine for her birthday this Saturday. I have to get well by then! I can't think of a way of working Epic Sneezing into my Flashdance routine.

Broody Hen

It took me many years, but I have reached a point of being 99% satisfied with my non-parental status. I have written before about this decision.

But every once in a while, maybe once or twice a year, I get all broody. It's typical for this to happen over the Christmas holidays, when families with young children all seem so magically happy. I spend time with my grandparents, and see what joy their children and grand-children bring to their lives. I worry about being old and alone, with no one to look after me.

For the past week, I went through this familiar emotional cycle. I don't like to talk about it, because the answer most people will give me is "No problem! There's still time! Hurry up and have a baby!" That's not what I need to hear. I KNOW in my gut that having a child would not be a good idea for Ken and I. It's just not an easy decision to live with all the time. Just like having kids isn't always easy, but that doesn't mean you give them up for adoption because you've had a bad week.

Ken and I are like two playing cards, leaning up against each other to form a somewhat stable triangle. Neither one of us is consistently "the strong one". We take turns supporting each other through life's trials. We both came from childhoods that were difficult, and we're both sensitive, some would say oversensitive, emotionally, psychically, and physically. Just getting through life as it is now often overtaxes our resources. We can comfortably look after ourselves and each other, but start adding demands on top of that and the effort can only be maintained for a few weeks or months before either of us might start to crumble. I speak from experience.

If I try to willpower my way through more than I can handle, my body starts to seriously malfunction. I have a knack for somatizing my feelings.

I have a history of depressive phases, which can be triggered by too much stress and insufficient sleep. I think I'd be the perfect candidate for a truly horrifying post-partum depression.

In a perfect world, if I could trust myself to be as resilient and adaptable as I would like to be in theory, I would love to experience motherhood. Some people have told me that I should take the plunge, because I'll be surprised at what I can accomplish, when I have to. In my life it's most often worked the other way. I've optimistically made grand plans, assuming that because I'm committed to my goals I will be able to tolerate any hardship to achieve them. I truly believed that if my mind could conceive it and my heart could believe it, I could achieve it. I overestimated myself time after time. Experience proves that the best of intentions, positive thinking, and all my willpower (and trust me, I'm stubborn!) can't overcome my limitations.

Therefore, once again I must confirm to myself the wisdom of not becoming a parent. I'd rather keep the hard-won stability and happiness that I've finally achieved, than risk it all for a high-stakes gamble. In the meantime I'll keep volunteering at Babyland, and satisfy some of my maternal instincts that way. I promise not to steal any of the babies.

More Glad Tidings

Good news # 1!

San has been ever so kind, and honoured me with a very flattering award:

To quote San's blog, The PREMIO DARDOS award is "given for recognition of cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values transmitted in the form of creative and original writing." Wow. That's one classy recommendation! I feel truly humble.

Of course an honour like this must be passed on. After deep and searching thought, I have chosen the following honourees:

1) Ron at Warped Mind of Ron, because he writes in so many styles: poetry, fiction, and memoir. How much more literary can you get?

2) Whatigosofar because he's definitely transmitting his personal values through original writing. No punches pulled on this blog.

3) Nilsa at Somi is never afraid to speak her mind. She does so charmingly and gracefully.

4) Keera at A Roll in the Universe posts snapshots, both literal and literary, of life in Norway.

5) Dianne at Forks Off the Moment is deserving in every way, especially with regard to ethical values.

Congratulations to all y'all! ;-)

Good News #2!

Slowly but surely, I have recuperated from my spell of ill health. The aches and pains are gone, as is the shortness of breath. My hands no longer require five minutes of warm-up exercises before they can be used in the morning. I'm not breaking out in hives either. I'm still more tired than usual, but other than that, I'm back to my normal self again.

Of course the blood tests didn't show any significant results. I guess it was just my body's wild and crazy way of responding to stress. This whole past year has been pretty challenging, what with my mom and step-dad's divorce and me being caught in the middle. I don't think it's any coincidence that my health crumbled shortly after my mom finally said that she was starting to feel alright again. I was running on empty, and when I learned that she didn't need me to be strong for her anymore, I just went down like a puppet with my strings cut. 10 months of accumulated tension was finally released.

I'll be taking it easy for a while longer. I can feel that I need a long rest. A few days off for the holidays couldn't have come at a better time!

Bravado

Today I finally went to see my doctor about the mysterious symptoms that have been plaguing me for the past three weeks.  Like, on Friday my hands were so weak and stiff that I was having trouble turning doorknobs.  Like, on Sunday, at church, I felt faint during the singing and had to go lie down in the lounge.  

Anyway, OF COURSE I felt almost 100% better by my appointment.  I figured I'd better show up anyway, because I could guarantee that if I cancelled I'd be a mess again by morning.  It's like taking your umbrella along to ensure that it won't rain.

I told the doctor my long list of bizarre and seemingly random symptoms, which he jotted down.  Then, as I knew he would, he told me I'd better go down to the lab to have some blood tests.  We joked a bit about (I can't resist this pun) the irony of him telling me to take a potent iron supplement to get my blood levels up, and then continually draining blood out of me.  Then he told me not to worry.  If the blood tests were positive, he'd send me to a rheumatologist.  If negative, to an allergist.  At any rate, he assured me, I'd get to see "some kind of '-ist'".  

I relate these lame jokes not because I think you'll find them hilarious and be all with the LOL in the comments, but more to indicate that I was feeling relaxed.  In fact, I was feeling so at ease, and so confident, that I decided to do something I hadn't done in five years, which was to provide my blood sample while sitting up.

In the past, I had a history of passing out when my blood was drawn.  I got into the habit of telling the lab techs that I need to lie down for these operations.  But the last two times I had blood drawn, which were within the past couple of months, I did so well (from my prone position), and sat up so fast with so little light-headedness after, that I started to wonder if maybe I was over this fear.

The only way to know is to try.  So.  Can you see where this is going?  I thought "I'm gonna give my blood like a big girl today.  I'm gonna sit in that chair and just not look and it'll all be fine."

I was doing great in the waiting room.  I was feeling brave when I sat down in the chair.  I rolled up my sleeve and didn't even look when the lab tech put on the tourniquet, because I get grossed out by the sight of bulging  veins.  I was slightly concerned when I saw her prepare three empty vials.  The last couple of times I only had to do one.  But by the time I realized that there was more at stake this time, I felt it was too late to rethink my bravado.

In went the needle, and a whooshing squeeze of yuckiness swept through me.  I don't know if I could have tolerated it if it had been over after one vial, but, as the endless seconds dragged by, the feeling got worse and worse.  I started to sigh, and then put my head down on my other arm.  I began to sweat, and then my eyes welled up with tears.  Yeah, not much of a big girl there.

By the time the tech had filled her three vials, I was feeling pretty awful.  She asked me if I was alright. I didn't really want to speak, so I shook my head, and the room spun.  The tech took my right hand and told me to press a cotton swab into my left elbow.   Then she told me to put my head between my knees.

Instead of feeling better, I started feeling even worse.  The waves of badness that had taken over my body were becoming unbearable.  I didn't know if I was going to pass out or barf.  In a quiet corner of my mind, where my observer-self was sitting in a comfortable armchair and taking notes on a steno pad, I remarked to myself on the undesirability of puking.  Meanwhile, my outside voice was moaning.  

"HHHHNNNNNGGGGGG" most closely approximates the animal sound that was passing through my clenched teeth.  I debated letting myself fall out of the chair to curl up in the fetal position on the  people-have-been-walking-on-it-all-day-with-dirty-salty-snowboots linoleum floor.  

Tech #1 had hurried off and came back quickly with Tech #2.    Between the two of them they got ahold of my elbows, negotiated me to my feet, then marched me to a room with a full-length examination table, and lay me down there.  Or at least, I lay my torso down.  I was so totally flopped that they had to pick up my feet one by one and place them onto the table.  

Then I heard one of the techs, the kind one with the Phillipino accent, say "Oh no, she let go of the gauze.  Look, there's blood all over."  Lovely.  Just what I wanted to hear.  Obviously I was too distraught to put proper pressure on my needle-stick wound, and now I had bled all over myself. 

While one of the techs swabbed my forhead with a cold, wet paper towel and fanned me with a file folder, the other wiped down my right hand with more wet towels.  At the back of my mind I recalled how I had ignored my instinct to wear black pants today.  Logic dictated that pale grey went better with the sweater I had picked out.  I wish I had gone with my gut.

Finally, after much swabbing, and fanning, and sipping at a Dixie cup of cold water, I started to come back from that desperate state to my normal, conscious self.  When they saw my eyes focusing again, the techs confirmed that I was feeling better, and then they left me there with strict instructions not to move until I felt totally recovered.

It took awhile.  I tried to get up in stages, first flopping one foot over the edge of the table, then the other.  Then roll onto side.  Then lift head up a few inches, to test the waters.  I kept having to lie back down again.  At one point, Tech #1 came back to tell me I could take my time, no rush, they were open until 8:00 pm.  That actually made me laugh.  And then it made me even more motivated to get myself vertical and headed home.

Finally I got upright.  I assessed the damage to my pants, which wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, but bad enough that they could still be considered "ruined".  I apologized to the lab techs for making such a fuss, and thanked them for their kindness.

By the time I got home the bloodstains had started to set.  Ever-helpful, Google suggested that I spit on the stains and then rub them.  The protein enzymes in saliva break down the proteins in blood.  Which is kind of a weird equation, like two wrongs making a right: bleeding AND spitting on your clothes leaves you with a wearable item.  Or maybe it's like the Rock, Paper, Scissors of bodily fluids.  Spit beats blood.  What does blood beat?  

I couldn't get the stains all the way out.  We'll see what happens once my pants go through the wash.

The moral of the story for me was: Don't try to be a hero.  Now and forevermore, I will be a compliant wimp and will lie down to have my blood taken.  

On the other hand, I'm really proud of myself for facing my fear.  That it was an unmitigated Fail doesn't discount the fact that I tried.  Now I know for sure.  And I swear I'll never do it again.

Botanozac

I'm getting better, slowly but surely.

When I put my feet on the floor first thing in the morning, I don't feel pain.  My soles are still a little spongey upon waking, but that's a big improvement over last week's grinding and aching.

The hives aren't blooming up with quite such alarming frequency as last week.  There's still the odd one here and there, but generally they seem to be fading.

My back is still giving me the gears.  Yesterday, I was ready to break down in tears at my desk.  Doing my usual stats data entry, right hand on the number pad of my keyboard, was torture.  I tried using my left hand to type the numbers.  That was ridiculously slow.  Then I smartened up and remembered that I had Tylenol in my desk drawer.  Later, I was grateful to score an emergency appointment with my massage therapist.  Today ez mucho improve-o.

At my massage therapist's advice I bought a two-pack of Hot Bags on my way home today.  You know, those cotton sacks full of beans or grain or some such that you can microwave for heat therapy.  On the first try I overheated the neck bag and seared my skin, but after I got the temperature sorted out, I fell in love.  I would like to duct tape the Hot Bags to my body and wear them all winter long.

My big challenge in the past 24 hours was fighting sneaky panic attacks.  They come out of nowhere, like when I'm sleeping peacefully or innocently doing yoga poses.  All of a sudden I feel faint, nauseous, and completely freaked out.  I recognize the symptoms for what they are, and I can calm myself down with a little sensible self-talk in short order, but dang it's no fun.  Especially waking up into panic in the middle of the night.  That is extra no-fun.

I find myself feeling nostalgic for an herbal product that is no longer on the market.  Botanozac: it was a mix of sedative and nervine herbs.  Thirteen years ago, my life was in transition and I wasn't coping very well.  I was working in a health food store.  I started taking Botanozac.

This stuff really chilled me out.  You have to understand where I was starting from; when the store staff played the game "If so-and-so was an animal, what animal would he or she be?", the consensus for me was "squirrel".  So, yeah, straight up I was a little jumpy.  But when I was on Botanozac?  Eeeeeeverything was just peachy keen okay!

A customer returned a large jug of some corrosive chemical.  I can't remember what exactly, but something that should be diluted down to 1/10 strength for washing pesticides off produce.  The lid was loose.  I picked up the jug to take it back to the stockroom, and a big splash of the stuff slopped onto my foot, burning the skin instantly.  I had taken Botanozac that day.  I looked at my foot and thought "Huh, that's interesting."  I could feel the pain and yet I couldn't feel the pain.

Yup, that was good stuff.  I told two of my co-workers about it, and of course because they were young people who thought it would be hilarious to get stoned at work, they took some.  They didn't count on how strong it was.  Within an hour they were both swooning against the walls, and complaining about how they wanted to just lie on the floor and sleep for ten hours.  I guess if you start out at "squirrel" Botanozac takes you down to "human".  If you start out at "human" it takes you down to "slug".

Now that I think about it, I don't really want to take anything that would make me sleep any more.  I'm already needing 9 or 10 hours just to get by.  I keep thinking of all the things I could accomplish if I just had that extra hour or two back in each of my days.  Speaking of which, I'm passing out.  I'm off to bed.  Goodnight!