It Is What It Is
11/28/07
I have much to report today. From the sublime to the ridiculous, in fact, therefore we will, of course, begin with the ridiculous. (Yes, I do love commas.)
Today I had something called a Sleep Deprived EEG. This meant that last night I was not allowed to have more than four hours of sleep. This meant someone was supposed to keep me awake. Yeah right.
I have *always* been a person who, when sleep comes, it comes. Period. End of story. I was always the first one asleep at a slumber party. I just require a lot of sleep.
Husband stayed up with me until 11. Since his usual bedtime is 8 pm, this was a real effort. Then Oldest Son took Second Shift. He borrowed my computer and sat on the loveseat at the end of my bed and never turned around, except when I choked on my water. I could have been snoozing and he'd not have known, but I appreciated the effort. Mom just can't compete with (insert name of computer game that is sufficiently violent and icky).
Fortunately, I was able to make it until about 2 am. Then I slept until 6 am, which is a very ugly hour for me. It doesn't like me, and I don't like it. Ugly, ugly, ugly.
We got to the doctor's office and the girl scrubbed my head with a sandpaper Q-tip, then put the electrodes on.
Then the sublime conversation occurred....we'll discuss later. Fast forward, test over. I see the doctor now.
When the neurologist came in, he said, "Well, it's okay, which means you didn't have a seizure for the thirty minutes you were hooked up. Might have had one 15 minutes before, might have one 15 minutes later."
!!!!!!!
I understood why the test was done. By depriving me of sleep, I was more likely to spill over the seizure threshold and they could get some results on paper. But when I think about all the angst and worry I felt, ugh, what a waste of time! *Looks in mirror and waggles finger at self* See how much time was wasted worrying.
SO I then got 'told' about my bp, and he was right, so my meds are doubled and I have an appt. with the internist on Friday. No biggie. Just to monitor bp meds. Rheumatologist is next week, Cardiologist in January.
But yesterday, my hip seized in the garage and the boys had to come get me. Today, I *walked*. A lot for me. To the mailbox and back. To the car in the parking lot. It was good.
I also got my Locks for Love haircut.
We (Husband and I) went to the salon to get the 'glue' washed out of my hair (and shampoo on spots where sandpaper Qtips rubbed the skin off stings~!), and I'd reached the magical number!
Ten inches.
And Robin, my girl who is now working part-time was there for the barbering. She got two impressive pony tails off my head for the *wonderful* organization Locks for Love (google it if you don't know about it) and styled what was left, which wasn't much.
I have one butt-ugly haircut, if you'll pardon the vulgarity.
Perhaps that's not fair. The haircut itself is quite nice. It's my round pudgy prednisone moon face that makes it unattractive. In fact, quite frankly, I look like Shemp from The Three Stooges, except he had more hair in the back than I do.
But hey, it'll grow. And as Daughter says, now I can wear all those scarves I buy because I love the colors.
For those of you nearby, if you see me, try not to laugh at my hair and I'll try not to kick you. Accidentally, of course.
The Sublime.
When I get nervous, I have a tendency to babble.
Yes, yes, I babble for many reasons, but I mean *really* talk. So I was talking while this nice, efficient woman was scraping the hide off my scalp and hooking up electrodes in preparation for my EEG. I'd babbled about Older Son a bit and asked the lady if she had children.
Suddenly, discomfort filled the room.
"No," she said softly, then hesitated a long moment. "I did."
For once in my life, I was not overcome with curiosity and my mouth did not run away with me. Thank You, Lord.
"Sounds like a sad story," I offerred.
"It is."
"Then I'll just say I'm sorry," I told her and changed the subject. She thanked me. And then she said very clearlly, "It is what it is."
However it seemed to open the door for a deeper conversation about life. We discussed, with the undertone of my illness and her tragedy, that you have a choice. You can go on, have a life, or not.
We've all seen people who choose 'not'. How miserable. How utterly miserable.
There's misery in choosing to go forward at times, but it's not by choice. It is what it is.
I told her that I would never minimize what she'd been thru by comparing it to dealing with an (incurable, chronic) autoimmune disease and she said she knew. "It is what it is."
We're going to choose in this life. But first, we have to accept that "It is what it is."
I have much to report today. From the sublime to the ridiculous, in fact, therefore we will, of course, begin with the ridiculous. (Yes, I do love commas.)
Today I had something called a Sleep Deprived EEG. This meant that last night I was not allowed to have more than four hours of sleep. This meant someone was supposed to keep me awake. Yeah right.
I have *always* been a person who, when sleep comes, it comes. Period. End of story. I was always the first one asleep at a slumber party. I just require a lot of sleep.
Husband stayed up with me until 11. Since his usual bedtime is 8 pm, this was a real effort. Then Oldest Son took Second Shift. He borrowed my computer and sat on the loveseat at the end of my bed and never turned around, except when I choked on my water. I could have been snoozing and he'd not have known, but I appreciated the effort. Mom just can't compete with (insert name of computer game that is sufficiently violent and icky).
Fortunately, I was able to make it until about 2 am. Then I slept until 6 am, which is a very ugly hour for me. It doesn't like me, and I don't like it. Ugly, ugly, ugly.
We got to the doctor's office and the girl scrubbed my head with a sandpaper Q-tip, then put the electrodes on.
Then the sublime conversation occurred....we'll discuss later. Fast forward, test over. I see the doctor now.
When the neurologist came in, he said, "Well, it's okay, which means you didn't have a seizure for the thirty minutes you were hooked up. Might have had one 15 minutes before, might have one 15 minutes later."
!!!!!!!
I understood why the test was done. By depriving me of sleep, I was more likely to spill over the seizure threshold and they could get some results on paper. But when I think about all the angst and worry I felt, ugh, what a waste of time! *Looks in mirror and waggles finger at self* See how much time was wasted worrying.
SO I then got 'told' about my bp, and he was right, so my meds are doubled and I have an appt. with the internist on Friday. No biggie. Just to monitor bp meds. Rheumatologist is next week, Cardiologist in January.
But yesterday, my hip seized in the garage and the boys had to come get me. Today, I *walked*. A lot for me. To the mailbox and back. To the car in the parking lot. It was good.
I also got my Locks for Love haircut.
We (Husband and I) went to the salon to get the 'glue' washed out of my hair (and shampoo on spots where sandpaper Qtips rubbed the skin off stings~!), and I'd reached the magical number!
Ten inches.
And Robin, my girl who is now working part-time was there for the barbering. She got two impressive pony tails off my head for the *wonderful* organization Locks for Love (google it if you don't know about it) and styled what was left, which wasn't much.
I have one butt-ugly haircut, if you'll pardon the vulgarity.
Perhaps that's not fair. The haircut itself is quite nice. It's my round pudgy prednisone moon face that makes it unattractive. In fact, quite frankly, I look like Shemp from The Three Stooges, except he had more hair in the back than I do.
But hey, it'll grow. And as Daughter says, now I can wear all those scarves I buy because I love the colors.
For those of you nearby, if you see me, try not to laugh at my hair and I'll try not to kick you. Accidentally, of course.
The Sublime.
When I get nervous, I have a tendency to babble.
Yes, yes, I babble for many reasons, but I mean *really* talk. So I was talking while this nice, efficient woman was scraping the hide off my scalp and hooking up electrodes in preparation for my EEG. I'd babbled about Older Son a bit and asked the lady if she had children.
Suddenly, discomfort filled the room.
"No," she said softly, then hesitated a long moment. "I did."
For once in my life, I was not overcome with curiosity and my mouth did not run away with me. Thank You, Lord.
"Sounds like a sad story," I offerred.
"It is."
"Then I'll just say I'm sorry," I told her and changed the subject. She thanked me. And then she said very clearlly, "It is what it is."
However it seemed to open the door for a deeper conversation about life. We discussed, with the undertone of my illness and her tragedy, that you have a choice. You can go on, have a life, or not.
We've all seen people who choose 'not'. How miserable. How utterly miserable.
There's misery in choosing to go forward at times, but it's not by choice. It is what it is.
I told her that I would never minimize what she'd been thru by comparing it to dealing with an (incurable, chronic) autoimmune disease and she said she knew. "It is what it is."
We're going to choose in this life. But first, we have to accept that "It is what it is."
11/24/07
About, oh, a month or so ago, I took up quilting.
For those of you who don't know me, I tend to choose hobbies that have slightly faster results, like watching paint dry.
I swore I'd never be a quilter because I didn't have the patience for it.
I was wrong, but not because I was suddenly allotted an extra measure of patience. Instead, because when you have to be still, or are too sick to do much, quilting is a hobby you can set down and walk away from.
And when you *do* see results, they are more than satisfying.
It all began when my grandmother, whom I utterly adore, gave me her quilting frame. I cried like a baby, looking at it. When I think about all the quilts she made on that thing, it just, well, you get the picture. Her stitches were so tiny and so sturdy that fabric wore out before her stitching did. Failing eyesight has pretty much put her out of the quilting business, I'm afraid. It hurts my heart for her.
My Aunt Leslie is a quilter. She can put out the most incredible pieces. You just wouldn't believe it.
So Aunt Leslie began to teach me how to quilt. By email.
You need to know two things.
1. I have never sewed anything more complex than a simple Halloween costume.
2. Aunt Leslie lives in North Carolina.
So as I began, I would send Aunt Leslie nightly "Things I Have Learned About Quilting" emails.
My first quilt was initially called the Scarlett O'Hara quilt because I made it out of curtains.
When Youngest Son was small, he loved tigers, so I found some tiger print, some dark green for lining, I ran straight stitches, folded it over at the top for the curtain rod, ran a seam, put in a hem, and there you have it. Curtains.
Now, at 14, Youngest Son has other things on his mind. But I had fond memories of the tiger days so I decided to make a tie quilt (tied with pieces of yarn or string at intervals instead of being quilted) for him.
In those first days, here is what I told Aunt Leslie that I learned:
So goes my first bout of quilting lessons. I continue to work on my projects, Quilt #2 is close to completion, while Quilt #3 is about ready to quilt. Of course there's that obnoxious basting part. I hate basting. Except for turkeys.
Next time: SOMEONE takes my sewing machine.
About, oh, a month or so ago, I took up quilting.
For those of you who don't know me, I tend to choose hobbies that have slightly faster results, like watching paint dry.
I swore I'd never be a quilter because I didn't have the patience for it.
I was wrong, but not because I was suddenly allotted an extra measure of patience. Instead, because when you have to be still, or are too sick to do much, quilting is a hobby you can set down and walk away from.
And when you *do* see results, they are more than satisfying.
It all began when my grandmother, whom I utterly adore, gave me her quilting frame. I cried like a baby, looking at it. When I think about all the quilts she made on that thing, it just, well, you get the picture. Her stitches were so tiny and so sturdy that fabric wore out before her stitching did. Failing eyesight has pretty much put her out of the quilting business, I'm afraid. It hurts my heart for her.
My Aunt Leslie is a quilter. She can put out the most incredible pieces. You just wouldn't believe it.
So Aunt Leslie began to teach me how to quilt. By email.
You need to know two things.
1. I have never sewed anything more complex than a simple Halloween costume.
2. Aunt Leslie lives in North Carolina.
So as I began, I would send Aunt Leslie nightly "Things I Have Learned About Quilting" emails.
My first quilt was initially called the Scarlett O'Hara quilt because I made it out of curtains.
When Youngest Son was small, he loved tigers, so I found some tiger print, some dark green for lining, I ran straight stitches, folded it over at the top for the curtain rod, ran a seam, put in a hem, and there you have it. Curtains.
Now, at 14, Youngest Son has other things on his mind. But I had fond memories of the tiger days so I decided to make a tie quilt (tied with pieces of yarn or string at intervals instead of being quilted) for him.
In those first days, here is what I told Aunt Leslie that I learned:
1. Basting a floppy 17 3/4 panel is harder than
it looks. Basting it over 80 pounds of prednisone paunch is
worse.
2. Quilting is harder than it looks. Getting
the stitches even and going the right direction is hard. Trying to see white
thread on a white background is harder. Turning it over to see the white thread
on a navy background *can* be horrifying.
However,still on the back,
3. At the end of the circle, you can see that
the stitches get more even, less like a kamikaze compass needle, pointing every
direction.
4. We don't discuss how stars look in the
back. White on navy...shudder.
Since then, I have learned many, many lessons, all from Aunt Leslie or, by trial and error.
Since then, I have learned many, many lessons, all from Aunt Leslie or, by trial and error.
5. When you are quilting in very small
stitches, once you get a rhythm going, and things are looking good, your dog
will become jealous. The quilting hoop, you see, is an Object of Attention,
hereby taking attention away from the aforementioned dog.
This is the point at which the dog will,
with a running start, take a flying leap into the middle of your
hoop.
6. It is a good idea to put down the
hoop every 1/2 hour or so to pay special attention to your dog. See Item 5.
This prevents needle loss as well as needles being jammed in places sewing
needles were not intended to be, like, oh, say, your THIGH, or
FINGER.
7. The tinier the stitch, the longer it
takes.
8. Find out what a "Foundation Block" is before you buy a big nice book of patterns only to discover that you will have to be quilting for fifty years before you have the ability to use them.
8a. Give book to Aunt Leslie and wait for something fabulous to appear.
8. Find out what a "Foundation Block" is before you buy a big nice book of patterns only to discover that you will have to be quilting for fifty years before you have the ability to use them.
8a. Give book to Aunt Leslie and wait for something fabulous to appear.
9. Having a surface big enough to lay your stuff
on would be a real advantage. TV trays do not count.
10. Putting the sewing machine on a tv table,
albeit a sturdy one, makes sewing a mass of material difficult. The seam wants
to move around because the material is heavy and pulling towards the floor.
Next time, try the kitchen table.
11. Get one of those cutting tool things that
rolls. It would be easier on arthritic hands than scissors.
12. When learning to quilt, it is best to use the
same color thread as your background. Using a contrasting color makes *every*
tiny minute mistake glaringly obvious.
13. If you are a perfectionist, see
#12.
Over the Thanksgiving holiday, Aunt Leslie took pity on me and drove here to give a lesson in person. It was awesome, and I would *never* have managed without her. She is so funny, and honest, and well, just terrific.
I have discovered a few new things that might interest quilters. It is an extreme advantage to have a husband who is a draftsman and finds a rotary cutter to be the coolest gadget ever. I may never have to cut a quilting piece *ever*.
Secondly, Aunt Leslies don't understand why you cannot sew a 1/4" seam allowance. I tried to explain that I needed a 1/2" seam allowance, but she informed me that my allowance was 1/4" and not a speck over, therefore 1/4" it shall be! I do not want to disappoint my Aunt Leslie.
Thirdly, 'squaring' a block is an impossible task.
Fourthly, binding is *magic*. Uuuuuuuuuuuup. Then Dooooooowwwwwwn.
And MOST importantly, when putting a square next to a triangle add 7/8" to the triangle and it magically fits.
(See, I *told* you there was magic involved.)
Over the Thanksgiving holiday, Aunt Leslie took pity on me and drove here to give a lesson in person. It was awesome, and I would *never* have managed without her. She is so funny, and honest, and well, just terrific.
I have discovered a few new things that might interest quilters. It is an extreme advantage to have a husband who is a draftsman and finds a rotary cutter to be the coolest gadget ever. I may never have to cut a quilting piece *ever*.
Secondly, Aunt Leslies don't understand why you cannot sew a 1/4" seam allowance. I tried to explain that I needed a 1/2" seam allowance, but she informed me that my allowance was 1/4" and not a speck over, therefore 1/4" it shall be! I do not want to disappoint my Aunt Leslie.
Thirdly, 'squaring' a block is an impossible task.
Fourthly, binding is *magic*. Uuuuuuuuuuuup. Then Dooooooowwwwwwn.
And MOST importantly, when putting a square next to a triangle add 7/8" to the triangle and it magically fits.
(See, I *told* you there was magic involved.)
So goes my first bout of quilting lessons. I continue to work on my projects, Quilt #2 is close to completion, while Quilt #3 is about ready to quilt. Of course there's that obnoxious basting part. I hate basting. Except for turkeys.
Next time: SOMEONE takes my sewing machine.
11/22/07
So last night, Daughter and I were watching Mythbusters on the Discovery Channel.
Youngest Son comes and stands in the doorway for a bit then he says "Mom?"
Daughter and I both looked up at him. He may be 14, but I have a feeling I'll be looking up to him from now on, he's so dadgummed tall.
"Mom? If you put on rubber gloves..."
Okay, those two words, coming out of Youngest Son's mouth immediately get my full and undivided attention.
"If you put on rubber gloves and take a bug zapper..."
This can't be going anyplace good...
"If you put on rubber gloves and take a bug zapper and lower it into a fish pond, will all the fish come floating to the top?"
If I weren't prone to the occasional brain zap, that would have triggered one.
"You haven't put a bug zapper in a fish pond have you?"
"No! No! I was just wondering."
Can someone tell me what it is about the male mindset that causes them to come up with these things? Never, not once in 44 years have I ever considered putting a bug zapper in a fish pond. Youngest Son has given it enough thought to realize that a pair of rubber gloves would be indicated.
"Son, if I ever find out that you have put a bug zapper in a fish pond, you will be grounded for so long that you won't see daylight again."
He gives me an offended look. I'm not kidding.
So his dad comes up behind him and we make him repeat the question. As Daughter puts it, for the briefest of moments, you could see speculation in Husband's eyes. He then reiterated the dungeon threat.
Daughter emailed boyfriend who will henceforth be referred to as Sailor Boy, with the bug zapper story. After two spiels of maniacal laughter, he suggested that the fish pond be insulated with rubber as well as wearing rubber gloves.
*headdesk*
This is the boy who worked on making a rocket car during high school and wore a duct tape tuxedo to prom.
Tonight, on this lovely Thanksgiving, we had dinner with my family. My mom cooked enough food for half of Bangladesh, and then we watched videos of Oldest Son's trip to Japan with my dad. Beautiful pictures, great company, funny stories, it was wonderful.
Then Daughter told Brother (also a Sailor Boy, but Brother trumps being Sailor Boy, so we'll call him Brother) about the bug zapper in the fish pond question. Real speculation crossed Brother's face before laughter erupted and he also suggested a rubber liner on the fish pond.
Those of you with fish ponds: Be afraid. Be very afraid.
So last night, Daughter and I were watching Mythbusters on the Discovery Channel.
Youngest Son comes and stands in the doorway for a bit then he says "Mom?"
Daughter and I both looked up at him. He may be 14, but I have a feeling I'll be looking up to him from now on, he's so dadgummed tall.
"Mom? If you put on rubber gloves..."
Okay, those two words, coming out of Youngest Son's mouth immediately get my full and undivided attention.
"If you put on rubber gloves and take a bug zapper..."
This can't be going anyplace good...
"If you put on rubber gloves and take a bug zapper and lower it into a fish pond, will all the fish come floating to the top?"
If I weren't prone to the occasional brain zap, that would have triggered one.
"You haven't put a bug zapper in a fish pond have you?"
"No! No! I was just wondering."
Can someone tell me what it is about the male mindset that causes them to come up with these things? Never, not once in 44 years have I ever considered putting a bug zapper in a fish pond. Youngest Son has given it enough thought to realize that a pair of rubber gloves would be indicated.
"Son, if I ever find out that you have put a bug zapper in a fish pond, you will be grounded for so long that you won't see daylight again."
He gives me an offended look. I'm not kidding.
So his dad comes up behind him and we make him repeat the question. As Daughter puts it, for the briefest of moments, you could see speculation in Husband's eyes. He then reiterated the dungeon threat.
Daughter emailed boyfriend who will henceforth be referred to as Sailor Boy, with the bug zapper story. After two spiels of maniacal laughter, he suggested that the fish pond be insulated with rubber as well as wearing rubber gloves.
*headdesk*
This is the boy who worked on making a rocket car during high school and wore a duct tape tuxedo to prom.
Tonight, on this lovely Thanksgiving, we had dinner with my family. My mom cooked enough food for half of Bangladesh, and then we watched videos of Oldest Son's trip to Japan with my dad. Beautiful pictures, great company, funny stories, it was wonderful.
Then Daughter told Brother (also a Sailor Boy, but Brother trumps being Sailor Boy, so we'll call him Brother) about the bug zapper in the fish pond question. Real speculation crossed Brother's face before laughter erupted and he also suggested a rubber liner on the fish pond.
Those of you with fish ponds: Be afraid. Be very afraid.
11/19/07
The sleep apnea test is over, thank you Lord! I dreaded that thing, and everyone said "Oh, don't worry, it's not like being in the hospital. It's like a hotel room."
Liar, liar pants on fire, hanging from a telephone wire!
It was a hospital room...a plain old hospital room except the bed was bigger and somebody threw a bedspread on it. Big deal. Certainly didn't make up for the indignities.
With a Crisco-like glue, electrodes were pressed into my scalp, gomming up my freshly washed hair. Then she took, I am not kidding, she told me, *sand paper* to my skin so that the other kind of electrodes would stick to my skin better. Ladies, see the Dark Humor section to the left for an aside to the sandpaper issue.
So then, after abrading the skin, she of course put alcohol on it...can you say OW?
Wires down my pants to see if I had Restless Leg...if my legs are restless it's 'cause they hurt, not because of RL. Hubby has RL, I know it.
Oh, and she says, "If you need to go to the bathroom, just sling this over your shoulder." and shows me this forty pound contraption resembling the old time telephone operator's board with all the wires and plugs.
Oh yeah. I want to drop * that* in the toilet.
SO at 11pm, she comes to "put me to bed". (rolled eyes) This is when she gets out the Plastic Claw of Death.
Handing me two plastic tubes to put over my ears (and yes, with a commentary on my ears...a story for another day), she takes this thing resembling a girl's hair clamp and puts half in my nostrils and the other half under my top lip.
NOW I'm supposed to go to sleep so they can see if I sleep improperly or not.
*headdesk*
Even if I *could* sleep, she was so LOUD right outside the door, I didn't stand a chance.
Then after finally drifting off, I'm awakened at 6 am to a huge needle where she says "I need to get a blood gas."
There's a waker upper.
I'd always heard how painful this was, and didn't understand because it was just drawing blood, right? Well, it is *arterial* blood which is evidently special because it causes your hand, wrist, and arm to cramp and then bruise like you've been beaten.
Plus, I'd had blood drawn on the way in for two more sets of tests so now I have a lovely shade of purple on the inside of the other arm.
I have no idea whether or not I snore, stop breathing, whatever. I tried and tried, but I couldn't get a thing out of the girl. Usually I can get *something* out of the technician, but this girl was brutal. So I guess I'll wait until JANUARY when I see the cardiologist and just hope all is well in the meantime.
Arg.
The sleep apnea test is over, thank you Lord! I dreaded that thing, and everyone said "Oh, don't worry, it's not like being in the hospital. It's like a hotel room."
Liar, liar pants on fire, hanging from a telephone wire!
It was a hospital room...a plain old hospital room except the bed was bigger and somebody threw a bedspread on it. Big deal. Certainly didn't make up for the indignities.
With a Crisco-like glue, electrodes were pressed into my scalp, gomming up my freshly washed hair. Then she took, I am not kidding, she told me, *sand paper* to my skin so that the other kind of electrodes would stick to my skin better. Ladies, see the Dark Humor section to the left for an aside to the sandpaper issue.
So then, after abrading the skin, she of course put alcohol on it...can you say OW?
Wires down my pants to see if I had Restless Leg...if my legs are restless it's 'cause they hurt, not because of RL. Hubby has RL, I know it.
Oh, and she says, "If you need to go to the bathroom, just sling this over your shoulder." and shows me this forty pound contraption resembling the old time telephone operator's board with all the wires and plugs.
Oh yeah. I want to drop * that* in the toilet.
SO at 11pm, she comes to "put me to bed". (rolled eyes) This is when she gets out the Plastic Claw of Death.
Handing me two plastic tubes to put over my ears (and yes, with a commentary on my ears...a story for another day), she takes this thing resembling a girl's hair clamp and puts half in my nostrils and the other half under my top lip.
NOW I'm supposed to go to sleep so they can see if I sleep improperly or not.
*headdesk*
Even if I *could* sleep, she was so LOUD right outside the door, I didn't stand a chance.
Then after finally drifting off, I'm awakened at 6 am to a huge needle where she says "I need to get a blood gas."
There's a waker upper.
I'd always heard how painful this was, and didn't understand because it was just drawing blood, right? Well, it is *arterial* blood which is evidently special because it causes your hand, wrist, and arm to cramp and then bruise like you've been beaten.
Plus, I'd had blood drawn on the way in for two more sets of tests so now I have a lovely shade of purple on the inside of the other arm.
I have no idea whether or not I snore, stop breathing, whatever. I tried and tried, but I couldn't get a thing out of the girl. Usually I can get *something* out of the technician, but this girl was brutal. So I guess I'll wait until JANUARY when I see the cardiologist and just hope all is well in the meantime.
Arg.
November 16, 2007
Okay, Okay, the bp is down some...one of my docs threw a fit and I'm now on medication.
Does this mean I'm old?
I mean, I take a lot of medication anyway. 49 pills a day. My friend Jean likes to tease me that she wins because she takes 51. Of course she's in her 70's and has more (in quantity and severity) serious issues. But with my new little blood pressure pill, I'm up to 50.
49 pills a day bothered me less than this one. Why is that do you suppose?
I mean, I've been working for years to lower the dosage on some of the medications that keep me alive. But that blood pressure pill. that tiny little pill, of extraordinarily low dose, is the one I dislike the most.
In spite of lupus and all its lovely tag-a-long secondary diseases, I always felt I got a pass on bp because mine was always good. Suddenly, a couple of weekends ago, it spiked dangerously high.
Yes, I refused to go to the hospital. I figured it would go down.
It did. A couple of points. Then we used the essential oil mixture, and it came down a few more points.
A trip to see Peek, my favorite internist in the whole wide world, will result in a trip to the sleep clinic to see if I have sleep apnea. Evidently this sometimes can cause a dramatic spike in bp.
But you didn't come here to read about this did you?
Tell you what...check the blog, or if you're really needing a boost, look at the bottom of the page and follow the link to the old columns. It's been a few years. I'll get back on track here directly.
Okay, Okay, the bp is down some...one of my docs threw a fit and I'm now on medication.
Does this mean I'm old?
I mean, I take a lot of medication anyway. 49 pills a day. My friend Jean likes to tease me that she wins because she takes 51. Of course she's in her 70's and has more (in quantity and severity) serious issues. But with my new little blood pressure pill, I'm up to 50.
49 pills a day bothered me less than this one. Why is that do you suppose?
I mean, I've been working for years to lower the dosage on some of the medications that keep me alive. But that blood pressure pill. that tiny little pill, of extraordinarily low dose, is the one I dislike the most.
In spite of lupus and all its lovely tag-a-long secondary diseases, I always felt I got a pass on bp because mine was always good. Suddenly, a couple of weekends ago, it spiked dangerously high.
Yes, I refused to go to the hospital. I figured it would go down.
It did. A couple of points. Then we used the essential oil mixture, and it came down a few more points.
A trip to see Peek, my favorite internist in the whole wide world, will result in a trip to the sleep clinic to see if I have sleep apnea. Evidently this sometimes can cause a dramatic spike in bp.
But you didn't come here to read about this did you?
Tell you what...check the blog, or if you're really needing a boost, look at the bottom of the page and follow the link to the old columns. It's been a few years. I'll get back on track here directly.
Ah a landmark day. My blood pressure hit 193/123.
Yes, you read that correctly. No, I didn't go to the hospital. Instead I used a hypertensive mixture of essential oils that my daughter concocted when my bp very first went up. Interestingly, putting this on the bottom of my feet lowers my bp from 5 to 12 points. Breathing it in works a bit better.
Granted, when your numbers are that high, it's not a huge difference, but it might be *the* difference sometime.
I first became interested in essential oils as, well, a last resort type thing. As usual and per my OCD personality, I then researched the efficacy to pieces. I came to the conclusion that anecdotal as well as medical evidence could not be ignored. So first I tried putting a little lavender in my pillow, as I was having difficulty sleeping.
Slept like a baby every night I put the lavender in my pillow. Now please understand, I'm not talking about lavender scented, or lavender colored. I'm talking about pure lavender (bulgarian) essential oil, on cotton balls, in a baggie, slipped inside my pillowcase.
I could further bore you with the properties of pure lavender essential oil, but I'll leave it at this for now.
Aside from the nightmare that woke me up, life has been fairly quiet, although I did get to talk to my son and father in Japan. There's something about that "Hey Mom" that just does my soul good. I think the two of them are having fun together. And I'm quite certain Japan won't be the same.
But it was watching the interaction between my brother and my niece which cracked me up and gained bonus points for them both. If you want to know what bonus points are, check the 'dark humor' link to the left, but don't say I didn't warn you.
Husband's vacation has begun, though he has another day of work, because he's picked up his stack of books from my dad's library and is ready to relax. Poor guy has to take me to doctors and medical tests half of his vacation days, but there's no help for it.
Soon, there will be a response form to the left for which you may...well, respond. If you feel the need, that is.
If you have something good or interesting to say, I'd love to hear it. If you have something ugly to say, then I don't want to hear it so, well, don't respond. Just talk about me behind my back.
Yes, you read that correctly. No, I didn't go to the hospital. Instead I used a hypertensive mixture of essential oils that my daughter concocted when my bp very first went up. Interestingly, putting this on the bottom of my feet lowers my bp from 5 to 12 points. Breathing it in works a bit better.
Granted, when your numbers are that high, it's not a huge difference, but it might be *the* difference sometime.
I first became interested in essential oils as, well, a last resort type thing. As usual and per my OCD personality, I then researched the efficacy to pieces. I came to the conclusion that anecdotal as well as medical evidence could not be ignored. So first I tried putting a little lavender in my pillow, as I was having difficulty sleeping.
Slept like a baby every night I put the lavender in my pillow. Now please understand, I'm not talking about lavender scented, or lavender colored. I'm talking about pure lavender (bulgarian) essential oil, on cotton balls, in a baggie, slipped inside my pillowcase.
I could further bore you with the properties of pure lavender essential oil, but I'll leave it at this for now.
Aside from the nightmare that woke me up, life has been fairly quiet, although I did get to talk to my son and father in Japan. There's something about that "Hey Mom" that just does my soul good. I think the two of them are having fun together. And I'm quite certain Japan won't be the same.
But it was watching the interaction between my brother and my niece which cracked me up and gained bonus points for them both. If you want to know what bonus points are, check the 'dark humor' link to the left, but don't say I didn't warn you.
Husband's vacation has begun, though he has another day of work, because he's picked up his stack of books from my dad's library and is ready to relax. Poor guy has to take me to doctors and medical tests half of his vacation days, but there's no help for it.
Soon, there will be a response form to the left for which you may...well, respond. If you feel the need, that is.
If you have something good or interesting to say, I'd love to hear it. If you have something ugly to say, then I don't want to hear it so, well, don't respond. Just talk about me behind my back.
I feel as though there is little I can say on this, or any Veteran's Day that truly expresses the depth of emotion that wells in my chest when I think of those who have served their country in the military.
Even before my little brother went to the war, Veteran's Day was important. Memorial Day. But now, I'm older and I know the fear. I know the pride and I know a tiny speck of the hell that families live through.
Not long ago, I was flipping the television channels and I happened across Matt Damon movie so I stopped for a moment. By the time I realized it was "Saving Private Ryan", I was about ready to shatter into pieces, but then my 18 year old son came into the room and sat down to watch it. I couldn't leave. Finishing the movie, letting him see the horror that true war is, the gruesome bloody conflict seemed more important.
And then I cried. I told my son that I didn't want him going off to war. I don't necessarily think the military is as careful with our boys as they should be, particularly in the vaccination area.
But mostly, I just didn't want my boy to go.
I wonder if there are any parents who don't feel that way.
I know there are great careers to be had, and that without our military, we'd be in deep stuff.
But not my child.
How does one juxtapose that incredible pride we feel in our veterans, our men and women who defend our nation with the gut deep fear and determination that your own child not be one of those people?
I don't know.
By the way, today, Veteran's Day 2007, my daughter's boyfriend is being deployed to an area that neither his mother nor I would like him to be.
But I could not be more proud.
Even before my little brother went to the war, Veteran's Day was important. Memorial Day. But now, I'm older and I know the fear. I know the pride and I know a tiny speck of the hell that families live through.
Not long ago, I was flipping the television channels and I happened across Matt Damon movie so I stopped for a moment. By the time I realized it was "Saving Private Ryan", I was about ready to shatter into pieces, but then my 18 year old son came into the room and sat down to watch it. I couldn't leave. Finishing the movie, letting him see the horror that true war is, the gruesome bloody conflict seemed more important.
And then I cried. I told my son that I didn't want him going off to war. I don't necessarily think the military is as careful with our boys as they should be, particularly in the vaccination area.
But mostly, I just didn't want my boy to go.
I wonder if there are any parents who don't feel that way.
I know there are great careers to be had, and that without our military, we'd be in deep stuff.
But not my child.
How does one juxtapose that incredible pride we feel in our veterans, our men and women who defend our nation with the gut deep fear and determination that your own child not be one of those people?
I don't know.
By the way, today, Veteran's Day 2007, my daughter's boyfriend is being deployed to an area that neither his mother nor I would like him to be.
But I could not be more proud.
November 11, 2007
How did I find myself in this place?
I am 44, have three children, a husband, a sprinkling of dogs, and a case of lupus about which the adjectives currently running through my mind would cause my mother great shame and embarrassment.
But where to begin.
I am a writer. At least I used to be. BDL. Before Darn Lupus or whatever adjective you see fit to place in between. I, for one, am still hoping not to embarrass my mother. Unlikely, but I'll take a shot.
My oldest child is a 22 yr old graduate student in English literature with and emphasis in (insert something suitably impressive here). She should graduate with her master's soon, then, God willing, be off to post-graduate school for her PhD, after which we can only hope she'll get a job. Though she went to school early, on a full ride, even with a graduate and teaching assistantship, there ain't no free ride in grad school, so the student loan people will be waiting. However, I have to say that debt for education is the only debt worth incurring.
My middle child, well, there's a story there that perhaps I'll tell another day. Suffice it to say that he took his first college class at 12, graduated at 17 with a degree in computer science and a certification in Japanese, and he intends to study abroad for a year in Japan.
In case you didn't catch that, let me say it again.
My boy. My baby boy. The one who is utterly brilliant in math/physics/computers and that stuff, but occasionally doesn't quite know when to come in out of the rain, that baby boy is planning to go to Japan. For a year.
He graduated college at 17, with honors, full ride, just like his sister. Then he worked as a programmer for a year. He has more money than I do. What do I say?
"I'm sorry young man, but you may not go to Japan yet. You're too young."
I already tried that.
When he was 14.
And 15.
And 16.
And 17.
Each time I said, "You'll have to wait until you're 18."
Now 18 is here. His empty room begins to haunt me already.
But that is not the end of the story. I have a 14 year old son as well. A gentle, artistic soul who can kill you three ways with one hand.
Did I mention that my artistic, gentle soul also happened to be a black belt in kung fu?
And he loves sports. No, you did not hear me spat the word 'sports. It's just that 'spat' and 'sport' sound similar in my head.
The sprinkling of dogs currently consists of one aging apricot toy poodle, one Yorkshire terrier, one very special pug, and my canine personification, a French bulldog named MeiMei.
Overlooking us all, you'll find my ever patient husband. Emphasis on patient.
There. For those of you who did not follow ten years of my humor column, you now have at least a basic description of the cast of characters.
Past columns can be accessed here. Check the navbar to the right.
New adventures await.
How did I find myself in this place?
I am 44, have three children, a husband, a sprinkling of dogs, and a case of lupus about which the adjectives currently running through my mind would cause my mother great shame and embarrassment.
But where to begin.
I am a writer. At least I used to be. BDL. Before Darn Lupus or whatever adjective you see fit to place in between. I, for one, am still hoping not to embarrass my mother. Unlikely, but I'll take a shot.
My oldest child is a 22 yr old graduate student in English literature with and emphasis in (insert something suitably impressive here). She should graduate with her master's soon, then, God willing, be off to post-graduate school for her PhD, after which we can only hope she'll get a job. Though she went to school early, on a full ride, even with a graduate and teaching assistantship, there ain't no free ride in grad school, so the student loan people will be waiting. However, I have to say that debt for education is the only debt worth incurring.
My middle child, well, there's a story there that perhaps I'll tell another day. Suffice it to say that he took his first college class at 12, graduated at 17 with a degree in computer science and a certification in Japanese, and he intends to study abroad for a year in Japan.
In case you didn't catch that, let me say it again.
My boy. My baby boy. The one who is utterly brilliant in math/physics/computers and that stuff, but occasionally doesn't quite know when to come in out of the rain, that baby boy is planning to go to Japan. For a year.
He graduated college at 17, with honors, full ride, just like his sister. Then he worked as a programmer for a year. He has more money than I do. What do I say?
"I'm sorry young man, but you may not go to Japan yet. You're too young."
I already tried that.
When he was 14.
And 15.
And 16.
And 17.
Each time I said, "You'll have to wait until you're 18."
Now 18 is here. His empty room begins to haunt me already.
But that is not the end of the story. I have a 14 year old son as well. A gentle, artistic soul who can kill you three ways with one hand.
Did I mention that my artistic, gentle soul also happened to be a black belt in kung fu?
And he loves sports. No, you did not hear me spat the word 'sports. It's just that 'spat' and 'sport' sound similar in my head.
The sprinkling of dogs currently consists of one aging apricot toy poodle, one Yorkshire terrier, one very special pug, and my canine personification, a French bulldog named MeiMei.
Overlooking us all, you'll find my ever patient husband. Emphasis on patient.
There. For those of you who did not follow ten years of my humor column, you now have at least a basic description of the cast of characters.
Past columns can be accessed here. Check the navbar to the right.
New adventures await.