World Rare Disease Day 2010

I've decided to be a bit more serious today.  Shocking I know, but this is a topic that deserves some serious recognition.  Even if you decide not to read this post please click on the link below to find out a little more about Rare Disease Day.

More Information

What is a rare disease?

It is estimated that there are 6000 to 8000 rare diseases in the world today

Characteristics of rare diseases

• Rare diseases are often chronic, progressive, degenerative, and often life-threatening
• Rare diseases are disabling: the quality of life of patients is often compromised by the lack or loss of autonomy
• High level of pain and suffering for the patient and his/her family
• No existing effective cure
• There are between 6000 and 8000 rare diseases
• 75% of rare disease affect children 30% of rare disease patients die before the age of 5
• 80% of rare diseases have identified genetic origins. Other rare diseases are the result of infections (bacterial or viral), allergies and environmental causes, or are degenerative and proliferative.

You have what? How many times have I heard that? For those of you who have read my blog for any length of time, you are well aware that I have demonstrated the intellect of a wet tissue by picking a disorder that no one has ever heard of. And I don't just mean people in the general community, even most doctors haven't heard of it, don't know how to recognise it, how to test for it or how to treat it. Good old Dysautonomia the bane of my existence. There are some more common forms, but I have been stupid enough to pick a rare version of this obscure disorder.  Despite three years of testing I still remain a medical mystery, the proverbial "Horse With No Name".  Collecting new and exciting symptoms and comorbid diseases along the way.

I thought getting in to see the top specialist in the country (or the Wizard of Oz as I like to call him) I would have an answer, but no, that would be too easy.  Instead I got the line you always hope to get from your doctor (yes that's sarcasm):

"I have only seen 1 or 2 people in my entire career with your symptom profile".

Also from my normal cardio:

"you may have Michelle's disease"

Or from my neuro:

"you really are a medical mystery aren't you?"


Then there have been the miscellaneous words like:

"special"

"unique"

"interesting"

I've also been told (repeatedly) that I may have Pure Autonomic Failure (PAF).  What's so rare about that?  Well PAF generally occurs in males over the age of 60, not 36-year-old women.  So there you go.  Not only am I not an 80-year-old woman, I may in fact be a a 65-year-old guy who pees like a horse and can't get it up.  YAY!  Maybe I just need a viagra.

There are no answers when you are odd.

Will I get better?

"I don't know".

Will these tablets work?

"I don't know".

Where to from here?

"No idea".

So you live your life with the knowledge that you are getting worse and the reality that it doesn't look good.  Times like these tequila sounds good.

I'm not alone in this.  There are many obscure diseases and disorders around, with some that are unique to 1 or 2 people in the world.   Gene deletions or multiplications in a variety of forms.   Some caused by viruses or bacteria or unique environmental contamination.  Idiopathic (doctor speak for I have no idea why you have it) disorders.  Some little quirk of nature that creates a unique illness.

Unfortunately when you have a rare disorder there is little funding for research or treatments.  In many cases the top specialists are flying blind, using trial and error to treat their patients.  When things are rare it is hard to develop a standard treatment program. Governments look at the big picture, so funding goes to those disorders that affect the most people.

Rare diseases don't have the PR machine of other disorders eg Breast Cancer or AIDS. Government programs often don't have categories for these disorders, so patients find it extremely hard to get financial aid or access to rehabilitative programs.

World Rare Disease Awareness Day is a chance to bring attention to these hidden diseases.  To remind people that they exist and to give them a face.

Whether you call it Rare, Special, Unique, or Medical Mystery, it can be a hard road to travel when you have the disease no one has heard of, is difficult to treat, understand or explain.


Cheers
The Freak Michelle :)

Swoon.

The last week (well 'weeks' if I think about it, but that's just plain old depressing) has been a health shit fight.  My body has decided to demonstrate just how incompetent it is on the whole functioning front.  My BP has been all over the place as has my HR.  There is no consistency, no rhyme or reason for the crappapaloza that's going on.  It's not like I can say it was particularly hot on Thursday and that's why I don't recall from early afternoon till the next day, because it wasn't that hot.  Similarly, why did my body go arse up whilst I was driving, so that my panicked eldest had to tell me to just drive straight home from his bus stop, because I was green and my face "wasn't quite right"? 


Most annoying, troubling, for me is that I have gone back to the swoon or the 'less than one second till' swoon, whereby I barely get enough time to lie down to avert full swoon mode.  This just isn't part of the plan and I wish that my stupid body would get with the bloody program.  Yes I used the word swoon.  I much prefer it to the inadequate terms like 'passing out', 'fainting', 'blacking out', syncope or my personal least favourite "simple faint".  Simple faint my arse.  That term could only be thought appropriate by people who have never experienced the delight of a 'simple faint'.  Unlike these inadequate words, 'swoon' just screams 1920's silent movie glamour and is much more palatable.  If I have to do the whole syncope thing I'm picking my descriptor.

I do quite like this modern day version as well (well more the clothes really) All very Mad Men.

Amy Neunsinger

Unfortunately the reality is more likely to look like this:

(Ahh the elegance).

In reality I know I shouldn't be complaining.  For some, swooning is an every day event or for the unlucky few an hour to hour phenomenon.  Luckily for me I'm an occasional swooner thanks to the meds.   I mostly do a sort of half-hearted piss-poor excuse for a swoon now.  Yep can't even do that right, my body is such a useless douche bag.

Early on in the piece I had no real warning.  It was case of me standing in lounge room.  Then me waking on the floor going 'WTF'????  Meds have changed that thankfully.  Now I get a lead up.  What's known as pre-syncope.  This is the delightful state of hot flushes, greying vision, nausea, muscle weakness, pasty chic with a touch of vomit green, confusion, lack of coordination and so on.  Unfortunately this lead up is pretty much my permanent state now.  The only difference being the symptom severity.  But these last few weeks my lead up has shortened. 

I knew last week things were not looking good early on in the day. 

(Hmmm should I stay home and try and rest. No.  Go out and do lots. No problem).

But at least my heart rate was out of the low 40s.  I had hoped that the day would improve.  Looking back I realise the lack of blood flow to my brain was probably begining to affect my thinking.  I managed to get to my friend Kezza's house, luckily only 5 mins away.  I managed to stay for a couple of hours chat and have coffee.  I should have realised that the fact that it took 3 of us to create a Wii character for Wii Fit that things were not exactly shining brightly. Problem was that this was really the last thing I recall clearly that day.

I don't really recall driving home, picking up the kids, shopping or getting home but I must have done it all as I had 2 kids winging like usual, there was food in the fridge and I was KOed on my own couch.  But that's it.  I know I ended up in bed but I'm not sure how.  I took my BP but I don't recall pushing the button.  Luckily my machine records your last level.

 (Bugger.  Pretty sure I may have been away with the pixies by this stage).

Call me crazy, but I have a feeling that this could be reason why I don't recall the rest of the day.  And they keep saying high blood pressure is the problem.  (They also say salt is bad.  Unless you are a freak like me.  Obviously Bob is the king of Bizarro Illnesses).

Unfortunately it was Ground Hog day, yesterday.   I kind of remember David telling me to get out of my dress and put on my pjs, but I could be wrong, I'll have to check.  I do know I woke up in pjs so I guess it happened at some point.  WTF body!!!  I am on a cocktail of drugs to stabilize my BP, I scull water and eat so much salt I could pretty much double as Lot's wife, and this is what I get.  Stupidly I also have other days where my BP does stupid things like 140/115.  Or days where it is 100/92, so I have no pulse, which gives a whole new to the term 'looking like death warmed up'.  I have also had periods with a HR of 150+ just sitting on the couch.  Who says you can't get a work out whilst watching TV?  Mind you one of those times I had just been watching Jensen Ackles on Supernatural so maybe that's the true cause. 

The result of this is I am exhausted.  As I sit here writing I am feeling like a space cadet.  I am pretty much the poster child for "Lights On No One Home".  My head feels like it may explode in the next 3 seconds, my muscles are jelly, I am uncoordinated and keep hitting walls, tables, fridges etc, I really wish they'd stop jumping out at me.  I also put my saucepan of milk on the stove this morning, only problem was I forgot the milk part, and turned it on anyway.  Mmmm nice warm air to put on my oats, tasty.  I have a series of 'mystery' bruises on my legs, arms and feet and I have no idea where I got them.  So now I have purple and black legs, sexy!  I am also starting to rue the day we picked a house with 3 fights of stairs, which leave me breathless.  Now it's just the week of recovery, ie back to normal crappness. Swooning sucks.

It may be time to send my body a 'Dear John" letter.  I think it'd go a little something like this:

Dear Body,

You are a dick.

Go self fornicate.

Cheers 

Michelle.

Ok so I may be a little shitty today.  I've had a crappy week(s).  I did hear that Bob used to be called 'Irritable Heart', and I know I also have an "Irritable Bowel", so maybe I'm just plain old Irritable.  I'm sure when I read this back in a few days I'll be horrified by my poor attitude but hey at the moment there's no blood going above my irritable shoulders so the old brain filter is on the fritz and I've pushed the publish button.  I'm pretty sure this is the blogging equivalent of drunk dialling.  So I guess I should leave it with "I luvs yas all. I do. (hic) I really, really (hic), really love you. I do.  You're the bestus".

Swooning Michelle :)

I think I may have to invest in a Fainting Chair.  I've always liked them.  Maybe that was a sign of things to come.  They were very popular in the Victorian Era for all those poor corseted women, with such small waists they made Posh Spice look like Barbar.

What's For Dinner Mum? (12 More Pages Guest Post)

Ahhh... the joys of domestic duties when you have a chronic illness. Sometimes you have to laugh, even if the laughter is hysterical. I'm guest posting on 12 More Pages again this week. Remember to check it out for some great Dysautonomia information.

Ok I've decided to jump right into the day-to-day practical issues that haunt all of us with Bob. It's these bland and normal daily chores that often seem to cause the most grief. Making dinner. Who would have thought it could become such a drama. Yet each day when that time rocks around and that simple sentence is spoken aloud “What's For Dinner Mum?”, it's just another reminder of the obstacles we have to face. I'm sure someone without a Bob in his life would wonder at the ability of such a boring daily chore to arouse such feelings of dread, guilt and hopelessness. For those poor buggers who innocently utter these words please note that you may have your spleen pulled out through your left nostril on occasion. It's nothing personal. But those four little words can be like fingernails on a chalk board some days. So the question remains, What is it about dinner that does this to us?

The time of day: ok I know for most of us mornings are like diving head first into the bowels of hell. There's something about Bob and mornings that just doesn't mix. It's the whole oil and water thing and I'm sure Bob is one of those trans-saturated-clog your arteries kind of fats. But the late afternoons and evenings can be just as bad. By that time you've spent very available drop of energy going to work (if you still can), getting kids to and from school and after school activities, attempting household chores and generally just making it through the day. The idea of then having to prepare a meal can feel like trying to scale Mt Everest in your Sunday Best. Where's my Tenzing Norga?

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How To Spot A Sick Chicken.

I'm pretty inured to the whole "you don't look sick" line. It all becomes white noise after a while, though I will admit to often thinking, "well you don't look like a knob either", but I generally have enough tact to keep that to myself. Well sometimes. According to my loving family I occasionally have a bowl of bitchy for breakfast, and my Mother Teresa persona is replaced by a large dose of bitch with a side of cow. Usually this has something to do with a lack of coffee, and really if you speak to me pre-caffeine that's your own fault.

In many respects I'm over what other people think. I have enough on my plate without taking on other people's issues. But recently my happy-hippy, zenness slipped. A few weeks ago I was informed by a relative who shall remain nameless (but we both know who you are and you should know better than to piss off a person with a blog) that, "You can't expect sympathy with that face".

For some reason the bluntness of this statement hit me like a full on sucker punch to the gut. I was lost for words and just stood their like a fool with my mouth hanging open. What was I supposed to say to that? Would I have been within my rights to pick up the coffee pot and send it flying across the room at their head? Was it okay that I had a whole montage of Looney Tunes inspired cartoons going through my head? Think lots of anvils and frying pans.

The whole idea that I was asking for sympathy was like nails on a chalk board. I'm pretty sure the effort involved in holding my tongue, and coffee pot, did leave me with a weird twitch and a vein pulsating out the front of my forehead. But other than that I was cool as a cucumber.

Anyone who has ever read my blog or spoken to me for more than 3.2 seconds knows how I feel about the whole pity issue. I HATE pity, it sucks out your soul like a big hairy arsed incubus (or succubus for those of you of the male persuasion). It is dis-empowering and makes you a victim. If you are going to give me pity then you might as well just give me a chilli enema or poke me in the eye with that bastard offspring of a fork and spoon, the spork, and why don't you make it rusty while you're at it. To you and your pity I say a big fat Bite Me!

Now this isn't to say that I don't hold my own private pity parties every now and then. But its a very exclusive invite list of one, and may involve chocolate, hiding under my blankies and watching bad scifi or horror shows (yes I know the geek alert just went off, but until you've watched a shockingly bad scifi or horror show you don't know what you've been missing. If you haven't seen The Blob circa 1988 you haven't lived. The horror of Kevin Dillon's (Entourage) hair alone, is worth the effort of tracking it down). My pity parties are all infected with the Cinderella effect, so they are short lived. After a couple of hours, I wipe the snot off my face, pick up the mounds of soggy tissues and chocolate wrappers, suck it up and move on.

(oh 80's hair how I love you)

So in case I haven't been clear:

NO PITY ALLOWED
PITIERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT
OR AT LEAST KNEECAPPED AND
FORCED TO WATCH KENDRA ON LOOP.

So once againI am forced to revisit the question of "what does sick look like"?

If I am sick should I look like this?

(The Exorcist is one of my all time favourite movies. So happy when Linda Blair was on my favourite horror eye-candy show Supernatural).

Would I then appear legitimately sick? Currently the most I get is a "gee you look tired". Mind you some mornings when Bob is beating the crap out of me I would be grateful to look as attractive as young Linda. Problem is when I do look sick, I am usually too ill to go out in public. Conversely if I'm out I'm feeling 'better', by which I mean instead of death warmed up, I feel like that little bit of goop you get in the corner of your eye in the morning, I look okay. I've most likely brushed my hair and put on some BO Basher, no guarantee of the dreaded shower or clean clothes but there's nothing a few squirts of Chanel No. 5 can't cover.

Not looking sick enough can create many problems. Recently a friend sent me a link about a woman who lost her health benefits because she appeared too happy in her FB pictures and therefore was deemed to no longer have Severe Depression. Damn that stupid woman for trying to breakthrough her depression to attempt some sort of life instead of succumbing to overwhelming hopelessness. It's a miracle. One smily day and Depression is cured. Maybe I should burn all the pictures of me standing up and wear a disguise when I manage to go grocery shopping? Obviously the trolley of milk and Green & Blacks mean I'm cured, just ignore the puke bag and salt sachets sticking out the top of my handbag.

Damn those invisible illnesses. I couldn't get a good illness where I look like crap (well lets face it I may actually look like crap but that's just genes not illness), no I'm such a loser I picked the stupid disease, dysautonomia. Way to go Michelle!

Now I did think about getting "SICK" tattooed on my forehead, but I am a wuss. I can't even pluck a rogue eyebrow hair or take off a bandaid without screeching like someone is cutting off my leg. So the tattoo plan has gone out the window. I think I need to accessorise. I'm sure that just like the right accessories can make an outfit, the right sick accessories will enable people to easily pick me for the sickie I am.

So what kind of accessories do I need to purchase and where do I get them? Is there an e-store called called Sickies R' Us? Do Maybelline or Napoleon put out a line of anti-bronzers to give you the pasty sick tint? Where to start? I decided I'd google "What does sick look like?", in hopes of finding an answer to my problem. Alas there was no answer to my question. I could find out what a sick fish looks like, or a hamster, but no answer for a sick 36-year-old woman. Just when I had given up hope I had an Oprah light bulb moment. A ray of sunlight fell upon my computer screen and I found the answer in the form of the humble chicken.

What does a sick chicken look like?

• A sick hen will usually be listless, not moving around much.
• They often sit quietly with eyes shut or partly closed.
• They may move slowly and possibly stagger or lose balance when walking.
• They do not run away when approached, they often just drop down into a crouch and wait to be picked up.
• They may have mucus around the eyes and beak.
• The vent area is often crusted and dirty (ok I did giggle at this one).

Thank you Wiki Answers, once more you have saved my life.

So there you go chicken/human its all a bit the same.Your hen may look pretty on the outside, sexy feathers and all, but look a bit closer and she is just not quite right.


So if next time you see me and my vent is a bit crusty, you will know with complete certainty that I am sick.

The clucked off Michelle :)

(Now I'm not talking about compassion, which comes from a place of caring and understanding, and is always welcome. You can have compassion for someone without pity).

Harley & Rose, They Just Lost It For A While. (Guest Posting for 12 More Pages).

Guest posting for 12 More Pages again this week. Here's a little post about dealing with relationships when you have a chronic illness.

Relationships are hard work, just look at the ridiculously high divorce rates. Hollywood and television have indoctrinated us to seek out the fairy tale, to find our soul mate who will make us complete, slay the dragons and hold us tight for all eternity. Unfortunately, life isn't like the movies (not that I still don't wish I was Juliette Binoche in Chocolat with Johnny Depp turning up on her doorstep at the end of the movie; but hey, we're all entitled to a bit of fantasy every now and then). Relationships are filled with ups and down's, even with the best of intentions and the most perfect of circumstances. When you add a chronic illness to the mix the strain it places on a relationship can be overwhelming. Any little problems that existed beforehand tend to be amplified by the stresses associated with a partner's illness.

We agree to “for better or worse, in sickness and in health” but it is very different when you are actually faced with the situation. Whether you are the person who is ill, or the significant other who is well, what we imagine we can deal with and what will occur should a partner become ill, can bear little resemblance to the reality. Chronic illnesses like dysautonomia, can't be contained in a nice 50min House episode. Yes, House may give you a diagnosis and a drug, but unlike the dramatic life-saving, experimental brain surgery that saves the actor in the last 5 mins of the show, dysautonomia and it's impact persists long after the credits role. In fact, it can persist from Episode 1 Season 1, all the way to Episode 48 , Season 50, often with little change. No one makes a TV series like this for a reason. How does the audience keep interested and maintain compassion for the character who is permanently ill. It all becomes boring, fatigue sets in, and ratings drop. We are programed to expect a resolution to the 'crisis'. Unfortunately with chronic illness the 'crisis' may never end and can become a permanent state of living.

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A Word From Our Sponsor X

What I am about to confess may be shocking, so you may want to brace yourself, pop a Xanax, and grab a bottle of "Mummy's Little Helper" * and chug.



My name is Michelle (dramatic pause, deep breath).........

..........and I am a little slow on the uptake.



I know you are shocked because I am always such a sharp, organised, finger-on-the-pulse kinda girl. Yet despite my keen powers of deduction, I managed to miss my own personal blogging milestone.

I have only just realised that I made it to 50 posts and cracked 3000 views, since September 2009.

Surely there's some application on Blogger that ensures fireworks, marching bands and streamers, the second the counter clicks over. Now I know I am an infant in the blogging world, barely able to hold my own head up and not yet able to roll over, but I'm excited, Big Kev excited.

Now I'm not saying that they have all been quality blogs. I'm not even suggesting that they were literate. I know many are grammatical abominations and most verge on a manic outpouring of verbal diarrhoea, but I got there. I hit 50 and that requires dedication and perseverance which are not something I am known for. I can't even commit to continuing a daily routine of cleansing and moisturising for 50 days. So I'm excited for me and am doing my own little Rickie Lake dance in my threadbare, but oh so comfy pjs, "Go Rusty, Go Rusty".

When I started this blog it really had no direction. It was going to be a place to vent my stress and insanity. I thought after the first week I'd grow bored, move onto my next chocolate bar and pursue my dream of becoming America's Next Top Model, (cause they make 36-year-old, Australian, saggy-boobed housewives top models right?). Yet here I am still taping away, exposing my madness to the world. I'm still waiting for the inevitable knock on the front door where either the men in white coats complete with over-sized novelty butterfly net, will be waiting to take me away; or the literature police will be standing there, hammer in hand to break my fingers, so I that I may never again befoul the blogosphere with my key strokes.

I had no idea anyone would ever read my ramblings. I thought I may get a handful of pity reads from friends or family (this is somewhat like pity sex where you are thankful for the effort, but really it's a bit 'meh'), though even that was never guaranteed. Yet I look over to the left and there are actually photos under the 'Followers' section and most of them are people I have never met. I am shocked that they are there. I keep glancing back over to make sure I'm not hallucinating and that they are real. I have no idea how half of you even found my blog. Was it word of mouth? Were you totally bored one day and typing random words into the 'Search' on Google? Was it written on the back of a grotty public toilet door next to "Pookie Luvs Shania" and "Call Bambi for a Good Time"? I'd love to know.

Now I'm realistic enough to accept that some of those photos probably represent people who joined but never read again, and just find the effort required to click 'unfollow' overwhelming. But hey I'm loving every single one of those little photos regardless. Would it be seen as patholoical weirdness if I were to print them out an carry them in my wallet in place of photos of my children?

The fact that the counter has clicked over 3,000 in the last 5mths amazes me. In fact I am rather lost for words. Thank you so much to everyone one of you for your little clicks. It makes a rather strange and unkempt hermit woman feel very warm inside.

For those who have taken the time to leave a comment or send a message I'm sending you big air kisses via the ether. The snazzy double-cheeked European kind. Though if that's a bit much, or you're afraid of internet Swine -flu, I can always give you the traditional Oprah double-hand hug, otherwise known as the "stay away and don't touch me you freaks" Oprah hug, reserved for non-celebrity guests. If you're a blogger you'll know that little burst of excitement you feel every time you see that someone has commented. You don't write for comments, but you treasure every one. I always try to respond, but Bob sometimes interferes with the plan. For those I've missed know your comment was truly appreciated.

So big love to all who taken the time to read, follow, comment or visit. THANK YOU.

I thought I would take this opportunity to let you now about a couple more of my favourite bloggers. Both of these ladies are fantastic, intelligent and wet your pants hilarious. (Hmmm...maybe I should hand out a free Poise pad with each review).

• The Vegetable Assassin: Veg, or The Vegmeister as I like to call her (not that she knows this or is really aware of the existence of an obscure mad woman from Australia, who nearly pees herself whilst reading her words. Too much information?), is a woman after my own heart. If sarcasm were a religion, then she would be my goddess (okay that may sound a little stalker creepy, I'm not really freaky, really). She is one who fully appreciates and uses sarcasm as an art form. Every time I see a new post in my blogroll I know I am guaranteed a good belly laugh with a touch of guffaw, which frequently scares the crap out of my dogs. She is irreverent and intelligent and always entertaining. Whether its her love of cake, vendiagrams and the humble VW or her hilarious adventures with an evil mouse or her addiction to a certain diet beverage, there is something for everyone. She is also the proud owner of one of the supreme blogs of the rant known as Central Digit, enter at own risk! The Vegmeister is also one of the rare bloggers who takes the time to respond to each comment. And not just a simple thanks. Each response is personal and unique and witty. You gotta luv that.

• Calling People Names: I have made reference to the wonderful Aly in previous posts. I love her writing. Again she is a blogger who ensures laughs. I have snorted coffee on my keyboard and I'm pretty sure I peed a little reading some of her posts. Whether its the drama of her childhood or her sexual escapades she is one funny and intelligent gal. Like the Vegmeister she is the owner of another blog, Alyce In Wonderland filled with beautiful and thought provoking poetry. She also has one of the hottest voices I have heard in a long time as evidenced in her recent vlog. For liquid, warm honey, sensuality, you can't beat that Southern drawl. Aly is also a responder who makes her readers feel treasured and you can't overlook that.

So a couple of ladies to keep you laughing no matter how shit your day may be.

As for my health.....well I think that can be best expressed by the Blood Sweat and Tears classic, 'Spinning Wheel':

What goes up must come down
spinning wheel got to go round
Talking about your troubles it's a crying sin
Ride a painted pony
Let the spinning wheel spin

(Ok so I don't get the painted pony part either, but there is a slight chance they may have been smoking some 'medicinal' marijuana, for nausea of course).

So a big thank you to all my readers you are tops. I hope you'll find it in your heart to take pity on the poor, pasty, brain-fogged and gravity challenged woman of Oz, and return to read more of my rambles.

The chuffed Michelle :)

*OK for the uninitiated, "Mummy's Little Helper" is wine. Every mummy needs a little help every now and then. Besides the way I look at it, wine comes from grapes and therefore can be classed as one serve of fruit.

Frankie Says Relax: 12 More Pages Guest Post

Guest Posting on 12 More Pages this week. Head on over for the full article on progressive muscle relaxation. Don't forget to check out the other information on Dysautonomia.

Remember the sagacious words of Frankie Goes to Hollywood in their iconic song “Relax”. OK so the connotation is not quite the same, (wow I was so innocent back then. I thought they just wanted us to sit back and smell the roses. I couldn't understand why my mum wouldn't let me get the record), and I am so showing my age, but I loved those t-shirts with their pithy message. Obviously after my last blog (“Serenity Now”) everyone will now be living Frankie's dream of relaxation and have achieved their personal Nirvana. Life is bound to be filled with lolly pops, kittens and an unlimited supply of dark chocolate just when it's at that not quite solid not quite liquid, level of gooey goodness (well the later may be my own personal idea of bliss, but you can insert your own blissful fantasy). We have all learnt to breathe our way to serenity, and that my friends, is an award worthy achievement when you live in a permanent brain fog. Now just in case any one is still having difficulty finding their bliss, here is an alternative, or addition as the case may be, you can have up your sleeve for the days when your serenity begins to slip.

Progressive Muscle Relaxation:

I like progressive muscle relaxation as it's yet another reason to commune with my couch. I never realised they had memory foam back in the early 90s when we bought it, but that perfect mould is there to welcome me each morning. At its most basic, Progressive Muscle Relation simply involves the slow and progressive tensing and releasing of muscles. Most commonly it begins at the head and works down to the toes, but this can vary. If you have a bad back, neck etc you may want to double check with your doctor about doing some of the movements. I know it's obvious but after the MacDonald's Hot Coffee Litigation I just have to add, if it hurts STOP! Also peanut butter may contain peanuts, and milk may contain dairy products (I love today's product warnings). Now you may also be concerned that you will look a little bit mad, especially doing the facial exercises, but this is the price we pay for bliss. Just remember not to hold it too long or the wind may change!

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