Once Upon a Time, in a Land Far Far Away, There was a Girl who still Believed in Restorative Sleep.

A photo posted by Michelle Roger (@michelle_roger) on Jun 8, 2015 at 6:54pm PDT

Restorative sleep. Yeah. Sure. I had it once. Maybe. Back when Shakira's hips didn't lie. Back when Dexter was putting up his first piece of plastic sheeting. Back when standing in line at the post office wasn't a death defying act.

Slowly open my eyes in the darkened bedroom and the oppressive weight of my body falls. Coma sleep, followed by feeling completely trashed. Three days of migraine, meds and darkness equals an unavoidable deep sleep as exhaustion finally claims it's due. No restoration. Just the emergency breaker in my body's fuse box. A flick of the switch as muscle, bone and viscera are overloaded once more.

Joints protest and muscle screams. Post-flare sleeps are motionless. Motionless equals pain. From hips to back to....

Slow movements. Sharp intake of breath. No choice but to move. Like the inevitable ripping off of a bandaid, joints must bend and rotate. A full bladder doesn't allow for denial and avoidance. Get it over quickly. Well as quickly as my slackened limbs will move. The two for one special. Weakness born of immobility, drags out the pain. Slow. Slower. Snail's pace.

Upright. Breathe. Wait while the screaming visceral reaction to sitting up passes. Rub my feet on the mat. Bright pieces of sari bound and stitched to make a rag rug. An impulse buy on one of my rare outings. An eye roll from Mr Grumpy, but resignation that the rainbow colours and the Come in Michelle, sale sign, already had me planning its placement in our house. The texture under my feet is soothing. Rough enough that the spotty sensation of my soles can feel it roll and compress. Breathe and roll. Rub and breath. Push and squish. And breath. Just breathe.

Weary and maudlin. Repeat the process to stand.

Boy and Bear fills the air as the shower starts

Whoa, and I've been through Your garden
And I've been to Your grave
Lordy may
When I come to my end some day
Will I find myself sitting at some golden gate
Or will it all just float away
Yeah, my end some day

The melody fills in the aching cavern of my skull. Mumble and slur. A word here a word there. A syllable maybe mixed with a half-hearted hum.

garden….float away....someday.

The blast of the shower muffles all.

Slough it off. Slough it all off. Three days of pain and sweat. Rancid, to float down the drain.

Sitting on the floor of the shower is the safe option. Even the chair not worth the risk. Sit on the tiles and let the water fall. Watch it bounce and shatter where it hits pale skin and ceramic floor. Different sound on different texture. Turn my wrist and watch the change of the flow. The rivers of hot water pouring. First this way then that. Minute ripples of muscle and tendon that flex under the skin move the the water sharply left and right. Course altered courtesy of the smallest movement. Or shudder. Or convulse.

Trace the song words on the glass. Rest my head on my knees. The song of the water changes as wet hair covers ears. Wisps of oats and soap rise from warm skin. Wash it off. Wash it all off, to just float away.

Time passes in the white noise of the shower. Songs pass as thought is replaced wholly by the sensation of water on skin. Focus on the water. To the exclusion of all. Stir. Unfold just enough to turn of the water and pour my body onto the bath mat. Cleansed. The sour smell of pain and pharmaceuticals gone. Soft cold breezes rise from the tiles. Sharpening dulled brain and body.

No restoration. But a MacGyvering.

A piece of gaffer tape. A wad of chewing gum and a paper clip. Clean skin and soft clothes. To patch me up enough to function. To hold the pieces together. The funk of illness finally removed allowing me to pretend for a while.

The pain, the nausea, the ugh,

                                                     all dulled.

Open the door. Squint against the sharp morning light. The familiar buzz of the coffee machine. Breath in the caffeine as it pours. Fill the lungs. Let the mug warm my hands. A grey furred head rests on my hip. A green blanket and velvet pillows piled high, await on the couch. Silence and soft song.

This is how restoration finally begins.

Michelle

Recycling, Re-purposing, Reviving.

After a particularly delightful pain menage a trois, involving a three day migraine, popped jaw and zapping foot, I have been having a little trouble finding my happy place. Even I was beginning to be annoyed by my pathetic moaning and mopey self. So today I decided to say "No more!", and force myself to snap out of it.

And what do you do to snap out of a pain-filled funk? Why you finally get around to the craft project you've had in mind for months but somehow haven't managed to pull your finger out and complete.

I have a bit of an addiction to tins. I know, I know. Mr Grumpy thinks I'm nuts too, but I can't resist a cute tin. I have even been known to buy a product simply because the tin is pretty. Sometimes even when I didn't want the product inside.

Okay so these have chocolate inside, so maybe, I kinda, sorta, wanted what was in these ones.

Some tins don't need to be altered as they are already decorative.

Two of the many tins I have plans for. The red Carbonell will remain unchanged. These make perfect and lovely plant pots. Whip off the top with a can opener, hammer in a few holes in the bottom and voila! you have a decorative pot. I have a number of these on my front steps and they look fab. Bonus is they cost me $0. I buy them for the olive oil anyway. The free pot is simply a bonus.

Some like the green Bertolli tin, get the same treatment but end up painted like my red tins above. A can or two of red spray paint. Some home made stencils (I draw them on book contact, cut them out and stick them on the tin). A contrast tin of spray paint. And lo and behold, four unique and very hardy plant tins.

But today's project was much less involved and more in line with my exhausted patheticness.

My love of coffee is no secret. I start every morning with two double espressos to get my bp and hr up. This has lead to quite a collection of coffee tins, much to Mr Grumpy's annoyance. What he, my children and probably even my dogs, don't understand is that as soon as I saw these tins I had a plan. It only took me a year to get around to it.

These glossy black Vittoria tins have been sitting in the top of my pantry gathering dust, waiting for me to pull my finger out.  And finally, today, I did.

Mr Grumpy and the youngest hammered the holes and added little wire handles for me (with minimal eyerolls at my insanity), as my Muppet arms aren't quite up to that.

I have had this sad, broken, grass-infested, plastic pot of succulents sitting waiting for some TLC for some time. The succulents inside were a gift from a lovely family friend, June, who has now passed away, and I have wanted to re-plant them for ages. June had the greenest thumb of anyone I have ever known. There was nothing she couldn't grow and her garden was always glorious. She also made lovely cakes and biscuits. I'll always remember sitting as a child in her loungeroom, eating fresh ginger snap biscuits and sipping tea from proper china cups. She was a lovely lady and my mum's best friend. Miss you. June.

What started as one small plant in a little plastic dish has ended up spawning dozen of pots overflowing with tight green rosettes. These look spectacular when the tall flower stalks spring up with their handful of little orange and yellow bells.

This is an old dip tin from a farm in the area where I grew up. I have a few of these recycled around the yard and they make fabulous pots when lined with some old fly wire (we have a lot of this thanks to the dogs ripping our fly wire doors to shreds to get back into the house).

 One piece of this succulent will give me a dozen new plants.

 So pretty.

And 20 minutes later I have four new plants in black shiny tins. Recycled and re-purposed tins. Cuttings from a plant I already own. Even the potting mix is from my compost. $0 spent, apart from the tins which we would have purchased anyway for the coffee inside.

 One on the door of my famous fashion shed door.

Another three in a line down the side of the shed.

Not bad for about 30mins work. The glossy black tins look quite good against the greens and greys in the garden. And despite aggravating the migraine that I had only just managed to beat into submission, and feeling absolutely knackered, and in need of a nanna nap, I'm pretty damn happy right about now.

Cheers
Michelle :)

All This Thinking Is Making My Head Hurt: Headaches & Migraines.

The new Migraine Barbie

(photo from MigraineChick)

My alternate title for this post was going to be "All Migraines Should be Margarita Related", because damn it, they should be.  At least then you get the yummy salty, limey, tequilary goodness beforehand.  But no, instead I feel like Bob grabbed the bloody tequila bottle off the bar before I could get a sip, and whacked me in the side of the head.  And that's just wrong.  Tequila really should only be used as a force for good.  Dance on the table with your undies on your head, type of good.  This just confirms Bob's association with the Dark side of the Force.  Bad Bob.  You're a bad bad man.  Next you'll tell me that the use of glitter past age five in sad.  Evil bastard!

This last week has been a doozey.  Day after day of excruciating brain pain.  And yes, before anyone with a super tight sphincter informs me that it's not actually your brain (you know who you are 'Anonymous' perfecto with no life), and that the brain has no pain sensors, I know.  It's just easier than saying the whole blood vessel dilation, inflammation, chemical release blah blah blah.  Okay?  Okay.

I've either had a medium level headache or red hot poker through the eyeball migraines.  I swear Friday I thought my eyeballs would actually liquefy if I opened my lids.  And I'm pretty sure that all the contents of my head were trying to make a break for it through my left eye socket and surrounding pores.  Then you add the nausea and the sensitivity to touch, sound, light etc.  It's one big party.

Pain meds generally only take the edge off, and as I've said previously I'm not keen to take them on a regular basis thanks to the fact you end up feeling like you are passing a besser block each time you go to the loo.  Hmmm head pain vs butt pain, what to choose?

(Poos should never look like this)

I go through phases like this every now and then.  Storms a friend called them the other day.  A very appropriate word.  Just as fierce and impossible to control.  You just have to weather it,  and wait till the thunder stops.  Most days I have a headache, but that's just white noise at this stage.  However, every now and then something in my body says, "this chick has had it easy for a while now, lets turn the dial up to 10 and watch her dance", complete with evil chuckle and cat patting.  And considering I dance like Elaine Benes, that is not kind to anyone.

It's simply part of the joy of Bob.  Before Bob I'd be lucky to have the odd panadol now and then for eye strain headaches.  I'd never really experienced this kind of pain.  Each time I've brought it up to my neuro or cardio I get the same speech,

"We hear that from a lot of our Bob patients.  Unfortunately it's very hard to treat.  They should resolve when we get Bob under control". 

Bwahahahahaha.  Four years and a bazillion doctors visits later, and Bob hasn't changed one bit.  Somehow this does not fill me with hope that these phases of excruciating noggin pain will ever disappear.

I will admit that I'm my own worst enemy.  If I finally manage to take the edge off the pain and can open my eyes without whimpering, I try to catch up on all the stuff I couldn't do on the days I was stuck in my darkened bat cave.  Which of course means that it comes back with a vengeance.  I know this logically, I do it all the time.  Essentially, I am the dumb rat that keeps pressing the lever with the zapper, rather than the one that gives me intermittent food rewards.

Some days it's worth it.  Catching up with a friend for coffee and a laugh, is better than any little pill for maintaining sanity.  It is most definitely worth the pain that you know will follow.  Doing the shopping, leaving your trolley in the middle of the supermarket to run to the disgusting public loo to barf, not so much.  Though, scaring the crapper out of the screaming little brat in the checkout with your evil, barf face, is priceless. Unfortunately, a family doesn't stop just because you have a vice attached to your head.  You have to battle through, suck down the pain meds, do the basics and just be resigned to collapsing into a pain induced coma after.

Below is the best ever pain chart from Hyperbole and a Half. I wish I had this for my patients when I was back in the working world.

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0:  Hi.  I am not experiencing any pain at all.  I don't know why I'm even here.

1:  I am completely unsure whether I am experiencing pain or itching or maybe I just have a bad taste in my mouth.

2:  I probably just need a Band Aid.

3:  This is distressing.  I don't want this to be happening to me at all.

4:  My pain is not f**king around.

5:  Why is this happening to me??

6:  Ow.  Okay, my pain is super legit now.

7:  I see Jesus coming for me and I'm scared.   

8:  I am experiencing a disturbing amount of pain.  I might actually be dying.  Please help.

9:  I am almost definitely dying.

10:  I am actively being mauled by a bear.

11: Blood is going to explode out of my face at any moment.

Too Serious For Numbers:  You probably have ebola.  It appears that you may also be suffering from Stigmata and/or pinkeye.

For the full article click here.

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Man, I wish I'd thought that up.  That is truly brilliant.

Now I am in the post-OMFG pain stage.  Now it's normal headache, fatigue and weakness.  I'm pretty certain someone snuck into my bedroom in the middle of the night, sucked out all my innards and replaced them with cotton wool and old marshmellows.  Stroke face is back, as are those damn walls and door jams that jump out at you. 

I will say I have slept a lot over the past few days.  Sure it maybe partly passing out from fatigue and pain, but it's sleep none the less and I'll take that at this point.  Makes for a moments respite from fully turning into a creature of the night.  Though if I could get Kate Beckinsale's body from Underworld, it may be worth the whole move to a nocturnal lifestyle.  Not sure I'd fancy all that tight leather though, that's gotta get a bit whiffy after a while.  All this cavorting with my pillow has left me with joints that ache like a bitch and muscles that feel like I have run a marathon.  I am attempting to find my happy Zen-filled place through yoga.  Though given my present level of whimpering it may be a while yet. 

Actually, I think I should make an effort to re-establish tequilas good name and crank up some margaritas, purely for medicinal purposes of course.  I did hear somewhere that a salt rimmed glass of goodness was a sure fire way to find the key to my happy place, or anyone's happy place, for that matter.  Besides if my migraine comes back I'll have at least got there via the best route possible.

Cheers
The knackered Michelle :)

In my whole quest to find my happy place I give you one of my favs Good Fortune, PJ Harvey, (2000)