I have a sneaking suspicion I may be one step away from reaching my limit. I always knew I had one. I was just cocky enough to believe that mine was a hell of lot bigger than everyone elses. The Grand Canyon of limits. But of late it seems more akin to a thimble, than some humongous marvel of the natural world. Of late the continual blows seem to have reached critical.
I've always been the one who holds it together when everyone else is unravelling. I've always been realistic and practical. I have the stifling of emotions down to a fine art. I don't ask for help. I don't rely on others. I don't share my demons. I sit and hold the hands of others whilst they give free reign to their emotional wildfires. I pick up the pieces. I pat the hands. I make the soothing noises. I distance myself from reality to give what is needed. And those that receive my ministrations continue, oblivious that my need is as great as theirs. A secret I hold tightly to my chest.
But reality is a persistent cow. All my hard fought battles to be positive and hopeful are being swamped by a relentless tide of dread. All the negative thoughts I suppress so expertly, are welling up, like fetid water seeping through the rocks beneath my feet. I feel myself sinking, dissolving, into the murky swirl around my ankles and I don't even know where or how to begin to look for aid. I sabotage myself, continually refusing permission to even think of succour.
I rally against it. In vain it would seem. All those little shadowing voices. Little bites, ripping at my spirit. Normally I can beat them back. But today, today they are goose stepping their way across my being, relentless in their desire to conquer. I am but the dirt under their boots. They care not what I feel. They are as devoid of emotion as insects. Driven on by an instinctive need to consume. I fear that today they will take all that I am. Part of me wonders if submission would bring relief. Part of me wants to let that seductive darkness surround me. To lie in it's comforting embrace. To end the exhaustive war for me.
I want to curl up. To hide away. I want to cry out "no more". The emotions I have long suppressed threaten to rise up and sweep me away. I fear them as others fear death. I fear that to let them have voice I will lose the me I have long fought to create. I fear to unshackle them and reveal the truth. To expose that the long crafted façade is really a fraud. A fraud perpetuated not just on others, but also myself.
My voice cries out "This isn't me. I am not like this". But the rising tide of doubt and dark says otherwise. How do you fight an enemy that comes from within? Walls can be built but the enemy remains on the other side. It sits there patient. Waiting. It knows it's time will come. It knows that as hard as I deny it, it still exists. In my waking nightmares. It roams the corridors of my mind, seeking escape. Leaving a trail of wreckage in it's wake.
It has many names; doubt, hopelessness, helplessness, guilt, emptiness. Once released I know not whether I can ever restrain it again. To allow it free reign may let forth an endless and destructive torrent. I fear to lose myself in that moment, swept away forever in the darkness. To never regain the hard fought illusion of strength. Today it pounds heavily at the door. Today the cracks have widened. Today I fear it may gain admittance.
I never use the word 'hope'. It has never been part of my vocabulary. Hope is a thing for those who cannot bear the harshness of reality. Hope is bound tightly to it's mate, disappointment. To allow it entry is to also give admittance to more pain. Hope is for fools. But today I find myself envying those who have hope. Today I want a little piece of that for myself. Today I want to believe that things could get better. That my body may finally be healed. That the wounds to my heart and spirit may someday be less raw. I don't care if it's delusional. I only want it for a moment.
Michelle
Sunday, 12 September 2010
Saturday, 11 September 2010
Today I'm A Daisy: Raising Dysautonomia Awareness.
Hey all. Today's post is just a quicky thanks to steady rumblings of approaching migraine and just a dash of apathy.
Next week 13th to 19th Sep 2010, is National Invisible Chronic Illness Awareness Week and Dysautonomia Awareness Week. I wont bore you with tales of woe is me, or go on with a speal of "I am a health reject, let me tell you the ways". Most of you are well aware of my dysfunctional relationship with Bob and his mates so I wont rehash it all. In all honesty some days I bore myself with the details of my decrepitude. If you want more info on Bob there are a list of resources over on the side.
Today I have tried my hand at creating a video. Well actually I created a power point presentation, then burst out into a long line of profanities as I realised I couldn't work out how to put it on either this blog or Youtube. I really think I need to add "Luddite" to my list of disabilities.
So following an adult tanty, rather a lot of pouting, and cursing the universe for being a spiteful bitch once more, I must say a huge thanks to Mr Grumpy. Who, despite much swearing and threats of death to the computer, managed to transform my dodgy power point presentation into a movie format complete with audio. Now that's love.
So without further ado, here's my feeble attempt at finding my happy place in amongst all the crap.
Cheers
Michelle :)
Next week 13th to 19th Sep 2010, is National Invisible Chronic Illness Awareness Week and Dysautonomia Awareness Week. I wont bore you with tales of woe is me, or go on with a speal of "I am a health reject, let me tell you the ways". Most of you are well aware of my dysfunctional relationship with Bob and his mates so I wont rehash it all. In all honesty some days I bore myself with the details of my decrepitude. If you want more info on Bob there are a list of resources over on the side.
Today I have tried my hand at creating a video. Well actually I created a power point presentation, then burst out into a long line of profanities as I realised I couldn't work out how to put it on either this blog or Youtube. I really think I need to add "Luddite" to my list of disabilities.
So following an adult tanty, rather a lot of pouting, and cursing the universe for being a spiteful bitch once more, I must say a huge thanks to Mr Grumpy. Who, despite much swearing and threats of death to the computer, managed to transform my dodgy power point presentation into a movie format complete with audio. Now that's love.
So without further ado, here's my feeble attempt at finding my happy place in amongst all the crap.
Cheers
Michelle :)
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Garden VS Swiss Cheese: Update On "My Boob Is A Garden"
First I'd just like to say a big "Thank You", to everyone for their kind messages, emails and comments on my last little vent about my decrepit boobage. They were very much appreciated. I think I'd just reached the "you have got to be kidding me" point and needed to let it all out. Probably with a touch of too much information but hey, it''s not like it's the first time I've gone down that path. Just once I'd like to see a medical professional who says, "your [insert body part] is perfectly normal". Just once. Is that really too much to ask?
Apparently the answer to that question is a big fat, "YES".
I have decided I need to send an official letter of complaint to my parents to chastise them for their piss poor procreation efforts. I've said it before and I'll say it again, perfunctory sex is bad. Look at me. This is what happens when you put a decided lack of effort into your boudoir shenanigans. Yes Mum and Dad I am talking about you. I am the product of meh sex. Really that's the only explanation for a body which is dodgy at every level.
I went back to my GP today to get the formal results. Picture the scene. Nice clinic. Picturesque scenery in the beautiful moutains surrounding Melbourne. Tree ferns at the window. Rosellas and King Parrots flying through the air. Lovely GP, who I'd recommend to anyone, grabs the ultrasound report. Puts it on her knee. Looks up. Stares me in the face and says incredulously, "Oh my God".
Yep that's right. "Oh my God". Always a good start. Why yes my boobs have been busy as the long paragraphs of Time New Roman size 12 now officially report. Not content with one weed, or two, or three. My booby garden has popped out 10, yep 10, new and exciting varieties of weeds, not including my escapee bits of boob inhabiting my body from my knee cap to my ear lobe. Yes, yet again I am a reject.
I am grateful that they are not of the particularly noxious variety and can thus stay where they are for the moment. But geeze Louise, is it really that hard to have a normal body part? Apparently once more my decrepitude is of the gold medal variety. I have declined the kind offer of being poked with multiple needles in the boob and taken the "keep and eye on them" approach to management.
She did laugh when I said the radiologist had told me that my boob was a garden. Though she thought it had more of a "Swiss cheese" quality. I shall never look at a block of Jarlsburg the same way again. "Garden" or "Cheese", these are my choices.
I was also given more of a tsk tsking, and have been told that I need either 6mth or 12mth ultrasounds from now on. I also get to start the joy of mammograms at age 40. Though, as I have decided to stay 35 and will have "30faux" birthdays from now on, I may never have the joy of seeing my piklets squished between the vice of the mammogram. She did take the time to point out that the girls were of the more petite variety, because of course I hadn't noticed, and may be difficult to scan. Small, weedy, Mini Babybels, who aren't even up to the task of being squished. I am beyond expletives now, and am on the path of resigned sighs of acceptance with a side of defeat.
So yet again I am a resident of the quaint town of Freakville. If anyone knows where I can buy tequila by the gallon let me know. Home delivery would be a bonus.
Thanks
Michelle
I have decided I need to send an official letter of complaint to my parents to chastise them for their piss poor procreation efforts. I've said it before and I'll say it again, perfunctory sex is bad. Look at me. This is what happens when you put a decided lack of effort into your boudoir shenanigans. Yes Mum and Dad I am talking about you. I am the product of meh sex. Really that's the only explanation for a body which is dodgy at every level.
I went back to my GP today to get the formal results. Picture the scene. Nice clinic. Picturesque scenery in the beautiful moutains surrounding Melbourne. Tree ferns at the window. Rosellas and King Parrots flying through the air. Lovely GP, who I'd recommend to anyone, grabs the ultrasound report. Puts it on her knee. Looks up. Stares me in the face and says incredulously, "Oh my God".
Yep that's right. "Oh my God". Always a good start. Why yes my boobs have been busy as the long paragraphs of Time New Roman size 12 now officially report. Not content with one weed, or two, or three. My booby garden has popped out 10, yep 10, new and exciting varieties of weeds, not including my escapee bits of boob inhabiting my body from my knee cap to my ear lobe. Yes, yet again I am a reject.
I am grateful that they are not of the particularly noxious variety and can thus stay where they are for the moment. But geeze Louise, is it really that hard to have a normal body part? Apparently once more my decrepitude is of the gold medal variety. I have declined the kind offer of being poked with multiple needles in the boob and taken the "keep and eye on them" approach to management.
She did laugh when I said the radiologist had told me that my boob was a garden. Though she thought it had more of a "Swiss cheese" quality. I shall never look at a block of Jarlsburg the same way again. "Garden" or "Cheese", these are my choices.
I was also given more of a tsk tsking, and have been told that I need either 6mth or 12mth ultrasounds from now on. I also get to start the joy of mammograms at age 40. Though, as I have decided to stay 35 and will have "30faux" birthdays from now on, I may never have the joy of seeing my piklets squished between the vice of the mammogram. She did take the time to point out that the girls were of the more petite variety, because of course I hadn't noticed, and may be difficult to scan. Small, weedy, Mini Babybels, who aren't even up to the task of being squished. I am beyond expletives now, and am on the path of resigned sighs of acceptance with a side of defeat.
So yet again I am a resident of the quaint town of Freakville. If anyone knows where I can buy tequila by the gallon let me know. Home delivery would be a bonus.
Thanks
Michelle
Friday, 3 September 2010
My Boob Is A Garden
It's been one of those days. One of those days where you just say "fine", sigh, assume the position, and brace for the pointy end of the pineapple that you know is coming. Today I was told my boob was a garden. Yep. A garden. How do you respond to that? I knew they could cause earthquakes, bring men to their knees and fill out a training bra nicely. But a garden? No. That's a new one.
Today was yet another fun scan day. Not an MRI today, for which I gave praise to every deity known to man. Today was boob ultrasound day. YAY.
I have bodgy boobs. I've always had bodgy boobs. Over the years I have had many a cyst or suspicious fibroadenoma either biopsied or whipped out. So when I felt something whilst I was doing my daily ablutions I just said meh and kept on scrubbing. Hence it has taken me a while to get my butt into action.
When you're chronically sick you pick the most pressing problem and forget the rest. So I may be a year, or five, overdue for my yearly ultrasound. Oh and haven't my boobs been busy during that time. They have been fruitful and multiplied, like randy little rabbits. If nothing else at least I know I don't have lazy boobs.
Fantastically, I had the joy of the student radiologist feeling me up. Apparently I am a fantastic teaching tool and provided a community service today. My boobs are both Einstein and Mother Teresa all rolled into one.
I got to lie there exposed to the world as the radiologist and her learner driver rolled goop all over my petite mammaries. All the time going "Ooooh", "Ahh", "Look at that", "Wow look at that". I did get a little miffed when they started to say "Well that one could go either way". You know, that's not what I want to hear as they are looking at the girls.
So I found out today that I have multiple abnormalities growing away happily. Should be a bumper crop in the garden this year. I also found out I have ectopic boob tissue. So not only was my uterus not bright enough to keep itself in one place (hence the endometriosis) apparently my boobs are equally inept.
I have boob tissue growing everywhere from my arm pit to my knee cap. Okay the later may be an exaggeration, though not by much, and it would explain why my knees are so perky/knobbly. It's mixed up in my lymph nodes and in my muscle tissue. Basically my boobs are dumbarses. As, Mr Grumpy said, "if it's growing everywhere, you'd think at least some of it would grow in the right place". Ha ha Mr Grumpy. You are hilarious.
The experience was also punctuated with me making mad dashes to the loo to throw up and evacuate my nether regions thanks to Bob. Tops! Mind you the radiologists did end up putting on their jumpers and turning the aircon on for me so that's a bonus right? So now more waiting for results.
My body is officially one of the fish that John West rejects.
Pass the tequila.
The gardening Michelle.
Today was yet another fun scan day. Not an MRI today, for which I gave praise to every deity known to man. Today was boob ultrasound day. YAY.
I have bodgy boobs. I've always had bodgy boobs. Over the years I have had many a cyst or suspicious fibroadenoma either biopsied or whipped out. So when I felt something whilst I was doing my daily ablutions I just said meh and kept on scrubbing. Hence it has taken me a while to get my butt into action.
When you're chronically sick you pick the most pressing problem and forget the rest. So I may be a year, or five, overdue for my yearly ultrasound. Oh and haven't my boobs been busy during that time. They have been fruitful and multiplied, like randy little rabbits. If nothing else at least I know I don't have lazy boobs.
Fantastically, I had the joy of the student radiologist feeling me up. Apparently I am a fantastic teaching tool and provided a community service today. My boobs are both Einstein and Mother Teresa all rolled into one.
I got to lie there exposed to the world as the radiologist and her learner driver rolled goop all over my petite mammaries. All the time going "Ooooh", "Ahh", "Look at that", "Wow look at that". I did get a little miffed when they started to say "Well that one could go either way". You know, that's not what I want to hear as they are looking at the girls.
So I found out today that I have multiple abnormalities growing away happily. Should be a bumper crop in the garden this year. I also found out I have ectopic boob tissue. So not only was my uterus not bright enough to keep itself in one place (hence the endometriosis) apparently my boobs are equally inept.
I have boob tissue growing everywhere from my arm pit to my knee cap. Okay the later may be an exaggeration, though not by much, and it would explain why my knees are so perky/knobbly. It's mixed up in my lymph nodes and in my muscle tissue. Basically my boobs are dumbarses. As, Mr Grumpy said, "if it's growing everywhere, you'd think at least some of it would grow in the right place". Ha ha Mr Grumpy. You are hilarious.
The experience was also punctuated with me making mad dashes to the loo to throw up and evacuate my nether regions thanks to Bob. Tops! Mind you the radiologists did end up putting on their jumpers and turning the aircon on for me so that's a bonus right? So now more waiting for results.
My body is officially one of the fish that John West rejects.
Pass the tequila.
The gardening Michelle.
Thursday, 2 September 2010
The Thumping Tube of Death
Well I did it.. I made it through and lived to tell the tale. Victory is mine. Maybe I can get a trashy t-shirt made to commemorate the occasion.
"Why don't we do a scan?" Sounded like a good idea at the time. Obviously I was away with pixies, as I appear to have agreed whilst completely forgetting my gut wrenching fear of small spaces.
Give me snakes. Give me heights. Give me ramshackle Vietnamese bridges where a landslide had taken out the road the day before. I can deal with that. However place me in a small space and I am totally convinced that I am suffocating and going to die. Even back in my navy days, I was happy to fight oil fires, with thick black smoke blocking my visions and the flames rolling over the roof like a scene out of Backdraft. That I can do. But that damn face gear (shudder). I have never tried so hard to find my happy place as when I had to put that large mask over my face. I don't care that I was hooked up to an air tank and was therefore assured of continuous O2, I still felt like I was going to die. Agreeing to a MRI therefore suggests I have more than one screw loose.
My last MRI adventure was unpleasant. A head and spine combo. 50 minutes complete with head gear and chest plate. My panic at the time did mean I was moved from the dark cave/coffin at the bottom of the hospital to the bright shiny room and Mr Grumpy was allowed to sit in and hold my foot. I may or may not have nearly cried at the time when they said I couldn't be sedated, as that had been my grand plan to make it through. I swore after I would never have another. Yet there I was again, trying to swallow my fear (and vomit) yet again.
This time around it was 15 minutes (though it felt like 15 years), and just my neck. Time to suss out those dodgy blood vessels of mine with an Magnetic Resonance Venogram (MRV). I know that not much in the way of blood is going to the old noggin (about 50% according to the Prof a while back), which explains a lot. This time it was to see if what little was getting up there was draining out properly. I've known for quite a while now that my veins are dodgy. My cardiologist delights in telling me how bad they are and showing others my gold medal winning blood pooling abilities. I feel special, really I do. Maybe I can get my photo on a Weeties box? Now there's something to which I can aspire.
I had managed to live in denial about my upcoming suffocation for a number of weeks. Then the night before I had the joy of filling out the bazillion questions on the form in between hyperventilating and throwing up a little bit in the back of my throat (anxiety rocks). I will admit to a certain level of childish amusement when one of the questions asked if I had a "penile prosthetic". Really? I can understand the pacemaker question, and asking if I was a welder (only in my Flashdance dreams), but fake penis? Not so much. I have been told that my voice is rather deep for a woman, but it's not like I sound like James Earl Jones. All of a sudden I had Lou Reed's Take a Walk on the Wild Side playing in my head. I will say that my fear did take a turn for the worst when I read the final lines on the back of the sheet.
What the hell radiology people? Don't put a line like that on the sheet you send to claustrophobia girl. Sheesh. "Thank you" just doesn't cut it.
This time around I was accompanied on my journey by my bestie Kerri. You know someone is a true friend when you hop in their car and say "sorry I'm having one of those pee every three minutes days we may have to stop frequently on the way" and she doesn't bat an eyelid. Or when they see you freak out and not care. Or pretend to be laughing at your ridiculously huge scrubs and not the small whimper of fear that may have escaped your lips. A true friend makes you laugh to take your mind off things and even offers to sit in if you need. I did suck it up enough to not beg her to sit in with me. I was rather proud of myself. A true friend also doesn't tell you that the machine you are about to go into is in a dark little room, is very tiny and lacking any mirrors to see the outside world. If she had I may have run screaming from the waiting room. A true friend doesn't tell you beforehand that she's so relaxed she falls asleep in MRIs. Thanks Kerri for being that friend.
I will say that the staff were lovely. I wanted to hate them for what they were putting me through, but it's hard when they come in and pat your hand and tell you that "you're doing so well", in a Romper Room voice. I had the joy of trying to explain Bob in the pre-interview, it never grows old.
"Do you have high blood pressure?"
"Yes"
"Do you have low blood pressure?"
"Yes"
Confused look from radiologist.
Yep.
She was lovely though and didn't even bat an eyelid when I suggested she add a few plus signs next to the claustrophobia question. Nor did she call me a freak for saying that I wanted her to come to all my blood draws as she was the first person in a very long time to find a vein first time round. Or that I thought the IV should be pumping in tequila instead of a contrast dye. She even joked as I was leaving that she'd be happy to come along the next time I needed a venous line. To top it off she was happy to take photos for me and suggested a good place for a recovery coffee.
Swallowing down fear and vomit is hard work. Standing in the door way and finding that the machine was an old super small MRI that made the last one look like an open field, I must admit to a moment of hysterical screaming panic in my mind. I'm still amazed that I managed to put one foot in front of the other and not only get to the machine but also lay down on the skinny table that slides in the thumping tube of death, instead of simply curling up catatonic in a corner of the room. I know it's a ridiculous fear, but that's what a phobia is all about. Looking back now I want to slap myself for my silliness but in the moment, ugh, it's overwhelming.
I know the radiologist was speaking to me before I went in but it just became white noise. Thankfully there was no head gear this time round, but there was the chest and neck plate which was strapped down to the table so I couldn't make a run for it. As they slid me in my internal conversation went something along the lines of:
Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. Shut up you stupid woman, you're not going to die. Oh yes I am. Oh yes I am. Breathe woman. Breathe. Remember you used to teach relaxation techniques. What techniques? Oh God, I can't remember. Don't look up. Don't look up. The roof isn't an inch from my face. It isn't. It really isn't. Isn't it? Oh God it is! Close your eyes stupid woman. I'm going to throw up. I'm going to throw up. Oh God it's getting smaller. I can't breathe. Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts. I'm going to throw up. Don't move. If you move they have to start again. No. No. No. No. Oh my mouth is so dry. There's no moisture left. I'm going to dehydrate. I'm going to die. I'm going to die.
"Your doing so well Michelle, this next section is 10 minutes".
NOOOOOOOOOOOO.
Then all of a sudden the table was moving and I was out. I had escaped the jaws of the thumping tube of death and lived to tell the tale. I was going to say I made it out unscathed but my extra 1,000 grey hairs tell a different story. Luckily here is Aus such scans are bulk billed, so essentially free. I feel blessed, especially knowing what friends go through in other countries. Also I have since found out we are one of the few countries that gives you a top and pants, instead of a hideous drafty hospital gown. Go Australia. The land of wide open spaces and free pants in MRIs.
Thankfully the brilliant Kerri and I went and had coffee and lunch after to de-stress, before she drove me home. Strangely, it was a fun day in it's own weird way. Laughing with a friend who knows only too well the joys of the medical drill. Chatting, going out to lunch. Laughing some more. If I take out the pee my pants fear and near death experience of the thumping tube of death, it was a great day out.
Now I play the waiting game. I have a copy of the films to look at, but not the official letter. If it was a brain MRI I could read it in my sleep, unfortunately a neck venogram not so much. So I will spend the three week interval between scan and cardio appointment, trying not to think about it and failing miserably. I can't help but go back and look at the scan every couple of days. I look at it and think "that's some weird shit man", but as to whether it is in the realms of normal variation on not (and I know from experience normal can look decidedly abnormal at times), I have to wait, and waiting sucks.
Cheers
The very impatient Michelle :)
In honour of my penile prosthetic query, Take A Walk on the Wild Side.
"Why don't we do a scan?" Sounded like a good idea at the time. Obviously I was away with pixies, as I appear to have agreed whilst completely forgetting my gut wrenching fear of small spaces.
Give me snakes. Give me heights. Give me ramshackle Vietnamese bridges where a landslide had taken out the road the day before. I can deal with that. However place me in a small space and I am totally convinced that I am suffocating and going to die. Even back in my navy days, I was happy to fight oil fires, with thick black smoke blocking my visions and the flames rolling over the roof like a scene out of Backdraft. That I can do. But that damn face gear (shudder). I have never tried so hard to find my happy place as when I had to put that large mask over my face. I don't care that I was hooked up to an air tank and was therefore assured of continuous O2, I still felt like I was going to die. Agreeing to a MRI therefore suggests I have more than one screw loose.
My last MRI adventure was unpleasant. A head and spine combo. 50 minutes complete with head gear and chest plate. My panic at the time did mean I was moved from the dark cave/coffin at the bottom of the hospital to the bright shiny room and Mr Grumpy was allowed to sit in and hold my foot. I may or may not have nearly cried at the time when they said I couldn't be sedated, as that had been my grand plan to make it through. I swore after I would never have another. Yet there I was again, trying to swallow my fear (and vomit) yet again.
This time around it was 15 minutes (though it felt like 15 years), and just my neck. Time to suss out those dodgy blood vessels of mine with an Magnetic Resonance Venogram (MRV). I know that not much in the way of blood is going to the old noggin (about 50% according to the Prof a while back), which explains a lot. This time it was to see if what little was getting up there was draining out properly. I've known for quite a while now that my veins are dodgy. My cardiologist delights in telling me how bad they are and showing others my gold medal winning blood pooling abilities. I feel special, really I do. Maybe I can get my photo on a Weeties box? Now there's something to which I can aspire.
I had managed to live in denial about my upcoming suffocation for a number of weeks. Then the night before I had the joy of filling out the bazillion questions on the form in between hyperventilating and throwing up a little bit in the back of my throat (anxiety rocks). I will admit to a certain level of childish amusement when one of the questions asked if I had a "penile prosthetic". Really? I can understand the pacemaker question, and asking if I was a welder (only in my Flashdance dreams), but fake penis? Not so much. I have been told that my voice is rather deep for a woman, but it's not like I sound like James Earl Jones. All of a sudden I had Lou Reed's Take a Walk on the Wild Side playing in my head. I will say that my fear did take a turn for the worst when I read the final lines on the back of the sheet.
What the hell radiology people? Don't put a line like that on the sheet you send to claustrophobia girl. Sheesh. "Thank you" just doesn't cut it.
This time around I was accompanied on my journey by my bestie Kerri. You know someone is a true friend when you hop in their car and say "sorry I'm having one of those pee every three minutes days we may have to stop frequently on the way" and she doesn't bat an eyelid. Or when they see you freak out and not care. Or pretend to be laughing at your ridiculously huge scrubs and not the small whimper of fear that may have escaped your lips. A true friend makes you laugh to take your mind off things and even offers to sit in if you need. I did suck it up enough to not beg her to sit in with me. I was rather proud of myself. A true friend also doesn't tell you that the machine you are about to go into is in a dark little room, is very tiny and lacking any mirrors to see the outside world. If she had I may have run screaming from the waiting room. A true friend doesn't tell you beforehand that she's so relaxed she falls asleep in MRIs. Thanks Kerri for being that friend.
I will say that the staff were lovely. I wanted to hate them for what they were putting me through, but it's hard when they come in and pat your hand and tell you that "you're doing so well", in a Romper Room voice. I had the joy of trying to explain Bob in the pre-interview, it never grows old.
"Do you have high blood pressure?"
"Yes"
"Do you have low blood pressure?"
"Yes"
Confused look from radiologist.
Yep.
She was lovely though and didn't even bat an eyelid when I suggested she add a few plus signs next to the claustrophobia question. Nor did she call me a freak for saying that I wanted her to come to all my blood draws as she was the first person in a very long time to find a vein first time round. Or that I thought the IV should be pumping in tequila instead of a contrast dye. She even joked as I was leaving that she'd be happy to come along the next time I needed a venous line. To top it off she was happy to take photos for me and suggested a good place for a recovery coffee.
Swallowing down fear and vomit is hard work. Standing in the door way and finding that the machine was an old super small MRI that made the last one look like an open field, I must admit to a moment of hysterical screaming panic in my mind. I'm still amazed that I managed to put one foot in front of the other and not only get to the machine but also lay down on the skinny table that slides in the thumping tube of death, instead of simply curling up catatonic in a corner of the room. I know it's a ridiculous fear, but that's what a phobia is all about. Looking back now I want to slap myself for my silliness but in the moment, ugh, it's overwhelming.
(I don't care what anyone says that is a stupidly small hole.
"Damn radiologist has strapped me down so I can't make a break for it. Stop being nice you cow I want to hate you right now. Don't pat my hand and tell me I am "doing so well", I hate you and your niceness, evil torture woman".)
("I will not vomit. I will not vomit. I will not vomit. There is no thumping tube of death behind my head. Wide open spaces. Wide open spaces. Screw the radioactive contrast, WHERE"S MY DAMN TEQUILA IV!!!!!")
I know the radiologist was speaking to me before I went in but it just became white noise. Thankfully there was no head gear this time round, but there was the chest and neck plate which was strapped down to the table so I couldn't make a run for it. As they slid me in my internal conversation went something along the lines of:
Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God. I'm going to die. I'm going to die. Shut up you stupid woman, you're not going to die. Oh yes I am. Oh yes I am. Breathe woman. Breathe. Remember you used to teach relaxation techniques. What techniques? Oh God, I can't remember. Don't look up. Don't look up. The roof isn't an inch from my face. It isn't. It really isn't. Isn't it? Oh God it is! Close your eyes stupid woman. I'm going to throw up. I'm going to throw up. Oh God it's getting smaller. I can't breathe. Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts. I'm going to throw up. Don't move. If you move they have to start again. No. No. No. No. Oh my mouth is so dry. There's no moisture left. I'm going to dehydrate. I'm going to die. I'm going to die.
"Your doing so well Michelle, this next section is 10 minutes".
NOOOOOOOOOOOO.
Then all of a sudden the table was moving and I was out. I had escaped the jaws of the thumping tube of death and lived to tell the tale. I was going to say I made it out unscathed but my extra 1,000 grey hairs tell a different story. Luckily here is Aus such scans are bulk billed, so essentially free. I feel blessed, especially knowing what friends go through in other countries. Also I have since found out we are one of the few countries that gives you a top and pants, instead of a hideous drafty hospital gown. Go Australia. The land of wide open spaces and free pants in MRIs.
Thankfully the brilliant Kerri and I went and had coffee and lunch after to de-stress, before she drove me home. Strangely, it was a fun day in it's own weird way. Laughing with a friend who knows only too well the joys of the medical drill. Chatting, going out to lunch. Laughing some more. If I take out the pee my pants fear and near death experience of the thumping tube of death, it was a great day out.
(See after the fact I can look all happy when pointing at the MRI sign)
Now I play the waiting game. I have a copy of the films to look at, but not the official letter. If it was a brain MRI I could read it in my sleep, unfortunately a neck venogram not so much. So I will spend the three week interval between scan and cardio appointment, trying not to think about it and failing miserably. I can't help but go back and look at the scan every couple of days. I look at it and think "that's some weird shit man", but as to whether it is in the realms of normal variation on not (and I know from experience normal can look decidedly abnormal at times), I have to wait, and waiting sucks.
Cheers
The very impatient Michelle :)
In honour of my penile prosthetic query, Take A Walk on the Wild Side.
Monday, 30 August 2010
A Word From Our Sponsor XIII
Just a quick update to allay those pesky rumours. I am in the Land of the Living. Well sort of. If the Land of the Living comprises the carpet locked nation of my bed and the small colonial island known as my couch. I have not decided to forsake all worldly possessions and move into a cave sans internet. Though it is tempting. I have not been so embarrassed by Australia's pathetic political situation that I am ashamed to show my keystrokes to the world. It does however, leave me with a hollow feeling deep inside. Nor have I been kidnapped by Johnny Depp and been forced to do his sexual bidding (although I would not be adverse to such a situation should he be reading. Am willing to get on board with Stockholm Syndrome on day one. Am also willing to provide own bath products to overcome his lack of personal hygiene should this situation occur).
No no. Nothing so interesting. Instead it's been a case of The Blargh invading once more, life becoming way too busy, visitors, and a continuing battle of wits with Blogger for which I am woefully under resourced.
For those who have taken time to comment, which is much appreciated, I am not being a biatch and ignoring you. Blogger has decided to give me intermittent access to moderate my comments. Sometimes it'll show them. Sometimes it wont. Some days it will show me comments from weeks ago and then they will simply disappear into the ether. I often wonder if they have been sucked into the mystical realm of odd socks, all the packets of Christmas cards I buy on special in the after Christmas sales so I'll be prepared for next Christmas but never find when December rocks around again, the elusive weapons of mass destruction, and the Amelia Earhart. It has also decided to delete three posts I had ready to post in my drafts folder (and no, I was not bright enough to save a copy elsewhere) and told me that my blog didn't exist even though I was staring at it in another tab. I am determined to win this battle even if it kills me, and it just might. Well that or at least tax Eunice to the point of no return.
Reading has also been a bit beyond old Eunice for a while now so my list of blogs to read is now getting to unassailable levels. I manage one every now and then but that's about it. I may have to toss my list in the bin and begin again when I can concentrate for more than two nanoseconds.
Okay have been staring vaguely at the screen for about 10 mins now. Time to end. Hopefully I can soon send The Blargh packing, will win the war with Blogger, and put together enough coherent sentences to create a post.
Until then,
.... So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehen, good night,
I hate to go and leave this pretty sight.
So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehen, adieu,
Adieu, adieu, to yieu and yieu and yieu.
So long, farewell, Au'voir, auf wiedersehen,
I'd like to stay and taste my first champagne
So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehen, goodbye,
I leave and heave a sigh and say goodbye,
Good bye .....
Ah, The Sound of Music, you do make everything better. Will now drag my butt to my shower chair and break out in a breathtaking rendition of How do you solve a problem like Maria.
Cheers
Michelle.
No no. Nothing so interesting. Instead it's been a case of The Blargh invading once more, life becoming way too busy, visitors, and a continuing battle of wits with Blogger for which I am woefully under resourced.
For those who have taken time to comment, which is much appreciated, I am not being a biatch and ignoring you. Blogger has decided to give me intermittent access to moderate my comments. Sometimes it'll show them. Sometimes it wont. Some days it will show me comments from weeks ago and then they will simply disappear into the ether. I often wonder if they have been sucked into the mystical realm of odd socks, all the packets of Christmas cards I buy on special in the after Christmas sales so I'll be prepared for next Christmas but never find when December rocks around again, the elusive weapons of mass destruction, and the Amelia Earhart. It has also decided to delete three posts I had ready to post in my drafts folder (and no, I was not bright enough to save a copy elsewhere) and told me that my blog didn't exist even though I was staring at it in another tab. I am determined to win this battle even if it kills me, and it just might. Well that or at least tax Eunice to the point of no return.
(I have a feeling this guy is hanging out in my Blogger account and causing all the mischief. Maybe I need to take some tips from this instructional video on how to deal with him.)
Reading has also been a bit beyond old Eunice for a while now so my list of blogs to read is now getting to unassailable levels. I manage one every now and then but that's about it. I may have to toss my list in the bin and begin again when I can concentrate for more than two nanoseconds.
Okay have been staring vaguely at the screen for about 10 mins now. Time to end. Hopefully I can soon send The Blargh packing, will win the war with Blogger, and put together enough coherent sentences to create a post.
Until then,
.... So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehen, good night,
I hate to go and leave this pretty sight.
So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehen, adieu,
Adieu, adieu, to yieu and yieu and yieu.
So long, farewell, Au'voir, auf wiedersehen,
I'd like to stay and taste my first champagne
So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehen, goodbye,
I leave and heave a sigh and say goodbye,
Good bye .....
Ah, The Sound of Music, you do make everything better. Will now drag my butt to my shower chair and break out in a breathtaking rendition of How do you solve a problem like Maria.
Cheers
Michelle.
Sunday, 15 August 2010
Life is an errant shower water jet in the face.
Do you ever hop into the shower and find that there is one errant little jet of water, that acts like a heat seeking missile going straight for your face? You move left. You move right. You do handstands and turn your back. Yet it still hits you right in between your eyes, hard, and has enough cast off to go into both your eyes so you stand there blinking and cursing whatever you did to deserve an annoying spit in the face from the universe? Yes? No? Well for me the last few days have been one shower jet watergorby in the face, literally and figuratively.
Though I like to remind myself things could be worse.
I had the audacity to go out with my physio girls for dinner (post to come, I wont sully that fun with today's gripe) and now am being punished by my puritanical body. If I'm honest I was on the down slope pre-dinner and if it wasn't for the joy of seeing my ladies, I would normally have stayed home and crawled up in a ball to die slowly under my doona. But, sometimes it's just worth the post-fun hijinks.
The past day and a half has been unpleasant to say the least. Stuck in bed with barely enough energy or wherewithall to be peeved that I was stuck in bed. Well if I'm truthful I am still in bed. But as I'm sitting up, have scoured the sickly sludge off my body, and have managed to resist the siren call of my pjs, I feel technically, I can finally be classed as up and about.
Really bed is the only place to be if you can't reach triple digits in your bp. I tried. I really did. But swearing at my blood vessels and threatening them with all sorts of nastiness just didn't seem to work. I also tried to be positive. I repeated "I think I can. I think I can" ad nauseum, but that also proved about as useful as a tube of SPF 30 on the surface of the sun. I was proud to get to a decent 92/41 by about 9pm last night, thanks of course to my Uri Geller spoon bending and healing powers of positivity. If I could've stood up, I would have danced for joy.
Haven't eaten a great deal since Friday night. Still not hungry and just a tad nauseous, so the occasional nibble of something salt laced is probably about it for now. I am hoping this lack of intake will aid my plans to decrease the size of my ever increasing rear end. Hell, it has to work better than my regular method of LMAO, which is simply not working and frankly I am beginning to feel like a liar every time I type those four letters.
Note to self: do not comment or message anyone whilst in this state of uselessness. Messages may be incoherent at best, or come out the wrong way entirely. I've heard this is how wars start. Well that and something about Texas Tea. At the time you think you are exceedingly eloquent and humorous. However, this judgement is being filtered by a brain severely lacking is O2. Really it's the equivalent of drunk dialling, minus all the "I loves yous".
I did manage a shower yesterday, which was a feat in itself. I made it from my bed, to the shower, onto my shower chair, managed to clean off the hideous paint pealing bed funk to a tolerable level, get out, get dressed and make it back to bed without serious incident. This is pretty impressive even on a good day. There have been many a time where I either, didn't make it, fell off my shower chair, or missed it when I sat down. Naked humiliation was avoided (apart from the quick glimpse of pasty marshmallow I caught in the mirror). No new bruises were acquired. Go me. I did manage a minor scalding when I forgot how to use the cold tap, but that is still a good day. I did have one of those errant spouts. I moved left. I moved right. It still found my face. Solution. Give in and put face washer on face, lean head against wall and let the water fall. Much easier than fighting.
The rest of the day was spent either comatose or watching episodes of 30 Rock. Kenneth Parcell can get me through many a tough time. 20 minute episodes are good when your brain is mush. Even better if you have seen the episodes before and you don't have to try and follow a plot.
One problem with sleeping so much is you dehydrate, and if you have Bob you dehydrate at light speed. Today I have lips with cracks the size of the San Andreas and there is no lip balm that can fix that quickly. So today's plan is to guzzle enough water to cover today and yesterday. This also means many a pee trip from bed to loo. I think all this to and fro classes as my cardio for the day so no need to break out the Wii. I will now put on my headband, sexy leotard, and Olivia Newton-John's, Physical on loop, to make me really feel like I'm on my way to buns of steel.
I'm hot, and not in the good way. Well I don't actually know if I've ever been hot in the good way. Though I did get called a MILF by some delightful teenagers last year. Does that count as a good or bad thing? I'm still not sure. I do know that I am the bad type of hot at the moment. It's a delightful Winters day here is Aus. Misty rain, soggy world, 8C if we're lucky, and I'm rocking my Summer's best of t-shirt bare feet and rolled up trackie dacks (my attempt at pretending I am cold like normal people). The last three night's I've slept with either a sheet or nothing, whilst Mr Grumpy had the electric blanket on max, the doona up round his ears and lay there shivering. The rest of the house is wearing Arctic thermals, jumpers and thick wool socks and I have heat intolerance up the wazoo. Stupid body temp is higher than usual, and it's always high. If I sweated I'd be lying in a salty pool by now. All in all I guess it helps with our heating bill, especially when I'm home by myself. You know, silver linings and all.
I think I'm going to go with the whole "and on the last day He rested" plan, it is Sunday after all. Saturday was completely misplaced. It is obviously hanging out with my Bedazzler and single socks. I'm thinking about requesting a do-over. Is that possible for a whole day? Let me know.
Cheers
Michelle :)
Miniature Disasters - KT Tunstall, seems somehow fitting.
Though I like to remind myself things could be worse.
I had the audacity to go out with my physio girls for dinner (post to come, I wont sully that fun with today's gripe) and now am being punished by my puritanical body. If I'm honest I was on the down slope pre-dinner and if it wasn't for the joy of seeing my ladies, I would normally have stayed home and crawled up in a ball to die slowly under my doona. But, sometimes it's just worth the post-fun hijinks.
The past day and a half has been unpleasant to say the least. Stuck in bed with barely enough energy or wherewithall to be peeved that I was stuck in bed. Well if I'm truthful I am still in bed. But as I'm sitting up, have scoured the sickly sludge off my body, and have managed to resist the siren call of my pjs, I feel technically, I can finally be classed as up and about.
Really bed is the only place to be if you can't reach triple digits in your bp. I tried. I really did. But swearing at my blood vessels and threatening them with all sorts of nastiness just didn't seem to work. I also tried to be positive. I repeated "I think I can. I think I can" ad nauseum, but that also proved about as useful as a tube of SPF 30 on the surface of the sun. I was proud to get to a decent 92/41 by about 9pm last night, thanks of course to my Uri Geller spoon bending and healing powers of positivity. If I could've stood up, I would have danced for joy.
Haven't eaten a great deal since Friday night. Still not hungry and just a tad nauseous, so the occasional nibble of something salt laced is probably about it for now. I am hoping this lack of intake will aid my plans to decrease the size of my ever increasing rear end. Hell, it has to work better than my regular method of LMAO, which is simply not working and frankly I am beginning to feel like a liar every time I type those four letters.
Note to self: do not comment or message anyone whilst in this state of uselessness. Messages may be incoherent at best, or come out the wrong way entirely. I've heard this is how wars start. Well that and something about Texas Tea. At the time you think you are exceedingly eloquent and humorous. However, this judgement is being filtered by a brain severely lacking is O2. Really it's the equivalent of drunk dialling, minus all the "I loves yous".
I did manage a shower yesterday, which was a feat in itself. I made it from my bed, to the shower, onto my shower chair, managed to clean off the hideous paint pealing bed funk to a tolerable level, get out, get dressed and make it back to bed without serious incident. This is pretty impressive even on a good day. There have been many a time where I either, didn't make it, fell off my shower chair, or missed it when I sat down. Naked humiliation was avoided (apart from the quick glimpse of pasty marshmallow I caught in the mirror). No new bruises were acquired. Go me. I did manage a minor scalding when I forgot how to use the cold tap, but that is still a good day. I did have one of those errant spouts. I moved left. I moved right. It still found my face. Solution. Give in and put face washer on face, lean head against wall and let the water fall. Much easier than fighting.
(On a good day this is about how successful my showers are)
The rest of the day was spent either comatose or watching episodes of 30 Rock. Kenneth Parcell can get me through many a tough time. 20 minute episodes are good when your brain is mush. Even better if you have seen the episodes before and you don't have to try and follow a plot.
One problem with sleeping so much is you dehydrate, and if you have Bob you dehydrate at light speed. Today I have lips with cracks the size of the San Andreas and there is no lip balm that can fix that quickly. So today's plan is to guzzle enough water to cover today and yesterday. This also means many a pee trip from bed to loo. I think all this to and fro classes as my cardio for the day so no need to break out the Wii. I will now put on my headband, sexy leotard, and Olivia Newton-John's, Physical on loop, to make me really feel like I'm on my way to buns of steel.
I'm hot, and not in the good way. Well I don't actually know if I've ever been hot in the good way. Though I did get called a MILF by some delightful teenagers last year. Does that count as a good or bad thing? I'm still not sure. I do know that I am the bad type of hot at the moment. It's a delightful Winters day here is Aus. Misty rain, soggy world, 8C if we're lucky, and I'm rocking my Summer's best of t-shirt bare feet and rolled up trackie dacks (my attempt at pretending I am cold like normal people). The last three night's I've slept with either a sheet or nothing, whilst Mr Grumpy had the electric blanket on max, the doona up round his ears and lay there shivering. The rest of the house is wearing Arctic thermals, jumpers and thick wool socks and I have heat intolerance up the wazoo. Stupid body temp is higher than usual, and it's always high. If I sweated I'd be lying in a salty pool by now. All in all I guess it helps with our heating bill, especially when I'm home by myself. You know, silver linings and all.
I think I'm going to go with the whole "and on the last day He rested" plan, it is Sunday after all. Saturday was completely misplaced. It is obviously hanging out with my Bedazzler and single socks. I'm thinking about requesting a do-over. Is that possible for a whole day? Let me know.
Cheers
Michelle :)
Miniature Disasters - KT Tunstall, seems somehow fitting.
Friday, 13 August 2010
Fabulous Friday: MLT Time For One
Okay, which bastard thought it'd be hilarious to steal my Bedazzler? I am going to hunt you down as soon as I can stand, and pull your spleen out your left nostril. As some of you may have noticed my insane attempt to be perky at least one day a week has gone awry. Not like anyone is truly surprised, well except for that tiny delusional anal portion of my mind that still thinks it can do everything. With the absence of my metaphorical Bedazzler, these last few weeks at Château Rusty have been rather bereft of sparkly rhinestones and crystals. I have resorted to watching hours of The People's Court, and even made it through an entire episode of Paris Hilton's reality show without retching, or doing an Elvis and shooting my TV. Even I am scared. An intervention may be in order.
Well as I've managed to get my bp out of the toilet for two seconds today, I thought I'd have a bash at perkiness. "Got to be in it to win it", or so they say. Whoever the hell 'they' are? I'm pretty sure 'they' may be in cahoots with the pathologically cheerful purveyors of religion who keep knocking on my door at 8:30am. I'm starting to think there must be some sign on my house indicating that I am in desperate need of salvation. Mind you if they came after my morning sanity coffee I may actually be more receptive, well probably not, but definitely more civil regarding their message, and not set my large dog on them (good boy Thor). They really need to get onto their market research people. 8:30 on a Saturday morning is not the time to try and convert the heathen masses. Hell, 11:30 on a Saturday morning is not the time to try and covert the heathen masses. Only the insane are open to conversion at this time.
But I digress.
When my kids were younger we used to have MLT time one day a week after school. MLT being Mummy, rug rat L. and rug rat T. time. We would go to a café and have hot chocolates or lime spiders and chat about their week. Both of them had some tough times with bullies and the like so to try and refocus them from the crappy aspects of school we always ended with them picking three good things about their week. So I thought today I should try and have MLT time for one ,and find three good things from the last few weeks (and try valiantly to live in denial about the rest).
Number one: I had to go to a talk at the eldest rug rats school about learning to drive. Sounds crap right? But no. I scored big time. First I picked up the youngest rug rat from basketball practice next door and brought us each a chocolate Twix bar. We won two free bars. Now in my sad little life this was enough to make me do a little jig in front of youngest rug rats basketball mates and embarrass the help out of him (this is compulsory in every mum's KPIs). Next we returned to the talk only to win first a little squishy toy in the shape of a VW. For those of you who don't know I love a little VW bug and have always wanted one, though a combi comes very close in the love stakes. Next we won a big box of chocolates. Then we won a $25 gift voucher for a music store. Score!!! We made up for a lifetime of never winning so much as a used piece of gum, in one night. There may also have been more embarrassing dancing in front of eldest rug rats teenage friends.
Number two: Some of you may know I had some excitement in my street the other day. For some reason a rather strange man decided that he would run up and down my street for a couple of hours wearing nothing but a pair of poorly fitting jeans. It was about 5C, being the middle of Winter here in Aus so it was bizarre from the out set. He was possible the hairiest man I had seen in a while and in desperate need of an Epilady across his back. I was tempted to yell "Run Forrest, run" out my lounge window but I didn't want to break his stride. Even better was the fact that at each lap, thanks to his poorly fitting jeans, more and more of his money box came into view. I could have lost $100 down that furry coin slot. Alas he must have tired, and eventually disappeared. I am hoping he comes back though as he did provide me with a couple of giggle-filled hours.
Number three: I won a blog prize. Mr London Street (MLS) gave me a nod as one of his three best posts for That Was The Week That Blogged (TWTWTB). It was for The Wonder Years, which I changed my mind about posting about a dozen time. I was lucky enough to win one of these last year for Farewell to the Brandy Hag, and I was equally chuffed this time. When someone, whose writing you admire gives you an award it's rather exciting. I have suggested MLS as a blog to follow before and will again (and not just because he gave me an award and said lovely things, though I am not adverse to bribery). As his profile says, he is "Reading's Premier Humourist. Occasional nookie ocelot. Highly conflicted purveyor of high class smut and melancholy to the masses". If you like your humour dry and your melancholy dark, he is your man.
Okay I made it to three. I will now focus on free chocolate, naked hairy men and bask in the glory of my accolade for a while. Hopefully this will lead me back to my happy place and my elusive Bedazzler. I will now attempt to drag my body out of bed (it's 3:30pm), scull water and chug salt in the hopes of getting my bp up enough to go out to dinner with my physio girls. I may need a mule or a sturdy Sherpa to get me up the mountain to the restaurant but damn it I'm getting there.
Insert the world's greatest motivational music, ever.
Cheers
The "blame it on the lack of oxygen getting to my brain" Michelle :)
Well as I've managed to get my bp out of the toilet for two seconds today, I thought I'd have a bash at perkiness. "Got to be in it to win it", or so they say. Whoever the hell 'they' are? I'm pretty sure 'they' may be in cahoots with the pathologically cheerful purveyors of religion who keep knocking on my door at 8:30am. I'm starting to think there must be some sign on my house indicating that I am in desperate need of salvation. Mind you if they came after my morning sanity coffee I may actually be more receptive, well probably not, but definitely more civil regarding their message, and not set my large dog on them (good boy Thor). They really need to get onto their market research people. 8:30 on a Saturday morning is not the time to try and convert the heathen masses. Hell, 11:30 on a Saturday morning is not the time to try and covert the heathen masses. Only the insane are open to conversion at this time.
But I digress.
When my kids were younger we used to have MLT time one day a week after school. MLT being Mummy, rug rat L. and rug rat T. time. We would go to a café and have hot chocolates or lime spiders and chat about their week. Both of them had some tough times with bullies and the like so to try and refocus them from the crappy aspects of school we always ended with them picking three good things about their week. So I thought today I should try and have MLT time for one ,and find three good things from the last few weeks (and try valiantly to live in denial about the rest).
Number one: I had to go to a talk at the eldest rug rats school about learning to drive. Sounds crap right? But no. I scored big time. First I picked up the youngest rug rat from basketball practice next door and brought us each a chocolate Twix bar. We won two free bars. Now in my sad little life this was enough to make me do a little jig in front of youngest rug rats basketball mates and embarrass the help out of him (this is compulsory in every mum's KPIs). Next we returned to the talk only to win first a little squishy toy in the shape of a VW. For those of you who don't know I love a little VW bug and have always wanted one, though a combi comes very close in the love stakes. Next we won a big box of chocolates. Then we won a $25 gift voucher for a music store. Score!!! We made up for a lifetime of never winning so much as a used piece of gum, in one night. There may also have been more embarrassing dancing in front of eldest rug rats teenage friends.
Number two: Some of you may know I had some excitement in my street the other day. For some reason a rather strange man decided that he would run up and down my street for a couple of hours wearing nothing but a pair of poorly fitting jeans. It was about 5C, being the middle of Winter here in Aus so it was bizarre from the out set. He was possible the hairiest man I had seen in a while and in desperate need of an Epilady across his back. I was tempted to yell "Run Forrest, run" out my lounge window but I didn't want to break his stride. Even better was the fact that at each lap, thanks to his poorly fitting jeans, more and more of his money box came into view. I could have lost $100 down that furry coin slot. Alas he must have tired, and eventually disappeared. I am hoping he comes back though as he did provide me with a couple of giggle-filled hours.
Number three: I won a blog prize. Mr London Street (MLS) gave me a nod as one of his three best posts for That Was The Week That Blogged (TWTWTB). It was for The Wonder Years, which I changed my mind about posting about a dozen time. I was lucky enough to win one of these last year for Farewell to the Brandy Hag, and I was equally chuffed this time. When someone, whose writing you admire gives you an award it's rather exciting. I have suggested MLS as a blog to follow before and will again (and not just because he gave me an award and said lovely things, though I am not adverse to bribery). As his profile says, he is "Reading's Premier Humourist. Occasional nookie ocelot. Highly conflicted purveyor of high class smut and melancholy to the masses". If you like your humour dry and your melancholy dark, he is your man.
Okay I made it to three. I will now focus on free chocolate, naked hairy men and bask in the glory of my accolade for a while. Hopefully this will lead me back to my happy place and my elusive Bedazzler. I will now attempt to drag my body out of bed (it's 3:30pm), scull water and chug salt in the hopes of getting my bp up enough to go out to dinner with my physio girls. I may need a mule or a sturdy Sherpa to get me up the mountain to the restaurant but damn it I'm getting there.
Insert the world's greatest motivational music, ever.
Cheers
The "blame it on the lack of oxygen getting to my brain" Michelle :)
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
Waiting For The Storm.
(Stormy skies out the front of our house. Part of my #lookingup series)
Uncertainty has been one of the worst parts of becoming ill. It has stalked me since the first day I realised I didn't simply have a bug, and that something more serious was going on with my body. It fills you with an overwhelming anxiety. An anxiety that cannot be sated through determination or hard work. Uncertainty, is as unyielding as the hardest stone. Might as well attempt to stay a flood with a tissue, as create order in the chaos. It's been a constant companion for the past four years, and I hate it.
Bob is not a disorder with a clear path. Technically it is not even a discrete disorder, but a collection of symptoms for which the underlying cause frequently remains elusive. It is unpredictable. It waxes and wanes. Over months. Over weeks. Over days and frequently, over hours. It hides from view. Despite search after search it can remain hidden from public view for years. The elusive Bigfoot of the disease world. Known only to those who keep it's company. It is a disorder that refuses to play by the rules. It follows no logical path and leaves patient, doctors, and the wider world perplexed. I have lived with it for four years and I still fail to have more than a superficial understanding of it's nature.
You take on the role of plate spinner in a bizarre circus troop. Constant alert, waiting for the first plate to show a sign of the shakes. Never knowing which will be the first to fall. Rushing from spike to spike in a desperate attempt to keep all in a state of equilibrium. Failing time and time again, no matter how hard you try or how closely you adhere to the rules. Fear becomes your permanent state, only the degree ever varies.
Always that sense of foreboding. Always tension. Always exhaustion. Waiting in anticipation for the storm that you know with absolute certainty is coming. Always that feel in the air, the electrical tension as the atmosphere begins to change. Ears attuned for the first rumble of thunder in the distance. Face turned to note the slightest change in the wind. Never knowing exactly how far away or how violent the storm to come.
Living always anticipating the worst. Failing to see that the sun is shining in the present. Why allow yourself to enjoy the sun when you know it will be taken away? Surely that pain must be worse than that with which you are familiar. You create your own reality. An unwanted reality, one from which it feels impossible to escape. Without change, the storms fills your entire vision even when it is no longer present.
You cannot harness the weather. You can't will away the thunder or stop the wind with your hands. You are flailing against an opponent who you will never touch. An opponent who simply is, and is totally unaware of your efforts.
There comes a time when you must end the fight. Release a burden that you have created for yourself. The storm will come. But even the worst cyclone has an eye filled with peace. A peace that needs to be seen. That needs to be embraced for all it's wonder. The storm will be endured. It has come and gone so many times in the past. Each time you have picked up the pieces, and taken the first step. You will do it again. To sit waiting for the storm, so much is wasted. So much power is given to that which cares nothing for the giver.
Moments of peace, in any sense of the world, need to be cherished. To waste such moments in fear of the unknown, is to waste a precious gift. A sunny day in the middle of Winter is far more precious for the surrounding days of cold and rain. The sun comes in many forms. An unexpected kindness. A smile from a stranger. Coffee with a friend. Sitting out in the garden. A minimal symptom day. Only you can take away the sun on those days. A choice can be made to either wait for the storm, or to embrace the precious days of sun. I for one am deciding to choose the latter.
Cheers
Michelle :)
(photo)
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
Perspective: DARE Re-post.
Having a bit of a blogging block, so I thought I'd re-post an article I wrote back in March for one of the Dysautonomia support groups I'm involved with, DARE.
I realised today that I have spent so long trying to minimise my illness that I have lost sight of what it really is, and how sick I actually am. Why I’ve chosen this path is complex. I’m not completely sure I can identify all the reasons why I do this, but I’ll try.
I know part of it is my attempt to shake my fists at the universe and say, “You can’t beat me”. To tell my illness that it doesn’t own me and that I am still me under my compression hose and gallons of water. You need to do this to survive. It’s hard to keep getting out of bed each morning unless a part of you says I can do this, no matter the reality of the situation.
I know part of it is that I am sick of being the token ‘sick’ person. I’m over it. I don’t want people to know how ill I am. I don't want the first question to always be about my health. I want them to see me rather than dysautonomia.
I know part of it is my strong aversion to pity. I would rather kill myself putting on my ‘well’ mask, pushing myself to the limits and suffering for the next week, rather than get the pity look or comments. They cut me to the quick and leave me with a sense that the word 'VICTIM' is being continually carved into my forehead.
I know part of it is that my ‘well’ baseline is now so much lower than those without chronic illness. How do you register a ‘sick’ day, when every day is a 'sick' day. Symptoms that were so strange and frightening at the start are like white noise now. I’m permanently dizzy. I’ve had7 years of dizzy. I don’t really remember being non-dizzy anymore. If I didn’t wake up to nausea each morning, I think I may feel as though I’ve lost a part of myself (not that I’m not willing to give it a go). 'Normal' doesn't necessarily have to be a good situation, but it is familiar and that translates to a warped sense of comfort.
I know part of it is that I don’t look sick most of the time. Not that I go out in public when I am really ill. As those of us with dysautonomia have all experienced, people are happy to tell us we don’t look ill. They might as well scream “LIAR” each time, as it is frequently clear that there is a 'look' to being sick and like jeggings, it is something that I am yet to master.
I know part of it is that I used to work in a hospital. I know what ‘real’ sick looks like. I've worked in palliative care. I know what these patients and their families went through and, my illness seems so petty in comparison. Basically I feel guilty for saying I am sick.
I know part of it is I can’t stand people who wallow in their illness. Who roll around in every bit of pain and discomfort and seem to enjoy the sick role. A while back I was on a forum and the topic was related to severity of symptoms. What began as a a simple exchange of what each person was experiencing, became a game of oneupmanship. Certain posters tried to out-sick each other. Bizarre, and certainly not a game I ever wish to win.
I know part of it is that many of these same posters say, “I am super ill and yet I still manage to work, volunteer, raise my family, work on the PTA, cure world hunger, organise peace in the Middle East, and solve global warming. Those who say they can’t, have a bad attitude and are lazy”. Logically, I know they are tossers and would most likely be in every aspect of their life, but it still makes me feel less. So I fight through to try and do things that I know, in a moment of clarity, are far beyond me and fail miserably. I can’t even be sick right!
I know part of it is that growing up I was always taught to hide my true feelings. When I was ill as a child I was told I was a hypochondriac and to harden up. If things were bad we hid them and in turn hid ourselves. I was raised in a family where only the weak mentioned they were feeling unwell.
I know part of it is that incompetent and misogynistic doctor who told me it was all in my head. Thanks to a long list of cardiologists and neurologists, I know he’s wrong. But I still have that nagging little voice saying “you don’t have an illness you are just a nutter”. Stupid I know.
I can sit back. Put my psychologist logical hat on. Sit my illogical emotional self on the couch and ask that part of me to tell me about my mother (oh self, lets not go there, thats years of therapy) and pull apart my illogical reasoning. But often we are driven by those little voices that tell us how we ‘should’ behave. I hate those voices with a passion but I still hold them close, they are my 'frenemies' and it is hard to part with them.
The other day I had a bit of a reality check. I wrote a post about the good old ‘simple faint‘, on my personal blog. For those of us who experence this or even pre-syncope on a regular basis it just becomes part of the daily existance. But I was shocked by the comments and messages I received. People were truly horrified about the whole experience. I’ve had similar comments before about posts, where people wish for me to get better, but never the shock aspect.
I was taken aback.
Am I really that sick?
Am I really experiencing something so horrible?
I mean I know it’s not pleasant, but it’s part and parcel of living with dysautonomia.
Then it stuck me. I’ve been living with this so long that I’ve lost sight of what I am going through. My normal is so skewed from reality that I have lost the ability to see my dysautonomia with clear vision. If one of my loved ones was going through what I described I would be horrified. I would never judge them like I judge myself.
I realised that I don’t have to deny my illness to be able to live with it. It’s not about rising above it necessarily, but accepting it for what it is, and to find it’s place in the big scheme of things. I don’t need to minimise it to make it bearable, that only increases the load I have to bear. I’m going to bring it out of the shadows, not for anyone else, but for me. Admitting it does not make me weak, self-indulgent, or all the other negative names I can throw my way. It’s okay for me to be sick.
Now I’m not saying those little voices wont keep getting their way on occasion, I’m realistic enough to know that. But I also know that’s part of the process. It doesn’t have to be an all or nothing. It’s the journey to find a balance between the two.
They say that part of the solution is admitting you have a problem so I’m going to start:
“Hi my name is Michelle and I really am sick. And that’s okay”.
Cheers
Michelle :)
I realised today that I have spent so long trying to minimise my illness that I have lost sight of what it really is, and how sick I actually am. Why I’ve chosen this path is complex. I’m not completely sure I can identify all the reasons why I do this, but I’ll try.
I know part of it is my attempt to shake my fists at the universe and say, “You can’t beat me”. To tell my illness that it doesn’t own me and that I am still me under my compression hose and gallons of water. You need to do this to survive. It’s hard to keep getting out of bed each morning unless a part of you says I can do this, no matter the reality of the situation.
I know part of it is that I am sick of being the token ‘sick’ person. I’m over it. I don’t want people to know how ill I am. I don't want the first question to always be about my health. I want them to see me rather than dysautonomia.
I know part of it is my strong aversion to pity. I would rather kill myself putting on my ‘well’ mask, pushing myself to the limits and suffering for the next week, rather than get the pity look or comments. They cut me to the quick and leave me with a sense that the word 'VICTIM' is being continually carved into my forehead.
I know part of it is that my ‘well’ baseline is now so much lower than those without chronic illness. How do you register a ‘sick’ day, when every day is a 'sick' day. Symptoms that were so strange and frightening at the start are like white noise now. I’m permanently dizzy. I’ve had
I know part of it is that I don’t look sick most of the time. Not that I go out in public when I am really ill. As those of us with dysautonomia have all experienced, people are happy to tell us we don’t look ill. They might as well scream “LIAR” each time, as it is frequently clear that there is a 'look' to being sick and like jeggings, it is something that I am yet to master.
I know part of it is that I used to work in a hospital. I know what ‘real’ sick looks like. I've worked in palliative care. I know what these patients and their families went through and, my illness seems so petty in comparison. Basically I feel guilty for saying I am sick.
I know part of it is I can’t stand people who wallow in their illness. Who roll around in every bit of pain and discomfort and seem to enjoy the sick role. A while back I was on a forum and the topic was related to severity of symptoms. What began as a a simple exchange of what each person was experiencing, became a game of oneupmanship. Certain posters tried to out-sick each other. Bizarre, and certainly not a game I ever wish to win.
I know part of it is that many of these same posters say, “I am super ill and yet I still manage to work, volunteer, raise my family, work on the PTA, cure world hunger, organise peace in the Middle East, and solve global warming. Those who say they can’t, have a bad attitude and are lazy”. Logically, I know they are tossers and would most likely be in every aspect of their life, but it still makes me feel less. So I fight through to try and do things that I know, in a moment of clarity, are far beyond me and fail miserably. I can’t even be sick right!
I know part of it is that growing up I was always taught to hide my true feelings. When I was ill as a child I was told I was a hypochondriac and to harden up. If things were bad we hid them and in turn hid ourselves. I was raised in a family where only the weak mentioned they were feeling unwell.
I know part of it is that incompetent and misogynistic doctor who told me it was all in my head. Thanks to a long list of cardiologists and neurologists, I know he’s wrong. But I still have that nagging little voice saying “you don’t have an illness you are just a nutter”. Stupid I know.
I can sit back. Put my psychologist logical hat on. Sit my illogical emotional self on the couch and ask that part of me to tell me about my mother (oh self, lets not go there, thats years of therapy) and pull apart my illogical reasoning. But often we are driven by those little voices that tell us how we ‘should’ behave. I hate those voices with a passion but I still hold them close, they are my 'frenemies' and it is hard to part with them.
The other day I had a bit of a reality check. I wrote a post about the good old ‘simple faint‘, on my personal blog. For those of us who experence this or even pre-syncope on a regular basis it just becomes part of the daily existance. But I was shocked by the comments and messages I received. People were truly horrified about the whole experience. I’ve had similar comments before about posts, where people wish for me to get better, but never the shock aspect.
I was taken aback.
Am I really that sick?
Am I really experiencing something so horrible?
I mean I know it’s not pleasant, but it’s part and parcel of living with dysautonomia.
Then it stuck me. I’ve been living with this so long that I’ve lost sight of what I am going through. My normal is so skewed from reality that I have lost the ability to see my dysautonomia with clear vision. If one of my loved ones was going through what I described I would be horrified. I would never judge them like I judge myself.
I realised that I don’t have to deny my illness to be able to live with it. It’s not about rising above it necessarily, but accepting it for what it is, and to find it’s place in the big scheme of things. I don’t need to minimise it to make it bearable, that only increases the load I have to bear. I’m going to bring it out of the shadows, not for anyone else, but for me. Admitting it does not make me weak, self-indulgent, or all the other negative names I can throw my way. It’s okay for me to be sick.
Now I’m not saying those little voices wont keep getting their way on occasion, I’m realistic enough to know that. But I also know that’s part of the process. It doesn’t have to be an all or nothing. It’s the journey to find a balance between the two.
They say that part of the solution is admitting you have a problem so I’m going to start:
“Hi my name is Michelle and I really am sick. And that’s okay”.
Cheers
Michelle :)
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