Atypical aka WTF?

Just once I'd like my bodily fluids to be normal.  Is that too much to ask?  I didn't think so, but apparently the universe has other ideas.  Because my recent mucus adventures obviously weren't enough fun.  (I think I hate you universe).  Atypical gastro.  Yes, that's right.  Atypical fricken gastro.  Because apparently I can't even get the shits like normal people.

Not that I really know what that means.  Not that I really think my GP knows what that means.  But fingers crossed that the poor unfortunate at the path lab who has to grow my poo bugs will know what that means.    Good lord, I hope he's wearing one of those yellow suits from Outbreak, before he pops the lid on that container.

But I'm looking for silver linings, I really am.  Lets see.

For once I do look sick, according to Mr Grumpy.  So I guess that's something.  Mind you I never really thought of gastro as fitting into the Super Model disease group like Bob.  Something about exploding bodily fluids doesn't exactly scream beauty.

And I have lost those pesky pounds, plus a few, and I didn't even have to go to a single Jenny Craig meeting.  Though that could stop right about now.  7kg down in a little under a week not so good for symptom management and I'm pretty sure I could have just tossed my meds straight into the loo rather than bothering with trying to down them.  But at this rate I'm a shoe in for ANTM, well apart from being an old fart and all.

I got to freak out my GP, which I always enjoy, by having no peripheral pulse.  Though she could get one from the weirdly spasming blood vessel in my stomach that she could both see and feel.  A first for her apparently.

I didn't even feel the large needle in my bum to stop vomiting.  Go the power of SNAFU.

I also managed to gross out my eldest son, again something I enjoy immensely, by pointing out that there was a bag with my foul poo in it, sitting right next to him as he drove me to pathology.   

I haven't had to cook, which is really a bonus all round, as no one wants a gastro-infested woman touching their potatoes.

See silver linings and all that jazz. 

Now if only I could work out how to stop water working like a laxative I'd be pretty happy.  And real food would be nice.  But, that just sounds picky.

So I'll crawl back under my doona and cuddle my pillow, and think about how in a few days I'm sure to get a gig on ANTM.

Michelle

And because show tunes always make me happy.

One day.

There was a thread on one of the Bob forums I read, that posed the question, " If you could be given ONE day without dysautonomia, what would you do?" It's the sickie equivalent of "what would you do if you won lotto?" but with more answers relating to number twos than holidays to Europe.

It's not really a question that I have thought about, especially not in recent years.  Initially, I was still viewing the world through delusional rose-coloured glasses which told me that recovery was a possibility.  Now, I'm resigned to the fact that it's not going to get better, and, after my Uberneuro visit, that my current state should be viewed as my glory days, as its only going to get worse.  Good lord, that sounds so doom and gloom.  And frankly I'm not ready to process, let alone write about that in any deep and mature fashion.  Bring back denial dammit, it's my favourite of all the coping mechanisms.

Going to my happy place.  

Going to my happy place.  

Going to my happy place.

Ahhhh.......happy place.

Where were we?

It's actually taken me a while to think about what I would do with a day of complete health.  Part of me feels like I should say that I would spend it doing things with my family, because that is the PC answer these days.  Not knocking those for who that is their hearts desire, but for me I'd be lying.  I love my family, I do, but I focus every available shred of energy on them, every day.  Don't get me wrong, I don't begrudge that in any way.  I do it by choice and because I love them.  But should that one day ever arrive I have other plans. 

I would be independent Michelle once more.

I would put on my Dorothy Shoes and favourite green dress, and head into the city.

I would drive the whole 45mins, by myself.

I wouldn't plan for loo or puke stops.  I wouldn't worry that I would get into town and have to turn back.  I would drive without considering any of those issues.

I would wander up and down the many arcades in the CBD, in my inappropriate footware.  

I would savour every blister and would love that initial painful surge of blood back into my feet, when I removed them at the end of the day.

I would try on overly priced clothes in the boutiques.

I would take time to enjoy the beauty of the Block Arcade.

I would sit in a little cafe in an alleyway, drinking hot, rich espressos, and simple watch the world go by.

I would eat tapas and slices of wondrously rich cakes.

I would walk to the gallery and wander through the exhibits.

I would stand on the Prince's Bridge over the Yarra River and watch the boats float by.

I would enjoy the hustle and the bustle, the smells, and sounds of the city.  

I would walk down to China Town and eat Yum Cha and marvel at the glorious golden ducks hanging in the windows.

I would lie, flat on my back, in the Botanic Gardens and watch the clouds scoot over head.

I would have small talk with the lady in line at the coffee stand.  The weather, the crowds, who will win the footy.  No talk of canes or illness.

I would sit in St Paul's Cathedral and soak in the silence, a world removed from the city sounds that surround it.

I would sit in a little restaurant in Collins St.  Eating a meal composed completely of entrees.  My table close to the window to watch the people and the lights roll past.

I would watch the seagulls fly around the spire of The Arts Centre, deluded by the bright lights to think it was still day.

I would stand in front of Her Majesty's Theater and marvel at her beauty in the soft glow of the lights.

I would wander back to my car, my step light and my heart full.

I would drive myself home inhaling the beauty of the string of tail lights strung out before me.

I would open up the windows and let the cool air rush in and tangle my hair.

I would skip up the steps at home, two at a time.

I would snuggle on the couch with my kids and my husband and tell them about my day.

And I would breathe.

I would be normal.

I would just be.

That would be my perfect day.  

No contingencies. No sickness. No dependence.

That's what I would do with my one day.  What would you do with yours?

Cheers

Michelle :)

 

The View From My Couch: Daphne

It's a miserable Winter's day here in Melbourne.  Even loving Winter, there are times when I am simply over our squelching driveway.  When receiving a face full of icy water when the wind catches one of the fern fronds is no longer humourous, or refreshing.  We are in the true heart of Winter.  When the house will no longer truly heat up, and the crispness of the air takes your breath away.  Even our randy and raucous possums are less likely to bash across our icy roof top at night.  Instead, taking their nocturnal frolicking to the warmer realm of our roof space.

I still enjoy the ethereal beauty of the thick fogs that smother sound and shrink the world.  Even yesterday driving home on our windy hills roads and not being able to see the bonnet of the car, was more adventure, than annoyance.  The hills take on an otherworldly beauty in Winter that I would never change.  But wet, chilly days, day after day, and a back yard that is now a bog, does wear on the nerves.

Just as I was ruing the mud that seeped up through my thongs yet again this morning, I caught a whiff of perfume.  Over near our bins, of all places, we have a variegated daphne bush.  It's a resilient little bugger.  It is surrounded by weeds and smelly bins.  It is frequently hit by boxes and bin bags swung by pouting children who feel that bin duty is below them.  It has been chewed on my possums and swallowed by vicious blackberry canes. Yet here, in the midst of this wasteland and a miserable Winter's day, it has flowered.  It's sweet perfume is caught on the wind, and seeps peace into your pours.  It's a smell of my childhood.  Up there with the jonquils and freesias of my grandmother's garden.

Now a little piece sits on top of my cabinet.  The strength of the perfume, incongruous with a bloom so tiny.  Yet the fragrance fills the room.  And I sit in my lounge room, breathing in the sweetness, looking out the window at the mist and damp boughs, and Winter seems wonderful again.

Michelle :)

And the Winner is.............

I will have to say I've been overwhelmed with the large number of entries and lovely comments for one little pair of Dorothy shoes.  I may teared up a little reading them, or it may just be that pesky hay fever affecting my eyeballs again.  I'm pretty sure I saw some mould spores in my shower so I'm blaming those, okay.

Anyhoo, it has become clear that glittery red heels are the source of all happiness in the world.  They are beloved by all, and coveted by many.  Personally, I think they should be prescribed to everyone.  Not just let them eat cake (although that is a lovely thought, particularly a large rich mud cake), but also Dorothy Shoes for every man, woman, and child on the planet.  And then everyone would be filled with love and joy and we'd all dance instead of walk.  This is obviously the answer to world peace, I'll have to give the UN a call.

I will say I have amused myself making up the entries and thinking through possible ways to do the draw.  My eldest was very impressed with the half hour we spent in the craft store deciding between feathers and little wooden pegs.  I'm sure he told all his friends about our exciting outing.  He was even more impressed with my desire to involve the dogs in the draw.  I am now officially the Crazy Cat Lady, but with dogs.

I wish I could send everyone a pair, but alas I could only pick one winner.

I like my entries.  I don't care how much my loved ones shake their heads.

Thor was equally impressed with being chosen to pick the winner.

And all that training, and mutilated feathers, has paid off as Thor the wonder dog, carefully selects one entry.

 In fact, he was so excited that he needed a little lie down after.


And the winner is..............

 Or as it looked after Freyja broke in, nabbed the entry off the floor, ran off and tried to eat it.

This is why Freyja was not involved in the selection process.

Big Congratulations to Em of

I'm Confused (and a Tad Nauseous).

So Em, email me (in the contacts tab above) and let me know your UK size and heel preference, and a little box of glittery magic will be winging it's way across the pond to your door.

Big thanks to everyone who entered.  Best blog birthday ever.

Cheers
Michelle :)

OMG its a Giveaway!!!!

This little old blog of mine has almost reached a milestone, it will soon be two-years-old.  It's a very exciting time as I never thought I'd still have anything to write about two years down the track.   Between my apathy, lack of follow through and difficulty in coordinating breathing and.....well anything, it's amazing that it manged to get past the first sad little post.

I've been racking what little is left of my brain for an appropriate way to celebrate.  I considered chugging margaritas, dancing on the inside, face planting in a large soft mud cake, or, even doing a streak through the lines of shrieking fans outside the opening night of the new Harry Potter movie.  Now whilst a medicinal margarita and a cake of the chocolate persuasion are highly likely, I thought it would be nice to give a little something back to the lovely bunch of readers that have stuck by me despite my obviously increasing insanity.

It's GIVEAWAY time!!!!!!!

I've thought long and hard about what would be an appropriate prize for such an auspicious occasion and such discerning readers.  Of all my posts, there is one that stands out for the joy it seemed to give others.  Even a year later I'm still getting comments, both here and on FB.  I also love my shoes even though I am unable to walk in them.  Just to glimpse their glittery goodness out of the corner of my eye brings me great happiness.  And, as the more astute of you may have noticed, a picture from that post now adorns my header.

My tutorial on making Dorothy Shoes unearthed a desire that seems to have lain hidden in the hearts of women (and not a few men) the world over.  Glittery red shoes are the path to true happiness.  There is magic in them there shoes, and that magic must be shared.

*I also find it highly entertaining that my little post which contains information about unicorn farts has ended up on the Vogue forums.

Hello my pretties.

So in honour of that one little post and those glittery shoes of goodness.

I am giving away 

a pair of Dorothy Shoes 

to one lucky reader.

I know it's hard, but try and contain your excitement people.  Glitter fever is quite overwhelming, and frequently contagious.

And just think you too could be a crazy woman doing Blue Steel impersonations in her backyard.

To Enter:

All you have to do is leave a comment here on the post.
This giveaway is open to all readers, both here in Australia and overseas.
Feel free to Tweet or Facebook the competition to anyone.
If you happen to choose to 'Follow' the blog over on the side, or 'like' the FB page I'll even give you an extra entry (just make sure you let me know, brain challenged remember and I don't want anyone to miss out on an extra entry).

Entries close Midnight Sunday 17th July 2011 and the winner will be announced on the Tuesday.

***ENTRIES NOW CLOSED***

The shoes can be made in either the traditional high heel, or in flats.  They will be made to the winners size and choice of heel height.

So enter away people the magic of the glittery Dorothy Shoes of Goodness needs to be shared.

Cheers
Michelle :)

PS Thanks for all the well wishes during my recent tussle with the flu.  I think the delightful phlegm cement is finally starting to move off my lungs and I am hoping to attempt a full day out of bed in the next few days.  Brain may take a bit longer to de-fog as evidenced by my recent new phone debarkle.

Me: "It says that the temp is going to be 11 to 32, that can't be right?"
Youngest: "No Mum, that's the time".
Me: "Oh".
Youngest: walks away shaking head at my growing stupidity.

One step closer to the use of safety scissors. Sigh.

No this song doesn't really have anything to do with the post, well unless you like shoes a little too much. Not judging......much.  It's just an old favourite and it's my birthday, so there.

90% Mucus 10% Whinge

I love Winter I do.  It's cold (in fact it's supposed to snow here today) and you all know how I feel about cold.  It's right up there with giving Johnny Depp a sponge bath or eating chocolate off his belly.  Cold is good.  But unfortunately it also has a dark side.  It's also flu season.  The time of year where people cough on the back of your neck in line at the supermarket, or sneeze all over the produce section.  The time of year where you need a surgical mask and a blow torch to kill the bugapalooza growing on every surface in town.

Damn you sick people who can't keep your mucus to yourselves.  You should all be hunted down and kneecapped.

In case you can't guess, I have caught a bug.  And, I'm not happy Jan.

I have been reduced to a fetid cloud of pestilence, mankifying in bed.

Initially it was somewhat amusing.  Normal sick.  Sick like other people.  Sick that has treatments like chicken soup and Vicks Vapour Rub.  There was a novelty factor, that was somewhat pleasing.  However, that novelty factor wore off the second I went to take a sip of my coffee only to have a steady stream of super runny mucus run from my nose to plop in my mug.  This is not on people.

Since that time my body has been taken over by a ravenous horde of bugs, till I am now composed primarily of mucus.

I am past the point of walking around with tissues protruding from my nostrils in a vain attempt to stem the unending tide of mucus.  I am past the point of sitting miserably in the shower letting it's free flowing grossness be swept away by the shower nozzle.

I am even past the point of uncontrollable full body sneezing.  Thankfully, I have not reenacted my infamous Liverpool Kiss, Kitchen Bench incident (tip for the day, don't sneeze whilst bent over the kitchen bench) as I have been to unwell to enter the kitchen.

I am now at the joyous point where it solidifies in your lungs and produces the ultra-sexy Darth Vader wheeze.  I may or may not have amused myself for about an hour yesterday by saying "Luke, I am your father" in between lung wrenching coughs.

Stupidly, I though I was winning the war against my pestilence and went to physio on Tuesday.  Fool!  I should be studied for my heightened level of stupidity.  I'm pretty sure I heard the bugs in my lungs laughing at me, though that could have been my feverish delirium.

My throat feels like I have been chugging razor blades, and my ears want to burst.  My head is in a vice and even my eyelashes hurt.  Perhaps most distressing to my concerned loved ones, my whinge quota has gone up ten fold.

To say this has played havoc with Bob would be an understatement.  Standing and breathing, is over-rated right?  Who needs a pulse?  Not me that's for sure.  Though I could have done without the tachycardia and stabbing chest pain last night that made me feel as if my whole body was beating.

Impersonating characters from Star Wars aside, I have attempted to distract myself during this time.

Coma sleep has been quite good.  Though waking up to find your face stuck to the couch or pillow by mucus that works better than super glue, is a bit of a downside.

Whimpering into my pillow has passed many an hour.

Watching Zombieland did make me laugh/cough/choke.  And seemed somewhat appropriate given the various disgusting fluids exploding from my body.

Staring blankly at the computer screen for hours on end as your brain tries desperately to decipher those weird black squiggles, is quite productive.

I have redecorated the bat cave.  I'm going for the littered crack house look.  A pile of moist used tissues over there, another over here.  Multiple glasses and dregs-filled mugs.  Casually tossed books.  Throw pillows with suspicious mucus stains and funk coated pjs mutating in the clothes hamper.  Half empty Vicks jars and empty Panadol blister packs complete the ensemble.  Add in fragrance Eu De Sick, and I think I'm destined for cutting edge design magazines.

Luckily my supportive family have been on hand with comments like:

"Hope you get better Mum.  Remember you need to drive me to the movies on Friday", or

"So we're on our own for dinner then?"

Where would we all be without the love and understanding of our families.

So I shall now head back to my snot encrusted pillows, wipe the eye boogers from my tender lids and dream sweet dreams of Captain Jack turning up on my doorstep with a box of super soft aloe vera soaked Kleenex.

Cheers
Michelle

PS Any tips for passing the time whilst caught in the less than tender embrace of pestilence would be greatly appreciated.

After looking in the mirror this morning I realise I am truly bringing sexy back, yeah!

The View From My Couch: Pampering

I decided to spoil myself recently and buy some lovely Sohum body cream and soaps.  It's the little luxuries that get you through the day.  It was one of 'those' days, so I sent my offspring into the store with instructions, whilst I sat with my head in my lap in the car.  The came back to the car with a big bag and a grin that would impress the Cheshire Cat.  I opened up the bag to find a present, complete with gold ribbon.  They had decided to tell the store assistant it was a present for their mum so she wrapped it up.  They wanted me to have a special gift to unwrap.  I didn't tear up, really I didn't.  It was a bad hayfever day, okay.

Cheers
Michelle :)

Dysautonomia Australia: Get Excited People.

Exciting news here in Australia for all Dysautonomia patients.  There will soon be a website dedicated to raising awareness and providing local information on Dysautonomia.  Content will include information on everything from the latest research, to finding local doctors, and navigating our disability system.  The website will also provide content for our cousins across the pond in New Zealand.

I am proud to be part of a group of amazing women who are working together to build this website.

The website is currently under construction, but we are hoping to have a basic site up and running within the next month.  With the site continuing to develop over the next few months.

Stay tuned for more updates here on the blog, FB and Twitter.

In the meantime you can access our FB support group, POTS & Dysautonomia Australia (and surrounds) here.  Or read about our last get together here.

Time to raise the roof, or at least some awareness, locally.

Cheers
Michelle :)

When all else fails bake: Sourdough Yeast Beast.

During my unplanned sabbatical I unleashed my creative side in many weird and wonderful ways.  There's something about creating that is soothing to the soul.  It doesn't matter what it is, but to be able to sit back and say "I made that" is better than sunshine on a rainy day.

Perhaps my most enjoyable endeavour during this period, was growing my own wild yeast and making my first loaf of fresh sourdough bread from scratch.  I know, I know.  I am walking on the wild side.

Surprisingly, I found that I wasn't alone in my slightly strange obsession with homemade bread.  The requests have flowed for recipes.  So by popular demand, I give you:

The Yeast Beast:

The basis of the Yeast Beast comes from a recipe featured on River Cottage Everyday, but has also been influenced by a recipe for a no-knead sourdough that I found on the delightful Miss Buckle's blog.  

Living the fun life of fructose malabsorption (FM) I have been experimenting with different flours (Spelt, Kamut, Oat and Rye) as normal wheat is like Draino to my innards.  Now before anyone jumps up and points out that Spelt and Kamut are in the wheat family, I know.  However, they are supposedly easier to digest that common commercial wheat flours, and some with FM can tolerate a few slices of spelt and kamut bread (kamut is sadly nolonger my friend, but a sourdough spelt is awesome).  Plus sourdough is also supposed to be more easily digested as it breaks down the fructans.  So whilst I and my youngest may be able to tolerate these, there are no guarantees that others with FM can do the same.  It's all trial and error.

As you probably know by now, thanks to my Dorothy Shoes post, I feel that a glass of wine really is essential to the creative process.  So buy a bottle of your favourite beverage so you can celebrate every step along the way.  Growing your own wild yeast from scratch is really about creating new life.  And just like children, your yeast will need to be fed on a regular basis and goes bad if ignored.  But unlike the moody teenagers you offer to strangers on a regular basis (or is that just me?) your yeast doesn't talk back or leave rancid sandwiches to liquefy under their bed.  So there are multiple reasons to celebrate with a glass of bubbly or two.

Now I am sure there are essential baking rules that I am breaking when I make my sourdough, but I am impatient and slow witted at times.  Yet despite my stupidity and poor attitude I have managed to make some damn fine bread.  Even the one that barely rose and which I subsequently decided was therefore a surprise foccocia was fantastic toasted with some chutney and chedder cheese melted on top.  So I say, "To hell with the rules!  Livin' on the edge baby" and just see what happens.  So far, so good.  

My Yeast Beast (aka sourdough starter) was of the spelt variety.  Now I did read that you should therefore only make spelt loaves with it, but I didn't read that until after I'd used a mix of flours and it still worked well.  Rules were meant to be broken people.

I should point out that the growing of the Yeast Beast is a long process.  Given that I am at home all day and have no life, that wasn't a worry for me.  For those with lives you may wish to stick with other quicker methods or go to the local bakery.  I will say that I have found it a rewarding process though.  And one of the best breads I have ever tasted.

Stage 1.  The Starter. (7-10 days)

I know 7-10 days seems ridiculously long, but trust me it's worth it.  Plus, that's 7-10 reasons to have a glass of wine!  Every new yeasty bubble should be celebrated.

Now I will admit to some trepidation when I first started, as evidenced by my FB status updates:


"Day 1: Attempting my first sourdough starter. Hoping for yeasty goodness and not a mutant hell beast bent on world domination, but really it could go either way. This time in 7 days hopefully I will hopefully be supping on homemade bread and not loading my shot gun to take down the shrieking hell spawn in my kitchen. Wish me luck.
Day 3: The Yeast Beast is looking good. Though if a lifetime spent watching Sci Fi has taught me anything, you should never get cocky as that always leads to disaster and a world taken over by zombie dogs".

But it all went well and the world wasn't taken over by my mutant Yeast Beast, yet.

Ingredients:

Thumb sized piece of fresh rhubarb.

4tbsp Wholemeal organic spelt flour

Warm water.

Clean glass jar

Day 1.  

• Pour a glass of wine.
• Put on some groovy tunes.  I've been in a Sarah Blasko phase of late, so that's been my choice.
• Go out to garden and grab a piece of rhubarb.  Realise it's a nice day and sit outside for a while and relax.  Eventually, recall that you were in the middle of creating the Yeast Beast.  Go back inside and top up glass of wine which appears to have been affected by the mystery of evaporation.
• Find a clean glass jar and fill with boiling water to sterilize.  Pour out water and let cool.
• In a bowl whisk the flour with enough water to make a batter similar to thickened cream.
• Pour into prepared jar.
• Drop in rhubarb and cover with plastic wrap.
• Put it somewhere warm. My Yeast Beast was grown in my bedroom as it was the warmest room in the house.
• Grab another glass of wine and do a little dance to celebrate your magnificent efforts.

They do say you can get bubbles within the first 24hrs, but with Winter here, it took a couple of days.

Warning: initially it can smell really foul, and resemble something that my dog threw up.  But by day 4 I started to have the first hints of a yeasty smell.  After which it went from strength to strength.  

Day 2.

• This is where the feeding begins.  
• Whisk in another 100gms of flour, with enough water to keep the right consistency.
• It will smell bad.  I recommend a glass of wine to recover.

Days 3-10. 

• Every 24hrs scoop out 1/2 the starter.  You can toss it, but I just put it into the compost.
• Add 100gms of fresh flour, with enough water to keep the right consistency.
• Repeat this each day.
• You will know it is ready for use when it has that sweet, yummy yeasty smell.  
• Throw out the rhubarb and you are ready for some baking.

I should mention that although the River Cottage recipe says to feed it each day, I, with my brain fog, forgot a day here or there and it was still fine.  You can 'refresh' your yeast this way forever.  Some Yeast Beasts are known to be nearly 100 years old.

Stage 2: The Sponge.

Yes I know, another stage.  But it's worth it.  Trust me.  Would I lie to you?  Leave overnight to ferment.

Ingredients:

2/3rd cup of your Yeast Beast.

300gm spelt flour

250ml warm water

• Mix all ingredients in a glass bowl with your fingers.
• It's very gooey, but kinda cool.
• Cover with plastic wrap and leave overnight. I make mine about 9pm and leave it till about 10am the next day.
• It's late so a nice tawny port may be more apt than wine to celebrate, but whatever suits.  A warm glass of milk is equally good in the evening.
• The next morning it will be bubbly, thick and sticky.

Stage 3: The Dough.

Almost there.

Ingredients:

300gm spelt, or a mix of other flours to make the 300gm.  Go crazy.  I don't measure and just put in a bit of each till I get the right amount.

10gm sea salt.

I have added a handful of pepitats and mixed GF grains at this point.  No real measurements, just what felt right.  Apparently you should soak them beforehand.  Again I found this out after the fact, but my bread was still good.

• Mix it with your hands again.
• The dough should be fairly wet but you may need to adjust your flour or add extra water as certain flours absorb more water than others.
• Now this is the point where my planning fell down.  Kneading.  Bugger.  When your upper body strength is measured in wet tissues and yours wrists crack and roll, kneading becomes somewhat challenging.  I swear I heard the dough snort laugh at my efforts.
• You can use a dough hook on a mixer, but I persevered much to my bodies protestations.  This is a really good point for another glass of recovery/pain management wine.
• Knead for about 10 mins until the dough is silky smooth.
• Put dough in an oiled bowl and cover with plastic wrap again.
• Leave the dough to double in size.  Can take a long time.  With Winter temperatures I ended up leaving it till late afternoon (about 6-7hrs, Update: I've now increased my time to roughly 24hrs as this gives a better flavour and also breaks down more of those pesky fructans).
• Knock back the dough by punching (very therapeutic) ready for proving.
• I put a flour covered tea towel in a large bowl on which I put the dough to prove.  I have also sprinkled the tea towel with oats and pepitas.
• Leave to double in size again.

Stage 4: Baking.

I have used a few methods at this stage but the one from Miss Buckle has given me the best results.  I use a cast iron camp/dutch oven in my normal oven.  

• Heat the camp oven in the normal oven at 200C (Miss Buckle says 250C but I found I didn't need to go so high).  
• I put a piece of baking paper in the bottom and scattered more seed over that.
• Put dough in camp oven and top with more seeds.
• Put lid on and bake for half hour.
• Take lid off and bake for another 15mins.
• When golden and the bread sounds hollow when tapped, it is ready.
• Take out and let cool on a wooden board for at least 20mins before carving.
• A glass of wine and the busting of some moves, are definitely required to celebrate your creation.

(1) spelt and oat soudough, (2) kamut, spelt and oat sourdough

Then pig out on your baking masterpiece until a sourdough coma ensues.

I found the whole process to be really rewarding.  Growing my yeast from scratch using the wild yeast spores in the environment.  Knowing what is in the bread.  Seeing that final product.  Really I am easily pleased.

Happy Baking

Michelle :)

The Sourdough Companion is also a good source of information and ideas.

Uberneuro: The good, the bad, and the new party trick.

After much trepidation, nausea, and frequent pee stops, I managed to get to, and survive, my visit to the uberneuro.  I don't mind admitting I was a wee bit worried in the hours, okay days, preceding my appointment.  Would he think I was a nutter?  Would he think there was nothing wrong?  Would he find something terribly, terribly wrong?  Would he be the wearer of a colourful bow tie (the international symbol for "I'm a God complex arsehole.  All shall bow to my awesomeness")?  These are the things that go through your mind before the big appointments.

It's ridiculous that after all this time I still worry that I might end up with the nutter tag.  I know I have a genuine medical condition.  I've had it verified by a number of specialists.  I have the hard data in the reports.  Yet still that little voice in the back of my mind says, "it's all in your head, loser".  Logic and fact be damned. It's the same little voice that took up residence after my horrendous and soul destruction visit to my local condescending and incompetent General Physician when I first became sick.  Every time I think I have finally succeeded in getting rid of that voice, it raises its ugly little head once more.  The King Cockroach of the little voices in my mind.

That's one of the joys of having an invisible and unknown illness.  What others can't see they doubt.  Then if you're especially lucky, they are kind enough to share their doubt with you.  One doubt filled comment.  One judgmental look, and all your confidence crumbles.  Maybe they are right?  Maybe it is just all in my head?  I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to look like to prove I'm ill, but I still feel like I should somehow attempt to look the part.  I like to pride myself on having a pretty good attitude about this whole illness business, but times like this it all comes flooding back and all those insecurities take over.

Two and half hours after I walked into the office in the dingy old section of the hospital, I finally had answers.  All the months of waiting actually paid off.  That doesn't happen very often.  So many times I have waited and waited only to have my piss poor health confirmed, be told I was unique, that they have no idea why, and that there were no treatments to offer me.  Time well spent, not.  Always followed by a bill that required the offering of my first born, or left kidney to pay.

It was the longest and most thorough neurological appointment I have ever had.  I was poked and prodded, and even bared my naked bum to his face (thankfully no inappropriate flatulence, though for some reason I felt a sudden desperate need to vacate my gasses as soon as I dropped my undies).

I was taken aback by the fact he actually asked my opinion and made jokes.  Who was this man with the bedside manner?  Surely he cannot be a member of the neurological profession?  The words 'professor' and 'neurology' are never found in the same sentence as 'personality' and 'humour'.  Well, unless the words 'lack of' are involved.  He was a rare breed indeed.

Mr Grumpy found great humour in my body's incompetence, chuckling away to himself through out.  Is it one point or two? Is it hot or is it cold?  Can you feel this pin I am sticking in your stomach?  The physical equivalent of a Mensa test.  Unfortunately, Mensa will not be calling anytime soon.  I fear my body is not even fit to carry their pocket protectors.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that the nerds would give me a swirly, and laugh derisively at my inability to identify prime numbers.  I did find out that my right-side is far more intelligent than my left, which may have an exciting career ahead as a speed hump.

So what does it all mean?  My neuropathy is spreading, and spreading faster than I thought.  I think back to early 2006 and I was relatively well.  Then my ANS went into melt down.  A few years ago the toes on my right foot started burning.  Then it was temperature sensation, pin prick, reflexes, burning my hands, the list goes on and on.  (I've written about my various progressing ANS symptoms so I wont bore you with those here).  Now I am uncoordinated and weak as a new born kitten.  Fun times.  Most surprisingly I now have a large patch of my stomach you can stick a pin in, and I simply don't feel it.

He confirmed that my version of Bob is not related to a virus as first thought, but rather an underlying genetic neuropathy.  This isn't really surprising.  I've never brought into the virus argument, it just never fit with what I was experiencing and always felt like a red herring.  He agreed and said my presentation and progression were not reflective of a viral aetiology.  It was nice to finally get an answer to 'why'.  There's something reassuring about an answer, even if that answer is progressively dying nerves and all that means for the future.  It was equally nice to have things like MSA and a variety of Parkinsonian disorders ruled out.

In the world of possible answers, it's not really the best answer I could have received, that would have been Bob is due to A, if you take B you will be cured.  But it's also not the worst.  It's an answer and frankly, that's a relief.  Uncertainty is a far worse diagnosis.  Uncertainty is a shadow being, menacing, and waiting to pounce.  It leaves you floundering, not knowing where to go or what to expect.  A diagnosis, any diagnosis gives you legitimacy.  Legitimacy in the eyes of others, and more importantly, for yourself.  It also gives you something tangible to deal with, and that is priceless.

I will admit to a moment of "why couldn't it be a tumour.  They could cut that out", because that's how your mind works when the news you get isn't all beer and skittles.  A tumour becomes a viable and more preferable option in comparison to diagnoses that involve the words 'progressive' and 'nerve death'.  Sounds crazy when you say it aloud and I know that many would be shocked, but crazy is order of the day over logic in these situations.

I still have more tests ahead to clarify if I am dealing with crap or super crap, not that it will change my treatment options greatly.  It's all still symptom management rather than treatment.  The dead nerves will continue to be dead nerves and more will join the party.  And really, the last thing I need is some form of reanimated zombie nerve roaming around my body.  I've watched enough bad scifi to know that kind of thing never works out well.

At any rate there is no one to do the biopsies I need done until next year, so my plan is just to sit back and not worry about the possibilities until they crop up.  I figure, it is what it is, and I can't do anything about it so I'm not going to waste my time worrying about 'what ifs?'.

Besides, I now have a new party trick, the human pin cushion.  Maybe I could try out for The Dudesons as the new human dart board, or join one of those freak shows lying on a bed of needles.  Oh the possibilities.

(Though I'm not sure the outfit goes with my new found sense of style)

Cheers
Michelle :)

Time to sing my favourite song and break out that old bottle of butterscotch schnapps.