Fat Kid in a Chocolate Factory

I have started seriously looking at bariatric surgery.  I had them run my insurance even.  It turns out that Mike's company's insurance has a rider that doesn't cover bariatric surgery.  In talking with friends, it seems I can probably appeal that on the basis of my medical conditions.

I have a half dozen friends who have had the surgery and only one who has actually done most of what she's supposed to on it, but she's new to it and a practicing Mormon.  There is a second friend who comes close, but she does drink, occasionally, which you're not supposed to do because it goes straight to your bloodstream without passing Go or collecting $200. A third is kind of close, but she eats all things sugar-free and is on a heart monitor. I guess on a heart monitor, I'd go on the straight and narrow sans booze or crap of any kind until things were more stable.

I also realized that thanks to my mother, I don't eat poorly.  I eat whole grain everything, even in stuff that shouldn't probably have whole grains, like lemon pound cake.  Even there, my mother rarely used whole grains in baking and I actually do.  I usually use half and half.  If there's a way to puree vegetables into it, I do. I have friends who complain that they're more regular after they leave my house.

I have three friends here in Tennessee, who've gotten the surgery and there are some disturbing things I am seeing.  It reminded me of things I saw with another friend.  After surgery, it is essential that you do not return to your old eating and exercise habits.  Just because you can eat cake, doesn't mean you should.  Just because you can get away without regular exercise, doesn't mean you should  The surgery doesn't cure your crappy eating habits, it just makes it a lot more difficult.

I went with my three friends to a Russell Stover chocolate factory yesterday at their demand and behest.  I hadn't planned on going and had hoped they might forget and they didn't.  I had all three of them in the van and there was a unanimous demand that we go to the chocolate factory.  I guess if had been See's chocolate or Godiva, I might have been more enthused, but Russell Stover isn't my idea of actual chocolate I'd lose sleep over.

We go to the factory.  I watched as my three friends circled out on a mission to find the specific chocolates of their choice.  One of them was wearing a heart monitor.  One of them had a leg infection.  The third is morbidly obese like I am and had been diabetic before her surgery.  I picked out a bag of chocolate covered cherries because is basically one of my favorite treats (dried cherries) with dark chocolate (better for you than milk) and sugar-free black licorice.  I picked up a few other things for the kids and headed for the cashier, where I spent less than $20.  I saw a wooden-handled umbrella with a brass release button for $5 on the way out and that's when I was completely gaga and had to have something.  I know I'm getting old, but geez, an umbrella?  It reminded me of my mother commenting that she was turning into her mother when she saw some enormous head of garlic in California and just had to have it.  She then put it back, realizing that hauling a head of garlic back on a plane was crazy and that, indeed, she had turned into her mother for a moment.

I had to have that damned umbrella with Russell Stover's logo and crappy chocolate on it.  It's been pouring here for five days solid pretty much.  It's July in the South, and I'd been cold from being drenched to the skin.  I wanted a big enough, wooden-handled with brass release umbrella for five bucks.

I went with my new umbrella and Mike to the car and waited for everyone else to come out.  And waited.  Genny came out next with a stuffed animal and a candied apple.  Then my friend with the heart monitor came out with $85 of sugar-free candy.  I was floored. This wasn't Godiva or Ghiardelli's or See's.  This was freaking Russell Stover's.  She has the same hideous gas issues I do with sugar-free anything, so she'd rather have hideous gas from so-so candy.

Then came my last two friends.  They both had big bags like my previous friend.  They'd clearly spent similar amounts.  They're married.  I happen to know he keeps a stash of candy.  Most of what I saw from said stash was sugar-free, but still, I looked at that behavior pattern and thought, "Wow, I'm glad I made a different choice than that."

I guess I see that kind of behavior as destructive and self-destructive.  Five morbidly obese people go into a candy factory and the three with gastric bypass surgery meet the expectations of the cashier.  My impression of the reasoning behind that is because the "dumping" syndrome that occurs with that choice will make them sick enough to expel it and they've managed to trick the system, rather than use the tool of bariatric surgery to make better choices.

I remembered a different friend from many years ago who started regaining weight after the initial loss from surgery and wasn't exercising and had lots of excuses and ended up diabetic again.  I could totally see that happening to me.  I am AFRAID of that happening to me.

Yesterday's experiences and observations made me sad and scared me.  I don't want to be someone who eats too much crap she shouldn't, doesn't exercise sufficiently, and remains morbidly obese three years post-surgery.  I'm already making better choices.  I mean if the worst snack choice I can make right now involves low-fat yogurt spinach dip and whole grain crackers, I think I'm doing well, not perfect, but better.

I shouldn't be the weird one with whole grain buns, pasta, and veggies, in that situation.  I just shouldn't.

I hope that after I finally am able to obtain surgery to help me, that I will use it as the gift of health that it can be and that I will lose weight, continue to set aside bad habits, and work at exercising as regularly as I possibly can, doing whatever I can.

There's been a load of shit flying ever since Paula Deen's deposition over an employment dispute.    This article at CNN is one of those flying fecal chunks.  I kept thinking, did you actually see the deposition?
It is interesting after looking at the actual context of her deposition that this editor went toddling off down the road to hop on the bandwagon.  Paula admitted to using the word at a time when it was thought to be culturally appropriate.  Everyone learned after that that it wasn't cool, and she was included in that.  I think after living in the South some, that while I do not approve of that word or the racism it represents, that I understand that past a little.  I think things like that need to be set in their time in history.  Her deposition does that.

My mother told me to never use that word and I don't think it's passed my lips.  I grew up in the North.  Anyone other than folks of Northern European heritage were an anomaly, but a welcome one from the doldrums of being like everyone else.  I always thought race was less about color than culture anyhow and I always have loved finding out about other cultures and sharing in the food and customs.  I love languages, different food, and learning about how customs and language shape the way people think (or vice versa).

Race to me is a misnomer.  Race seems like it should matter and it doesn't, it's just a physical attribute which no one can change or share.  Because you are born with dark skin and can trace your roots back to Africa, so?   The bright white uniform against dark skin might be crisp-looking because of the contrast.  I know the white linen jacket, tshirt and pants worked for Tubbs on Miami Vice.  (Hubba, hubba) A lot of men with dark skin like sleeping with women with very white skin, like I have, because they like the contrast of colors. So?  I think liking the look of something isn't racist.  I personally love the deep coffee brown color my half Mexican son gets with sunshine.

Culture on the other hand, is such a totally different ball of wax because then you're getting information that matters on a multitude of levels. You're getting clothing, colors, language, attitudes, food and sharing.  It's intimate though and sometimes, the physicality of race makes people assume things about another's culture without pursuing the intimacy required to actually learn things specific to the person in front of you.  Just because I'm white, for example, people in Tennessee have often assumed I agree with them on things regarding tea party politics and abortion.  In a very red state, I guess that's possible, but that is also racist. Weird, huh?

Dear Sacrum,

Please just knock it off. I could barely walk today and that sucked toad balls.  My back feels like you're jamming ice picks up my spine.  This behavior SUCKS!

Knock it the hell off.

Thanks,
The Brain

___

Dear Brain,

Would you keep the racket down?  My gosh, how's a woman my age supposed to rest with you whipping by at 90 mph?

Due to your excessive work ethic, we would really enjoy eight hours uninterrupted sleep in which we weren't playing work taxi for Russell or trying to get one more hit in at Mechanical Turk or worrying ourselves into a coma.

Please shush!

Thanks,
The Body

___

Dear Sandman,

Do you think you could get off your ass and drop a beach on me, so I can get some uninterrupted sleep?  Between my body, my brain, the kids and my insomnia, I could really use more than a four hour stretch.  Oh, and could you drop that beach on me, AFTER I've had some naked time alone with the husband?

We'd both really appreciate it.  I'll even bake for you.

Thanks,
Ruby

I think I inhaled 10 lbs of chocolate last night and almonds.  Oh, so many almonds!  Yeah, that's my PMS thing, even as I head into menopause.  Today, chocolate had about as much appeal as any other food.  I still wanted almonds, but I think that's just a genetic defect on my part.

I didn't have the explosive anger fit I usually do, though I thought about it a lot.  I did lay out Russell, but I did it gently and just told him to please not be disrespectful or unkind to me.  We talked it out like adults.  I didn't shout, wax insane or anything.  OK, well no crazier than usual. The angels wept.  The demons pouted.  OK, not really, but I have been drinking a lot of caffeinated beverages, which really solves most of the world's ills, I'm sure of it.

Mike and I have been having "dates."

It's so weird.  We've been playing Ingress on our phones.  We go to all these places, hack the portals, grab a burger in between and the whole time, we're chatting with each other, joking, laughing, copping a feel, and finding some romance in our lives.  There's been some discussion of dropping the oversized bean bag in the back of the van, putting curtains up and obtaining knee pads, but I don't think I could appropriately explain the curtains and bean bag to people Mike carpools with, without convulsively laughing and blushing like a teenaged girl.

I'm back to the sewing table making blankets for a few people, this evening and over the week and weekend.  I have jewelry ideas floating in my head.  I've got a garden planned.

My wisdom of the day is this:  Never let an asshole ruin your whole day. Assholes are made to be wiped and then clothed and sent on their merry way, hopefully less full of shit. 

Mothers have been doing it for millenia, so I'm thinking they have the right idea.

I've been feeling very distractable lately.  I know I should be focusing on certain things, but I'm more interested in winging it for right now.

I usually always have a plan.  I'm still in plan formulation.  My plan was to get a full-time job and do that, but dude, I so don't want to do that.  I think I'd be happier doing part-time until Russell gets his license.  Of course, getting him to do so, has mostly been a knockdown drag-out fight.  He likes being chaffeured around.  This is the kid who always wanted to feel special and he was my first and he's always been special. I've always had to do so much for his health and now, for his job.

I hope he stops needing me so much.

I'd like some time for myself.  I'd like to be able to schedule time with Mike that didn't involve having to figure out when we were picking him up and dropping him off.

I'm stuck in a bad health cycle.  I'm going to my doctor tomorrow to discuss things.  I want to see what he thinks my priorities should be.  Basically, my game plan is get my fibro under reasonable control, look into and obtain bariatric surgery, then see if Genny's independent enough not to need a momma taxi much to be as wildly successful as possible.

I got a myofascial massage on Friday, two days ago, and man, all that agony that had built up over the holidays move off.  I keep moving and expecting something to hurt, but it doesn't.  It's just plain weird.

I feel twinge-y, like things are still sore and swollen, but if I give it a day or two, it won't be.

I'm thankfully away from holiday foods.  Whatever I was eating over the holidays gave me back 10 pounds, but that's just melting away, now.

I'm just tired all the time.  It's not my sugars much.  Mostly, my sugars are well managed, but I got into the "I hurt, so I stay up all night" thing and now, with a new job starting in a week, I need to get to a more reasonable bed time.

I think my sleep gets interrupted some with the kittens.  They come visit at night looking for my hands and nudge me to pet them.  The one little girl kitty is apparently a Maine Coon and is getting to be HUGE, even though, she still sucks on blankets and thinks she's a kitten.  I swear that cat has big dishpan paws.  She thinks she's cute and dainty.  Well, cute is true, but dainty?  Not so much.

I know EXACTLY how she feels. :)

Today is great in lots of ways, except my body is having a FUCK day.  I'm Christmas decorating, listening to Christmas music, eating yummy foods, and hanging out with my Hubby and Girl.  The Boy is at work.  We're heading to Costco, where Hubby and Girl will endeavor to hit every sample table in the joint.

My fucking body cringes at the thought of having to go anywhere other than the motherfucking couch or bed.  My fucking shoulders are screaming, "FUCK YOU!" at the top of their joints.  My hips are fucked and rigid like sheets of fucking glass.  My knees are a concoction of shrapnel and ground glass chunks and sand, so every step is a delightful fucking foray into an abyss of neverending pain.  I will be in another fucking wheelie cart and I'd rather gnaw off my fucking arm.

The fucking clouds are coming in and Mike says a storm is coming.  My fucking barometer of a body apparently fucking agrees.

I was frustrated because I really wanted to take out my fucking nutcrackers and put them places.  I ran out of sugar and started to get fucking cranky telling Genny where to put stuff and took my fucking sugars and realized I was fucking hungry and heading into insulin shock. When Hubby told me to fucking get seconds of soup off the stove, I wanted to cry and scream, "FUCK YOU!" I groaned inwardly, wandered into the kitchen, and got my own fucking seconds.

I have all these fucking things I want to do and my body would rather curl up in a ball on a heating pad, loaded with ibuprofen in semi-safe doses and my motherfucking vibrating neck pillow.

Then, good night, moon.

Fuck you, body.  Fuck you, pain.  Fuck all agony, everyone.

OK.  I participated in marches, protests, wrote letters, phoned legislators.  I donated money to the party of my choice that most accurately portrayed my views.

I have many intelligent people who are conservative that I count among my friends.  I respect and love them.  I think that the current state of the Republican party serves them poorly.

I am sad that Fox News is allowed to persist in their misinformation.  My hope is that Fox will go the way of similar outlets like, "The National Enquirer,"  and become a source of laughable stories, quickly dismissed and put back "on the rack."  I think there's a place for intelligent, well-argued conservatism.  Unfortunately, their portrayal of them as a "news source" for the conservatively minded is bullshit and their presentation of themselves as intelligent reporting for conservatives is probably the one thing that any future Republican candidate should see coming and run screaming from the room when approached.

Their reliance on misinformation  makes a mockery of that and in no way resembles intelligence or a well-structured argument.  Somewhere in my educational elucidation, I had an English professor discuss the logical fallacies.  I am so very dependent on reason.  It's a part of my psyche to make sense of things.

I do think that logic is not faith nor is faith logical.  In politics, I don't  mix the two.

My experience of Fox is that they resort to all of the logic fallacies that crumble before what makes sense -- ad hominen, non sequitur, etc. discussed here.  (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fallacy) The fact that it is so easily made fun of by Comedy Central icons, Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart, is because they simply make no sense.  That lack of sense-making is why it's hilarious to watch them be made fun of.  It's kind of like poking a trapped animal with a sharp stick, which I think is where much of the rancor of this recent election comes from.

My hope is that as Americans that we pressure the hell out of our legislators to find MIDDLE GROUND.  Yes, it's nice to push your way because you can..  However, I think it's far more gracious to include your enemies into your circle of friends, so that they can learn that you are both human, afterall.

I have found lyrica.  I don't like the idea of crawling into a bottle for relief, but that bottle is a lifeline.  It's saving my life a day at a time.

This week I finally was out of pain sufficiently, after a pretty hefty flare, to go to the pool.  I did the aqua-aerobics class. The teacher kept trying to put me in some therapeutic group and I thanked her and declined.

The problem with a "therapeutic" group in my experience is that it's a bunch of old ladies, who aren't really trying to huff and puff.  I need to huff and puff.  I want to huff and puff.  Just call me Wolfy, baby.

I finally just asked the instructor, if she'd just let me do my own thing.  I adapted stuff to work with my body size and abilities.  Being that my shoulders were feeling pretty ripped apart still from the flare, I just did it smaller and simpler.

--

Currently, I am working on an edit that is making me tear large hunks of hair out.  I swear the level of illiteracy in people is simply astounding.  No, "abliverate" is not a word.

--

Some day, I'll sleep at night again.

Via http://www.invisibleillnessconference.com

1. The illnesses I live with are: fibromyalgia and arthritis, along side of some others.  These are the ones that cause me pain.
2. I was diagnosed with it in the year: 2011 and 2000, respectively.
3. But I had symptoms since: 1986 (fibro)
4. The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make is: limited mobility.
5. Most people assume: I'm lazy or incapable of a lot, rather than asking me.
6. The hardest part about mornings are: getting up, showering, and dressing.
7. My favorite medical TV show is: House
8. A gadget I couldn’t live without is: my grabber
9. The hardest part about nights are:sleeping and pain.
10. Each day I take 15-20  pills & vitamins. 
11. Regarding alternative treatments I: have tried yoga, stretching, aquaaerobics.
12. If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose: visible
13. Regarding working and career: I want to be able to work and handle a 40 hour a week.
14. People would be surprised to know: I continue to write a lot that I don't post.
15. The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been: the incessant pain.
16. Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was: work retail
17. The commercials about my illness: are always about drugs.
18. Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is: 
19. It was really hard to have to give up: the idea of running a marathon.
20. A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is: beading.
21. If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would: Run a marathon.
22. My illness has taught me: more patience.
23. Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is: I hope you feel better.  The drag is when the touch me and I want to yell, "PLEASE DON'T TOUCH ME!"
24. But I love it when people: offer to help and follow through.
25. My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is:I love you. You're not alone.
26. When someone is diagnosed I’d like to tell them: I love you.
27. Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is: always having to explain it to people and the shock on their face when they realize just how painful it is.
28. The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn’t feeling well was: my husband pet my hair.
29. I’m involved with Invisible Illness Week because: I have nothing to lose.
30. The fact that you read this list makes me feel: like I am not alone.

The move to Tennessee continues.  There was a phoenix burning of things a few weeks ago.  I purposely haven't tried to keep track of the date.  I don't think that there should be an anniversary for such a thing.  Let the old horrors die.  Nurture new life and new happiness.

There's been a lot, at times, that I haven't cared for from my in-laws.  When Mike and I first got together, well, they were downright mean at times.

Mike's grandfather was never mean.  He never lost his temper with me or the kids.  He was kind.  He treated Russell with love and kindness from the get-go.  He always hugged me good-bye and he called me, "sweetheart."  He did small thoughtful things.  While he never spoke a lot, he usually showed you that he thought the world of you in a small gesture or a kind phrase.  That was just Pop's way of doing things.  I felt like one of his loved grandchildren.  I felt like a princess around him.

In the past few years, he's been in a state of decline.  We were at a casino and he was out of it for lack of a better phrase.  I made a small joke and he asked me to repeat it, so I did.  He clearly didn't get it, even though it wasn't any great feat of wit on my part.  And I wondered.  At a later time, we were visiting him and he seemed a little fuzzy-brained.  He also had a hard time getting around.

At one of Mike's brother's weddings, Mike had to escort him down the aisle to his seat because he couldn't get there on his own.

Today, my parents came to visit.  They gave me a star sapphire ring that my father bought for my grandmother, when he was in Vietnam.  Attached to it was a small note in her writing explaining that fact and that she wanted me to have it.  She knew it was my birth stone.  On top of that, there was a small hair clip with my name on it.  I don't think I normally would put something in my hair at my age, but I did today. I cried when I saw the note about the ring.  I felt the touch of my grandmother's love from across time and I just missed her terribly in that little bit of time.

As my parents got up to leave for the evening, Mike's brother called saying that Pop didn't have much longer and that they didn't expect him to make it through the night.  I guess he passed around midnight our time.  I miss him, too.  I wish sincerely that we could go to say goodbye to him . I always have appreciated Mike's grandparents because I miss mine very much -- Pop, in particular, reminds me a great deal of my mother's father, for whom I named my son.

Tonight, I miss Alice and Lyman.  I'm glad for their peace, though.  It was as if Alice sent that ring with my parents because she knew that today Pop was going to meet her for the first time.

This post is in memory of Alice, and particularly, of Lyman, who both are loved and both of whom made such marks on my life and the lives of others, in ways that others may not see, but in ways I see every single day. May I live up to the high standards they set for me and honor their memories by the way in which I live my life and love others, and of course, the way in which I love both of them.

I have to tell you the spoon story.  In my version of course, Ruby is one of the main characters. Ha!

Two friends, Ruby and Betty are at a diner having coffee and waiting for their food to arrive.  


Ruby is trying to explain to Betty what living with fibromyalgia is.  (I've seen this used for lupus, too.)  Ruby tells Betty, "Go grab all the spoons you can in the diner."  Betty giggles at the game and snags all the spoons she can find off the surrounding tables and comes back to her vinyl seat with a fistful of spoons.  


Ruby says, "Imagine that you wake up and you've only got 6 spoons. For each thing you have to do, you have to use a spoon."  So Ruby counts out 6 spoons and gives them to Betty.  


Betty says, "Well, I first I get ready for work."  And Betty places a spoon on the table.  Then she says, "Then I leave the house." And she places another spoon on the table.  "I work and come home." She places a spoon on the table. "I make dinner."  She places a spoon on the table.  "I watch TV."  She places a spoon on the table. "I get to bed."  She places the  last spoon on the table."


Ruby says, "Well, that's not quite how it works."  Ruby collects the spoons.


"First, I have to wake up." Ruby places a spoon on the table.
"Then I have to actually get out of bed." Ruby places a second spoon the table. 
"Then, I shower."  Ruby places another spoon on the table.  
"Then I have to get dressed."  Ruby places another spoon on the table. 
 "Then I have to get out to the kitchen."  Ruby places another spoon the table. 
"Then I have to eat."  Ruby places the last spoon on the table.


Betty says, "But you're out of spoons! You haven't even gotten to work yet!"  


Ruby says, "Exactly."

The weather changed from this cold front to a warm front and I swear, I could hardly scrape my corpse out of bed at 1PM, when Mike came in and forced me up to eat. Today was what I refer to as a no-spooner.

It was truly awful.  I finally got around to showering this afternoon at 3PM, when Mike informed me that Genny had invited kids over and they were playing with the hose in the yard.  I told him to get a bowl full of ice going and to load it with Orange Crush and that I'd be out in a few.

I showered in slow motion, but managed to get out and get some grapes put together in a bowl  and put them out the the porch.  I watched kids and supervised, so they didn't break any bones from the porch, where I took a phone full of pictures. The kids went home and Genny showered and then, Mike and I convinced even Russell to join us and we all played a game of cards.

Then I crawled back to bed and just kind of collapsed there until dinner and my shoulders and neck began to ache.

After dinner, I had Genny come in and help me hang clothes because my head was all over clearing off my dresser, but my body thought I was smoking crack.  I put them on hangers and she ran them to the closet.  If I tell her I'm having a no spooner, she is pretty sweet about helping me out.  Of course, initially,  I got the lippy response of, "Want me to get you a spoon from the kitchen, Mom?"   If I was feeling better, I'd have tossed a pillow at her, but I gave her a death glare and she said, "Nevermind!" and came in and got hangers.

People used to refer to fibromyalgia as rheumatism and I swear, if there's a weather shift, I can tell you.  When we had tornados and heavy thunderstorms last summer, I swear it felt like someone took a sledgehammer to every part of my body.  Today, I just felt like sludge in molasses.

My legs are sore and while, normally, I'd say I have no good reason for it, I know better. I got Mike to run the thunder massager on my back and the backs of my legs.  We call it the thunder massager because it just thunders over your body. A Brookstone special, I got it for Mother's Day and if I need to loosen the muscles in my shoulders, I just need to wedge that under my shoulders for about 10 minutes and I melt into the bed.  I took a hot shower after I received the thunder treatment and stretched, so now, while the sludge remains, at least the pain in my shoulders and neck has fled.

On days like today, I need a brain transplant on standby because I felt like I was using the same three brain cells and that they had run out of good ideas.  I'm hoping that the weather holds and that I get more spoons tomorrow because my head is well nigh overflowing with the stuff I want to be able to get done.  I just need my body to catch up a bit.

I had this enormous cup of coffee and no food, so went flying around the house for several hours high on my version of crack.  While normally caffeine doesn't smack me so hard, I think that whole empty stomach thing
really contributed to my spazz fit.

During that time, I texted a lot of people.  I messaged Mike about 20 times on YIM.  I then took a shower and inflicited myself on my daughter.  I buzzed all over town running errands and jabbering a million miles an hour and then, I drove her nuts at Walmart.  As Mike joined us for our shopping trip, I was starting to come down off this bizarre caffeine fit and Genny thanked Mike for "saving" her.

Then I looked at her and I said, "Now, you know how we feel every day when we deal with you without meds."

She asked incredulously,"Really?"

"Yup!"

"I am so sorry."

Words you think you'll never hear from the mouth of an eleven year old.

I still have some coffee in the carafe.  I'm thinking the bathroom needs to be cleaned because that damned laundry pile is annoying the shit out of me.

Who the hell needs crystal meth or crack?  Load me up on coffee, hold the food.  Now, if I could manage to get the physique of a meth head with caffeine I could melt that ass down and make some glue.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, for those of us who are bosom buddies with that bitch, is something that affects many people for a vast number of reasons.

I have it because I was abused. Most of that abuse occurred as an adult, but some of it occurred as a child, though spanking a child with a paddle back then, wasn't considered abuse. It sure felt like abuse, but more specifically, it transmitted a lack of self-esteem to me that I took with me to my adult life in a series of choices that it took a while to "grow out of." It also took nearly dying to finally say, "Fuck this shit. I deserve better."

While there are things I still flinch over like pulled hair, I also have nightmares and moments of genuine terror over things that for most people aren't a reason to have a panic attack.

Today, I was talking with a friend, who is struggling with ghosts of a life past, and realized that PTSD has terrorized so many of us -- man, woman, child.

For me, that brought up things I can't get past. Hair pulling for some reason is one of those. The other night, Mike was playing with my hair, which normally I love, and he pulled it a little and I cried out. My hair is getting long again, so I find when he's kissing me, half the time, I'm pulling my hair out from under an elbow and wincing. I think having my fibromyalgia so up in my face is leaching up these half-remembered memories, and most of the time I can observe, but sometimes, they go clanging through like the proverbial bull in a porcelain shop.

Sometimes, I find myself googling for where in the world is Zip. I've found him and seen where he's been jailed, not surprisingly. He's been married. He's had a child. He's gone deeper into his psychosis and sickness. Then, I am filled with horror that I didn't report him for all that he did to me and other women. I think I was so filled with horror that I couldn't run fast nor far enough away. When he went to Japan, I figured that he'd offend someone and end up dead.

No such luck.

So about three years has passed in Virginia and the company that Mike's at is pulling operations out of Virginia and have offered us the option to move to Tennessee. We like the education levels here, especially for our gifted and talented daughter and that whole idea kind of shrivels the teacher in me. I'm sure it'll be good, but I'm thinking Virginia sure looks better on the education lists than Tennessee.

While one of my oldest online friends lives there and I'm dying to go there and see her, I also have strong considerations regarding living in the heart of the Bible Belt, where the bible thumping and revivals can rival the rhythm of a drum circle in Davis. Where in Utah, there's a Mormon church on every corner, the Baptists have the street corners covered here.

I also think it defeats a lot of the reason for moving here initially. I wanted to be able to see my parents a lot more. Right now, I'm getting to see them twice a year at minimum. I like that a great deal. With my father's diagnosis of Parkinson's, getting to see them is something I look forward to each and every time. Despite the fact that my mother is a little prickly, I've gotten used to it in my old mellowing age and I'm good with it.

Living in Tennessee will take us pretty far out of their travel routes and while we can drive and meet them somewhere, it's still going to suck. I like being able to cook for my parents. It's one of my favorite things to do.

We're trying to set up to fly out to Tennesee this weekend. Russell can watch Genny and I'll cook spaghetti ahead for them, so they'll have dinner for a few nights. I've never been there. Nashville isn't my idea of a good time either, so I guess I'm going to have to crank up the Dixie Chicks and suck it up.

Man, have I had it.

I live in a state now, that has mandatory ultrasound before someone can obtain an abortion. They also have counseling and all this other crap because apparently women are too stupid to make an educated choice.

No, I don't think that every pregnancy should result in an abortion, clearly. I have two kids. I just think that every pregnancy should be wanted. Children deserve to be wanted, loved, cherished, spoiled, and cared about.

I'm reading Jeff, One Lonely Guy, which contains a litany of lonely people who suffered abuse as children, among other things. I know that 20% of children in American have "hunger issues." My husband makes twice the average income for our area, but I've been to the food bank. We all know someone who was abused as a child. We all know someone who was molested. Numbers from the Centers on Child Abuse indicate that incidents of child abuse are increasing.

Yet attacks on abortion rights are also increasing.

It makes no sense to me at all to force women to have unwanted pregnancies. Yeah, that's a good idea. Suddenly, money is going to drop out of the air, groceries will magically appear in the fridge and the child will be clothed and fed and loved -- that isn't even happening before the kid is born. I can't imagine some divine magic wand is being waved. When I hear adoption, I simply want to puke. Are you kidding me? How many children of color are waiting adoption? How many special needs children are waiting adoption or are in foster care? I think that people who are willing to endure all of the risk and difficulties, most pregnancies are wrought with to give a child up for adoption are awesome, but I think that if a woman is going to go through the risk and physically daunting issues of pregnancy, that carrying a pregnancy to term should be what she chose to do.

Choosing something let's you own that decision. Choosing to continue a pregnancy means you're willing to contend with the outcome of that pregnancy -- the baby. That could be keeping and raising the child. That could be giving it up for adoption. However, I also think that an abortion has outcomes, too. I think that choosing to have an abortion means being willing to grieve for the child you're not having. I realize that not everyone gets pregnant at the drop of a hat and that they are often jealous of women like me who basically have to just bend over in a strong wind and when they stand up, they're pregnant.

I just think that women should be able to choose. Because they know what they're going to have to deal with -- the decreased ability to make money compared to a man, the cost of raising a child, the sadness at ending a pregnancy, the need to have adequate care for themselves and their pregnancy.

I think every pregnancy should have adequate pre-natal care. Every woman planning on carrying her pregnancy to term should have pre-natal vitamins. Every woman should have affordable regular ongoing care during her pregnancy and after her delivery and be able to afford it. My friend just had a premature infant who got necrotizing entercolitis -- basically, the baby had trouble figuring out food, so her little intestines started eating themselves. She was hospitalized for a month in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). My friend can't afford to go to her doctor for after-birth care because of the cost. She falls just above the cutoffs for any help. I just had to buy groceries for her, so she could get by. She spent all her money paying the co-pays for her daughter to get care. The hospital bill for her daughter's care came in a box and was two inches thick.

I didn't plan my children. I have trouble with current methods of birth control. I wanted my children though. They are loved and they know it. They know they can come to us because they do come to us.

They are beautiful. I am blessed. Everyone should feel like that about their pregnancies. If they don't, they should have the right to utilize other options such as adoption or abortion and should be able to do so without being judged. Every person knows what they can and can't handle. Let God handle the judging.

I am so angry right now, it's not even funny. I'm living in one of the handful of states that is considering some of the most vile and disgusting legislation to come about in a long while.


I'm writing letters to legislators:
My husband and I are proud parents of two children, R. (also a voter) and G., both of whom have special needs. You would think that would mean we are writing a pro-life letter, but we are not. We are very strongly pro-choice and the reason is that we think that every child should be a wanted child. My children have been wanted and loved. With nearly 20% of American children dealing with hunger issues, increasing rates of child abuse, and a world population burgeoning well beyond our global capacity to support it, I think that having wanted children is essential. Loved and wanted children don't typically grow up to be burdens on society. Abused and neglected children have different statistics.

I am writing to you to let you know that my husband and I are deeply saddened by the turn the State of Virginia has taken with the consideration of recent bills, specifically, HB 1, HB 62, HB 261 (incorporated into 462), SB 484, HB 1285, and HB 464.

HB1 is disturbing. Most states have fetal murder laws, which exclude abortions, such that any act of violence that intentionally kills a fetus (and by addition, usually the mother) is wrong. The idea of that law was to protect women against violence, as well as their wanted pregnancies and came about in the aftermath of specific heinous crimes of violence against pregnant women, where women were brutally murdered, often in an attempt to also kill their fetuses. HB1 is trying to ban abortion in its own way by defining a "person." I am writing to ask you to absolutely refuse to support HB1. If Virginia needs a law on fetal homocide, then craft one that specifically excludes abortions. Women should not be forced to carry a pregnancy, if they do not want one, but they should be protected against violence against them and their wanted pregnancy.

HB 62 is to repeal funding for abortions for low-income women in the instance that their child is going to be born with a gross and totally incapacitating physical deformity or mental deficiency. My son has cerebral palsy and has many of the accompanying health conditions. Suffice it to say, that we have teetered on the edge of bankruptcy for years trying to keep him alive and well, a burden we have carried willingly. A child should be wanted in any circumstance. Forcing someone who is already struggling to make it from day to day to have a child that will be a huge financial and emotional burden is unreasonable. Disabled children suffer enormously higher instances of abuse and neglect than almost any other population of children, according to the American Association of Pediatrics. (http://aappolicy.aappublications.org/cgi/content/full/pediatrics;108/2/508). Additionally, the financial costs to the State will be enormous at best to support a severely incapacitated child, especially, if that child ends up institutionalized. If a woman sizes up the situation and knows she can't handle a child who is incapacitated either physically or mentally, then trust them to make the choice that's best for them. Every child should be wanted and loved. Every child deserves that.

SB 484 and HB261/462 is simply disgusting and unethical. Any woman, who is considering an abortion in the State of Virginia already has to go through counseling that is to discourage them from having an abortion. Many of these "counseling" services show pretty graphic videos. I think, if after viewing one of those, someone still wants an abortion, then they probably have a particularly good reason to. Whether a woman needs an intra-vaginal procedure, where a wand is inserted into her vagina, should definitely NOT be a decision the State of Virginia should make, but should be left to qualified medical professionals! Forcing the insertion of anything into a woman's vagina is called, "rape." Requiring that a woman be forced to go through a medical procedure to further force the issue down her throat by essentially forcing her to see or hear the heartbeat of a fetus is just plain insulting. She's already getting counseling. I'm appalled that the Legislature of Virginia thinks it has the medical background to know and thus, require medical procedures and has singled out women for all of these sudden flashes of blanket medical knowledge.

HB 1285 "prohibits an abortion after 20 weeks gestation unless, in reasonable medical judgment, the mother has a condition that so complicates her medical condition as to necessitate the abortion to avert her death or to avert serious risk of substantial and irreversible physical impairment of a major bodily function." This seems to be completely unnecessary because 90% of all abortions are performed in the first trimester, i.e., the first 3 months of pregnancy and the remainder are typically only performed in those circumstances. This has the State trying to be involved in a process, which clearly should be up to the woman and her doctor. I think the language I find most upsetting here is this: "the physician is required to terminate the pregnancy in a manner that would provide the unborn child the best opportunity to survive." It's a felony if the doctor doesn't try to make the unborn fetus survive. What about the mother?!! The mother is alive and breathing! If the woman is having the abortion at this late date, it's because she's in some kind of danger, not because she doesn't want to have a baby. The way in which the procedure is done should be up to a medical professional and the woman -- NOT the State of Virginia!

HB464 reads along just fine until you get to the abortion language. Again, I think healthcare for women should not be dictated by law. The problem with disallowing coverage of abortion under healthcare in this manner, is that someone who constitutes the "working poor," who might be living check to check, and be paying for healthcare, as we all are, and may not be able to afford an abortion nor a child. Healthcare should cover all aspects of health and health risk. You risk children's lives by bringing unwanted children into this world! My mother worked in a law office and often spoke about having to listen to the despicable things people did to abuse their unwanted children. Please make sure every child in Virginia is a wanted child!

Every child should be wanted. Abortion is a awful choice, but it should be a choice left between a woman, her doctor, and God. I can not imagine that it is anyone's business what occurs in the vagina or uterus of any woman, other than herself, her doctor, and God. We teach our children that their private parts are theirs and are called "private" for a reason. Because they are private, they are expected to keep them private.

In summary, we expect private matters to be kept private. Let medical professionals make the medical decisions that are best for their patients. There are plenty of malpractice laws and lawyers. Additionally, we expect that every child in Virginia should be a wanted child. Children everywhere deserve to be wanted and loved. Virginia should be no exception.

Sincerely....

---

You bet I'm sincere. And now, 22 years after I protested in D.C. the last time about these same issues. We are here again, Marching on Washington.

This time, I get to bring my kids with me and hopefully, this time, stupid narrow-minded legislators will listen because I don't want to be doing this pushing 70.

Rain in December seems kind of awkward -- like Mother Nature figured we could use some water, but forgot to make it cold. So you try to be grateful, but you're really wishing she'd remembered the cold and snow.

I miss snow in all of its textures and Christmas kind of seems odd without it.

Tahoe is far away.

I tried working a very physical job for about a month. I gave notice because every inch of me ached and my brain couldn't work correctly for all the pain and brainfuzz.

I find I miss being active, but I don't miss the pain.

I need a pool.

So a couple friends send me this link and after having read through a lot of the Cleveland Clinic's menopause book, I think, "Holy, crap! It's the mother ship!"

For the sake of all that is holy and several things that are not, I've been buying soap and facial creams. Me, the woman who doesn't wear rings with protruding rocks on them because I know when I was doing one of the very manual things I do with my hands like garden, dishes, etc., that I'd lose the damned rock -- I've been buying moisturizing soap and facial creams.

I know, right?

And add to that, my son's recent arrival into adulthood on his eighteenth birthday and I'm starting to realize that my life no longer has to circle completely around my kids, their appointments, their after school activities, and all that stuff that I have essentially blown off working a 9-to-5 job for, for so many years. Like what? I have not a flipping clue. I'm starting by taking a 40 hour a week job. It's not probably one I am physically capable of handling with fibro, too much weight, and crappy knees, but I figured that it's a start and that it might lead me places as one thing leads to another and that at the end of it, I might find where I'm going. But I could actually do stuff I want.

I even told the boy when asked if I'd drive into town (half an hour)and pick him up from work and then driver further into town (another half hour) to take him to school (then get to drive back home for an hour, only to have to go back to pick him up at school again at 930PM for another two hour round trip)that I'd give him the $6.50 to take the bus. When he didn't beg me to death, I wondered what the hell happened. I resented that he figured it out his big self (a little)and then realized that this is the beginning of something: Freedom.

Then I came across the idea of throwing the leg of lamb out the window. I realized that I've been feeling like that some.

I still have the girl. There will be some kind of sports practices and menarche and boys and all those other things, but those will blur compared to weekly runs to the doctor's office for allergy shots for the past 2.25 years, occasional emergency room visits and the latest health issue to afflict the boy. Some of the strain of being the parent of a very special needs child is lifted.

He can take the bus. (*sound of meat breaking glass and hitting pavement*)

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
___

Recently, as I've been setting my financial ducks in a row for filing bankruptcy, I've been confronted over and over again with what I've lost and have been grieving it some again.

He lost his job, so we lost our car and we lost our house. As a result, I miss stuff. I've mastered the art of losing, but the grief, I haven't got a handle on yet.

I miss my friends. I miss my house's view of the Washoe Valley and the nightly view of the sun setting on the Sierras. I miss dry desert air. I miss my van. I miss the friends my kids had. I miss the things I know and the people who knew me and my family. I miss having enough money to pay bills. I miss being able to pay for what my kids need.

I miss having security.

You realize at some point that you dislike someone enough to be apathetic to their existence. I'm at that place with my mother-in-law.

Mike asked to borrow money at the beginning of the summer because we had to pay the bills and he hadn't been doing his contract work until way too late and I hadn't been working because I was taking care of Russell. I was mortified, but I had been begging Mike for months and he was kind of passive aggressive and avoiding the whole thing. I don't know why, he just didn't.

I told him we could really use it and he just didn't do it until I finally explained the specifics of the situation and he finally got off his duff and started putting hours in the contract stuff. The contract stuff is really whatever time he wants to put in and it was something I told him he had to do for us to make bills, if I couldn't work because of Russell's asthma.

I got bitched out by her for not having a job and being frustrated with Mike for not doing his contract work.

She didn't ask about the kids and how they're doing. She didn't know when the Bear was in the hospital on suicide watch. She may be emailing Mike, but I know he doesn't communicate much.

I don't mind most of his family, but she's kind of like...Evil Incarnate.

My diabetes is getting worse, which upsets me three ways to Sunday.

My most recent HBA1C was 6.8 and that plain horrified me.

I've been working out all summer, normally, that would lower them and make them controlled better.

Getting old SUCKS!

So the second mammo was kind of ugly.

For one, no one can figure out why you're on xanax and wiped out, so you're just kind of trying to dance around it and every so often you get someone persistent and you have to tell them, oh, by the way, I've been abused to kingdom come and back, so this is a traumatic event.

The first two pictures weren't too bad. I mostly cried before the exam.

The third one I screamed and made her get it off because it hurt like hell. She said something about that the compression didn't even register on the machine and I said I didn't give a crap, it hurt and I refused that shot. If they'd bruised my boob, I wouldn't go back. They'd have to knock me out for it and she said they had an alternative method with a sonigram.

They did a sonigram of the remaining picture and said I have to come back in 6 months to make sure nothing has changed for the worse because it's still hard to see.

That sounds particularly ominous, but I'm going to take a xanax nap now and I can fret over it copiously later.

OK, considering my generalized horror over the mammogram, I was not thrilled to receive a call back to get more boob pictures done. The tissue differences between boobs is enough for them to require more information, so that they have an adequate baseline.

No, that doesn't freak me out. No sirree, Bob. It just sends me over the edge!

I'm just glad I still have 2 xanax.

I just told them to schedule it so my husband could accompany me, so Wednesday at 745AM, round 2 of my visit to Panic City.

Still dreaming of that tropical vacation.

The Bear had a rough day this week.

He was threatening to run away and screeching at me and the whole time, I kept thinking,"Is he suicidal again?" My heart broke a little more.

I called the police. I called the regional center who has his ISP and after not finding either his counselor or his case manager, I called the emergency number. The police calmed him down. Having the policemen talk to him seemed to make him realize I am not screwing around and that I take him and his threats quite seriously and that the alternatives they could offer were less savory.

While the police were here, I secured a safety plan of a sort from him -- no leaving the property and show up on time at 630PM for his in-home counseling appointment.

While I made follow up calls and got callbacks, the kid wouldn't leave the livingroom until I sent him away. Then, I had an epiphany. He needs reassurance because he just lost it. While I take it for granted that I love him, he needs a reminder. He needs to know I love him and forgive him. Just like the old cat upstairs. He needs a hug and assurance that he's still "The Prince" as Fares used to call him -- my prince.

After the calls, I had him come talk to me and I told him all those things -- I love you, I forgive you, need a hug? He smiled and laughed all afternoon.

Two hours later when his new meds were given, he was back to himself and apologetic and regretful, somewhat, but I let him know it was done and I'd let it go, so he should. More smiles, more laughter. Even the counselor was impressed at the close-knit nature of our family and the love and the laughter.

In the counseling, he realized for the first time, I think, the impact his behavior had on his little sister and was upset by it. I was glad he saw the fallout. We reminded him that that was a large part of why she went to my parents. He got a crestfallen look -- it was the first time I think that that had made an impact on him.

He had a few things to do out of counseling.

I need a vacation.

I would like to dye my hair fully gray, so when the scantily clad cabana boys go through and I flirt with them, we will both know they are safe. I will drink my cold blended drinks in bliss in the shade of a beautiful palm and keep Mike's towel as sand free as I can...

In the mean time, Mike and I are going to load my starbucks card, so we can date once a week at Starbucks, even when we don't have money.

We're discussing how to file bankruptcy at the moment. I have a job interview for a retail job.

We're hanging in.

I went to a new doctor yesterday because the old doctor couldn't figure out what to write to the insurance company so that I could get back on my beloved celebrex and be able to walk without wishing for a speedy death. I called this doctor's office, told them my problem, and they said,"Oh, we do that all the time." I said, "Cool, then when can you see me?"

I liked him well enough except for his obvious conclusion that I'm fat. Wow. Really? I had no idea. I just thought that was baby fat. Geez! I mean, seriously. I've been working on my body all summer and you just realized I'm fat? In one visit? That's amazing!

OK, sarcasm aside, I did actually like him. But in the course of our interview, I realized in horror, that I hadn't had an annual exam in two years. I asked him for referrals, started calling and found one that could get me in today. I've been uncomfortable and thought I might have a bladder infection, but I think it was more horror, that only a couple years after a huge cone biopsy, that I'd blown off my annual for two freaking years.

I saw a nurse practitioner. Of course, in the process of things, she asked me when my last mammogram was.

For several years, I've been avoiding a mammogram. I kept telling myself that it was because I was afraid of the pain. If you know me, I have a pretty high threshold for pain, so when I reasoned that out, I realized that was kind of bullshit. I had time to reason it today because the midwife was in and out a lot. I kept trying to figure out what was such a big deal for me?

We started discussing when and how I would get a mammogram. I asked for a couple xanax and she smirked at me and said something condescending and I said I was very afraid of the pain. Holy crap, if I didn't I keep panicking. In the back of my head, I'm thinking, "Why is this making me so panicky?" My stomach was jumping like a cricket on crack and my boobs ached at the anticipation of being squished within an inch of their lives and I wanted to run out of the office like my butt was on fire -- Still no sense of the truth of the matter for me. She said rather snippily, "Well, you can always choose not to get one, though I'm not recommending that."

And I'm thinking, "What the fuck is wrong with me?!" It's a stupid test. Simultaneously, it is all I can do to stay in the stupid chair and not bolt streaker-esque down the hall.

Then I suddenly blurted out, "When I was in my 20s, I was pretty badly abused. I really need a couple xanax and my husband can drive." She stopped, her jaw dropped a little and she looked at me and simply said, "Thank you for telling me that." I started to bawl like a baby. My brain might not have known, but my spirit sure did.

I feel sad and frightened, but frankly, mostly angry. I'm angry that there's still some vestige of a victim in me and that despite being in jail in another state (Man, I sure could pick them back then), that bastard can still bring me to tears. It's been 25 years -- a whole life time ago and still these tears. I'm waiting like a crushing teenager to pick up Mike at 5 because I need a hug.

The nurse practitioner brought me the 'script and my first mammogram is Tuesday.

Sick children suck. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing sends me over the edge more than the honking cough of one of my children from deep in the bowels of the house.

It makes me want to reach for xanax because there's not a freaking thing I can do to help them. I can make them comfortable, but they have to duke it out with the cold/flu of the minute.

I had it and took antibiotics and killed the infection part, but the mucous just stays and stays. I swear I have thick paste coating my bronchii. Russell has full blown croup/bronchitis from it and is a wreck and man, that kid can cough sooo loud. It sucks.

His coughing puts me on edge in ways I can barely broach without feeling upset. I just wish I had a vacuum to suck all the goo out of him and make him feel better. :(

Weird how a move will mess up everything, including your ability to keep up your blog.

We have just now gotten to the infamous "garage boxes" which we've been opening on the front porch with dust masks.

Honestly, I thought the Bear was gonna die this year. His asthma got so bad and so life limiting, I really wasn't sure he'd make it.

But he's here and we're moving him out of the musty basement to a room that holds all the garage boxes and is painted a lovely shade of hot pink sponged over pale yellow. The room is slowly emptying. I'm hoping we can have him there by this weekend, when Piglet comes home.

Piglet has spent the past couple weeks at Grandma and Grandpa's house in New Hampshire. She got to spend the weekend with my brother, his wife, and her two cousins. She went to the Atlantic Ocean for the second time in her life. I always think it's funny to go to the beach in NH because there's only about 15 miles of coastline.

Virginia is freaking HOT. I hate heat, but I've decided I hate humidity more. I can tolerate it, but I prefer my air conditioning lots lots more. The one thing I've loved is the milder seasons, so I'll have my garden a while I hope into fall. It won't be gone the first of September, as it was in the Nevada high desert.

Thank God, the rental has a pool and that fat floats. :)