Ahmen Sister!

This lady's story is both inspirational and sad.

I feel her pain, almost literally. Though I have a different cause for my pain, I understand where she is coming from. She is far braver than I. Her determination inspires me; it makes me want to fight for myself.

"Women have a high pain tolerance for a reason. We always thought we had to suck it up. If you think you experience pain that is not normal, ask your doctor. When they blow you off, ask again. And again. And again. My story does not have a happy ending…yet."

I'm getting better at pushing for what I need, but it's hard for me. I... Don't always know how to respond to doctor's who tell me they can't help me, or that nothing is wrong with me.

I am so very lucky to have a husband and our two families backing me up, on my side, and helping me learn how to advocate for myself.

Next week I go see a Doctor at a pain clinic in Toronto. I sincerely hope she can help me. Mostly I hope that I can actually speak up for myself and present my condition accurately, so I can get the help I need.

I know I'll never be pain free, Fibromyalgia doesn't have a cure. Hell, they are still trying to figure out what causes it and how it works. Many doctors don't even believe it's a real thing! I'm a realist. I dream of being able to manage my pain. Every day is a fight. Some days are worse than others. When it's cold and miserable out, there are more bad days, for whatever reason. In the warmer, sunnier weather, I do better. But still there is always pain. I just want to have some recourse when the pain gets so bad I can't think. When it's so bad all I do is curl up in a ball and try to sleep.

This woman has gone through so much, and spent years fighting with doctors and the medical system to find out what is wrong and how to fix it.  Brave, brave woman.

The Day I Lost My Faith

My hubby sent me a link, that brought me somewhere else - to a blog entry recounting the writer's journey from Catholic to Agnostic: http://goo.gl/iCJLT. It's from 2007, but that doesn't matter, it's still as poignant and thoughtful today.

The article made me think about my own conversion as she puts it. Hers seems... much more thoughtful and torturous than my own. Though, I don't think mine was any easier.

I was 13 when I started thinking about god, and whether or not he was real. I read the bible, hoping it would re-kindle my dwindling faith. I even got baptized in hopes it would help me feel a connection to God. neither worked as I'd hoped. Instead I was left angry and faithless. I spent the year in turmoil before I eventually made my decision.

I read the bible, up to maybe Genesis; it's a whole fucking chapter of who sired who. Watching paint dry is more interesting. But the bits that stuck were before that. The bible straight out says that women were evil, just for being born. As a young woman, this pissed me off to no end. It made my blood boil. I'm evil because Eve opened Adam's eyes to the truth, to the real world?! I didn't see how that was such a bad thing in the first place.

On the whole, the bible is pretty misogynistic, at least that's how my 13 year old brain felt. I haven't picked up a bible since, I don't see any reason to either. I decided then and there, that sunny afternoon, that I wanted no part in any religion that thought me evil or somehow less just because I was a woman. I refused to believe that just because I had a vagina instead of a penis I was less worthy, of less value, less capable, less anything.

I'm pretty sure I was baptized by the time I came to that conclusion and I know the experience weighed heavily on me then, and for years after. You see, I wasn't a 'believer' when I was baptized. I was, instead, confused, scared (who did you turn to when God wasn't there?), and wanting to please my religious mom. My actual baptism was a nightmare. See, I have asthma, so I've never had good lung capacity, and during a baptism - at least at the church I was going to then - the preacher dude held you under the water while he did the ritual, much talking was involved.

They did baptisms in batches, since they had to fill this tank in the floor of the stage with water. Really cold water by the way. And we had to wear white shifts. When my turn came, I gasped as I stepped into the cold ass water. He grabbed my wrists, and pulled them behind me and held them in one big hand. He told me to take a deep breath, then wrapped his other hand around the back of my neck, and dunked me. About half way through his long-winded speech, I need to breath. I tired to pull up, but he pushed me in farther. I squirmed and tried to get away, but his hand was like a vise on my wrists. I should mention, that at 13, I was 5ft 6in tall, and a size 13. I was not child-sized. The water was under 4 ft, so part of my problem was my body was doubled over and confined by the floor, and his body pressed to mine. I was terrified. I thought I was going to die. I needed AIR, and this brute just squeezed my neck harder!

When all was said and done, I didn't die, clearly, and I didn't like Christians one little bit. All I could think, over and over in my head was "he tried to kill me!"  For at least ten, maybe fifteen years after this, any time someone touched the back of my neck, I freaked out, like hyperventilating panic attack. You can imagine what a damper this put on any chance I had to make-out with boys/men! It didn't matter that I wasn't in water, that he wanted to kiss me, pull me in to him, not kill me, I couldn't handle it. To this day I don't like it. I tense up. My husband knows, as I've shared this story with him, and doesn't touch the back of my neck. So yeah, the baptism only secured my dislike of Christians and their views on women.

For years I had a hatred of Christianity. Anytime the religion was brought up, an intense feeling of betrayal, hatred, and disdain filled me. I didn't hate the believers, my mom believed, and still does, in God, and I love her more than I can ever articulate. But I think pushing your beliefs on others is just rude. I don't push my atheism at others. That's one of the things I respect most about my mom: she believes in god, she goes to church, she prays, she says grace at meals, she prays for non-believers in her life, just as she does believers, Christ/God/Christianity is part of her life, part of who she is, but she never pushes, she doesn't try to recruit others. I try to emulate her in that.

I realized back then that religion was a safety blanket for dealing with the world, a way to make it less scary. And when I abandoned mine, I was scared. One of my favourite sayings in my teen years was "ignorance is bliss", and I believed that with all my heart. If I'd just stayed ignorant, if I'd just not questioned God, I could believe in him, that he was helping me, that he had a plan, that my life didn't end with my decomposing body. But, I couldn't not question. I'm not the smartest person, but I have heavy doses of skepticism, common sense, and feminist pride.

Ironically, when I was in first year university, I tried on a lark, to pray to Fria, an ancient Germanic goddess who was an early incarnation of the Viking goddess Freya. I was in so much pain carrying my 50+lbs of school books home with a broken backpack. I saw the moon, half full in the 4pm blue sky, I thought of her immediately.

How did I learn of Fria? When I was 14 I read a book that was based on historical fact, about the time the Romans were invading what is now Germany/Austria.  Fria was an earth goddess, her tree the oak, her 'planet' the moon. Women here sacred, but they too could be warriors in their culture. Women's menstrual blood was scared, because it signified a woman's ability to make babies, to create life, so they believed. Fria caught in my mind then, and at 19, I still wanted to believe. I don't actually believe she's real, and yet... I prayed to her all through university. I have marked my flesh with her moon where my lifeblood runs close to the skin (inner wrists). I freely give her part of my soul.  If she were to command me, I would follow.

That day, with the moon high, facing off the sun, so prominent, I prayed. I prayed for her to take the pain away, to help me get through it, to help me get home without breaking down, overwhelmed with the pain. As I stared at the moon, begging for Fria's mercy, it came. The pain was still there, but somehow, miraculously, it didn't touch me. I could feel it, but it was like I was outside of the pain somehow, like I was looking at it, not truly feeling it. In that moment I believed, or at least I wanted to. My logical mind just can't believe in something there is no proof for. I can't help it. And yet, I made my allegiance to her that day. Whenever I say the moon from that day on, I thought of her. I saw the moon as my symbol for her answer. If I could clearly see the moon, then everything would be all right. If the moon was clouded over, if it kept hiding in the clouds, then everything wouldn't be all right. And you know, it worked for me. It really did. Seeing the moon clear, even in hard times, made me feel like I could concur whatever came at me, that with her at my side, I would be fine. That is the power of faith.

Do I still believe?  I'm not entirely sure. Do I still love Fria? Oh yes. Pain is a theme in my life. To be given a reprieve, even for so short a time, for that one act of kindness, she had my heart and soul, and will always have a piece of me.

I guess I just couldn't live without a safety blanket of my own.

Not As Devoted A Daughter As I Thought?

Last night I had a nightmare, and it's left me wondering just how devoted I am to my mom. I love my mom. I'd give my life for hers. I'd walk through hell for her, and have, emotionally speaking. But would I go into glorious debt, really risk my life? According to my dream, maybe not.

I dreamt last night, that I went to China with some friends on a kind of retreat. And my mom surprised me by signing up and coming too. It was sweet and wonderful, and we had a mostly great week.

On the last day everything was rather chaotic. The ladies were getting manicures and pedicures in shifts (I opted out of the manicure). We were collecting and showing off the things we'd made. We were having having smoothies and light snacks - everyone was going to lunch/dinner together before leaving.

So in the hustle and bustle, I lost track of my mom. I wasn't worried initially. I was talking with one of the girls, and picking out the make-up (from the pile we'd tried the day before) that I wanted to keep - we all got the option to keep the ones we'd used ourselves.

But when I couldn't find her in any of the rooms or out in the garden, and no one had seen her for some time. I got anxious. I asked if it were possible she left on her own, but the organizers said no, that we were all getting in the van together to go to the airport, that if she'd said she wanted to leave, she'd have been told to wait. Only she never approached them. When I told them I couldn't find her, they got worried too. Everyone looked. No one found her.

This huge man, that I guess was security - I'd not actually noticed we'd HAD security until then, went next door to this bar, and laid down suppressing flames before entering. He went in rattled the patrons and came back out saying a crew of gangsters were seen taking her.

There were two options: (1) the gang took her to escalate a turf war that was at a truce between the people(gang?) that were our security, and their gang, in which case she was probably dead, and hanging from the rafters somewhere to show off their kill/taunt the people we were with OR (2) the gang was branching out into kidnapping/ransoming and in that case she'd be alive for now.

I had to make a decision, did I leave her for dead/assume she was dead, or did I send the security crew in, guns blazing, and possibly start a turf war that would get many other innocents killed. The answer was easy, I would risk anything, everything to get my mother back.

This one old woman scoffed at me, and said I was selfish, that it was a fool's errand. I got up in her face and told her my mom was everything to me, she was the person I loved most in the world (I felt guilty saying this, knowing I had a husband at home waiting for me that I loved, just... not as much as my mom).  I'd walk through hell for her, and she'd done that for me. That I owed her everything.  That I wouldn't be there, I wouldn't be the person I am if it wasn't for her. That I would do anything and everything in my power to get her back back. If that meant starting some kind of turf war, then so be it.

The huge guy with the flame thrower, and some others went to their headquarters, and I tagged along. No one gave me a gun, and I was in the middle of a gun fight, it was totally stupid of me to go in unarmed. We got to the building, got in without being captured, but then their numbers overwhelmed us and we were their prisoners.

The leader was an arrogant ass, just as one might suspect. I had more than my mother captive, and at first I didn't see her. Then he lead me by my elbow, to show my mom wrapped in some kind of green tarp, laying helpless on the low table, her glasses and personal effects taken from her. In my dream she still needed her glasses to see (she had cataract surgery last winter and doesn't need glasses to see anymore), so they'd effectively frightened her to near death by not allowing her to know one inkling of what was going on. I thought my heart would break just from seeing her like that. My mom has never been a powerless person, she's always been so capable, and confident.

The horrible man, whose touch made my skin crawl, said he wanted $300,000 CDN, and all the pictures from the weekend retreat. Over the weekend, mostly the younger of us, did a 'love your body' two day thing where we were naked a lot, we did yoga, body painting, took pictures throughout the whole thing - they would be ours to keep, but it was a way to see our bodies as beautiful, they had a pro come in and set up a studio for us. I guess the leader guy was a creepy perv, or perhaps he wanted to sell those too, I don't know.  I was too busy worrying about how in the hell I was going to come up with three hundred grand fast enough, and if I could ever pay it back. 

The big guy that was with us, said they'd get the money, told the leader it was not a problem and started making a call - when the gang goons let him - to some lawyer or banker of some kind? The call made is seem like they were pretty familiar with the whole kidnapping ransom thing, and were good about getting the money fast. At the time I was too busy freaking out about the money - only Chris works, I have no money of my own, how in the hell were we ever going to pay off such a large sum??  We'd never own a home, we'd never be out of debt. My stomach was roiling  with worry/anxiety/fear/doubt. It occurred to me that some of my aunts and uncles might chip in to help pay the debt, as they'd be just as willing to get mom back, but it wasn't any kind of a guarantee. Most of my family weren't... in a position to help, and those that were... well, I didn't trust they would. Which would mean I'd be ruining my husband's life. I'd be ruining our chances of every having the life we wanted. Could I really do that?

Then I started wondering if they would ever actually let any of us go. We'd seen their faces, we knew who they were. This wasn't some anonymous deal. Perhaps they would make me sign over the money, make sure they get it, and then kill us all.

Apparently my brain did not like where this was going, and decided it wanted to start over.

I went back to the point where I decided to go in after my mom, and this time, I went on my own, loaded for bear with as much ammo and guns as I could carry.

I got in easily, confused the bad guys and shot them down while they were still confused about how I got in. I killed maybe half or more that way.  Then they caught on and went after me. There was about 4 or 5 of them, laying down impressive suppressing fire.I managed to hide behind this huge marble stand - they had a museum in the front room of their warehouse - real professional-like, with meaty marble pedestals, great recessed lighting, and glass cases for everything). So I hid, and managed to shoot 3 of the 5 in the legs and one in the hip - their hiding spot initially was no where good as mine. I even managed to get the leader in the knee. Boy was he pissed off. I'd destroyed his knee! But once they got cover they started shooting at metal plates I hadn't noticed before in the ceiling, sending bullets at me from the side not protected by the marble. I hunkered down, and used some kind of wall divider that had been near me as cover, putting it over my head, so at least they couldn't see where I was under it.

Somehow this skinny blond bitch, pretending she was an angel (her look was too innocent, it made my teeth hurt), snuck up on me while I was trying not to die from ricocheted shots. Maybe she was hypnotic, because suddenly my gun was out of ammo, and I was surrounded. I played it cool. I knew showing fear, or panicking would get me no where and just make me look weak.

They captured me, but didn't frisk me. Stupid. I still had my gun. And I had ammo at my back, under my jacket, I just needed to loose my empty clip and refill without them noticing. I set them at ease, perhaps cause I'm such a sweet looking white girl? And managed to dump my empty clip in a closet and put in a full clip without them seeing. Only, they saw me do something, and checked finding the empty clip. Everyone suddenly pointed their guns at me, looking worried. I had after all killed over half of them without getting even a scratch.

They wanted to know where my gun was. I showed them my hands. They asked about my pockets. Very slowly I started showing them my empty pockets on my left side, knowing full well my loaded gun was in my right main pocket. My brain was working fast, trying to figure out how I was going to shoot all four of them, that surrounded me in a half circle without getting dread myself.

And this is when I woke up. I gasped, like I was coming out water from some depth. Immediately I felt shame for doubting, for not being sure I'd take on the debt to save my mom. After the adamant, heartfelt speech I'd made to that woman, when it came down to it, I.. I wasn't sure I'd actually do what I said. I just..  I don't know. The dream is making me doubt. But I don't get my whole brain in dreams, I miss things that become obvious once I'm awake, I don't have the same... decision making capabilities. But if I was alone, without Chris to back me up, and was asked to come up with $300,000... I just.. I don't have that kind of money. I don't know if I could even get a loan! and if I could.. how on earth would I ever pay it back?  *Sigh*

But on the flip side, could I watch her die? Could I stand back and see the tears flow, as she didn't know what was going on at all. Could I watch her suffer? No. No, that I could not do.

Stacie is a Miracle Worker.

Seriously. I came to Stacie @ Strut Salon, with hair that I'd dyed over twice with box colour (which is, apparently notoriously hard to get out). I also brought two tins of cookies: my ginger molasses cookies, and intense chocolate toffee cookies (from SmittenKitchen.com). Sorry, I don't have pictures of the cookies. I wasn't thinking of that part!



So she lifted as much colour as she could. My hair came out this even medium copper/caramel colour. If I was going for that tone, it was nearly perfect. Colour lifting is rarely that even! So go Stacie!



Then we did an amazing red over it. It came out exactly as I'd hoped!! Omg, so so so pretty! I could do a little dance, I'm so dang happy. And maybe I will before the euphoria wears off. lol.



So the lesson I have learned is: Never never box colour my hair again. The process to fix it really isn't fun, or cheap. Though, honestly, knowing what a pain in the ass (and time consuming!) it would be for Stacie, I thought it would be much more than it was.

I do think the cookies garnished some good will, which is what I'd hoped for, since the colour-adjust didn't win me points. I really do love sharing my baking with people, though. Seeing them enjoy it, is just, well, one of the best feelings ever. Usually I send stuff to work with Chris so I don't get to see reactions. He has started sending me emails with tid bits his co-workers have said, however, which it totally awesome of him; makes my day every time.


(this was my reaction when I saw how red my hair looked in sunlight--super amazing!)

Too much Thinking. Again.

One of my favourite quotes, talks about dreaming, something I do a lot of.

"If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less but to dream more, to dream all the time."
--Marcel Proust

This is one of the things that I struggle with. I also struggle with fear of failure and chronic pain that kicks my ass on a daily basis. Though, sometimes, I kick it's ass. Like yesterday. Yesterday was a good day. But, as payment, today I'm exhausted. I'm still hoping to do something with myself. We'll see.

But dreaming. Dreaming I do a lot. I dream about simple things, like tattoos I want, how life would be different if I just have the energy and nerve to go to the gym (no really), I dream about being braver, being obese rather than morbidly obese, about pretty shoes I'll never be able to wear (I have no arches).

I dream big too. I dream about what life would be like if I'd made different decisions, if I was a different person -- this is often where many of my stories come from, or at least how I flesh them out to make them feel real. I dream about being a writer. About being published. Of course my actual issue is finding the energy/time/creativity/bravery to actually write, to allow myself the possibility of failure. I have such a hard time with failure...

Proust is right though. They key is to dream all the time. If I did, I'd write. I'd look at my fear, face it down, and just keep going. I'd fight, I'd find the motivation, somewhere, somehow, and I'd fight. Fight the pain, fight the exhaustion, fight the fear, fight the doubt that screams in my head.

But how does one do that? How does one dream all the time? Is it even possible? Is it selfish??

Oh how I want to write. I want to write modern love stores, sex stories, mysteries, life stories. The mundane and the fantastic swirl in my head, and come out in my dreams. I want to put them on the page, I want to make them come alive in words. I want to share them with the world.

But if I'm going to write, perhaps I should look to write for money. Freelance? Make some small amount of money writing crap for hire. Ugh. I find it horribly distasteful, but as my husband pointed out, he wouldn't pick his job, if he had money enough not to work. Work is work, it's not fun, it's not something you enjoy, it's not something you may even like, but it gets you money so you can sleep in a warm bed and eat regularly. Reality shitting all over my dreams.

I have so little energy. So often I pick doing dishes, getting groceries, making food, instead of going to the gym, or sewing those curtains that have been sitting there for a year, or doing something for me. Writing is just sitting at my laptop, which I do already, but, it's still work. I still require my brain to be with me, I still require a pain level that doesn't blur my vision (yes, this can be an issue). Writing still turns my brain to mush after a few hours.

So do I dream, or do I let reality shape me? Ugh.

I mean, I take November, and I let writing be my job. I attempt to write for eight hours a day, sometimes more, because my muse, she doesn't show up when I want her to, she's like a cat, she comes and goes at her will. The point is, that month, I put everything else on hold to write. Because, you know what? Being chronically ill means, I just don't have the energy to write all day AND do dishes, buy groceries, clean the apartment (a job I find difficult when not working), watch our budget, or do fun things like, spend time with my husband, or knit or read or craft.

One thing Nano has taught me is, I can't write 'full time'. I just can't put in that many hours. I'm just not capable. I don't like letting everything else go. There needs to be balance. I just don't have a clue what that is yet. So I haven't written since then. December was devoted to Christmas. And these past two weeks?  I've been dreaming a lot about the various stories I want to write. I've also been trying to get our lives more in order, and I've been dealing with some very painful times.

I want to dream. Oh how I want to dream. In my dream, my writing eventually pays off, in that, I make some money, not a lot, but some. I've never dreamed so big as to think I'd be in line with the greats, with the women writers I love, but, man, would I love to be a footnote. I'd just like to see something I write, eventually be in print. Like actual print. Though, the first step, I think, is online publishing. Getting my work on someone's kindle, ya know?  I want to be read. I don't care if all it ever brings in is pennies. I want to be read. I want.... I want to be a writer. I have since I was a kid. I still have the same problem, I still have trouble with actually getting it done. I guess, the real issue is giving it time, taking time to write. Allowing myself the time, and space to fail, to write really badly, to learn from it and get better.

I sit here thinking about it and worrying. Worrying if I take the time, if I make it a priority, if I write what I want, my husband will get upset with me. If I can use my limited energy to do something that doesn't get me a paycheck, then I should use that energy to find a way to make us some money. I don't even know how to go about finding freelance work. I looked once, and was totally overwhelmed. I don't have ANY experience. There's nothing I can put in a portfolio. I've done some technical writing, but everything I've written was under a non-disclosure agreement, and so long ago anyway, that I don't know if I could do it again. Not well. So how do I manage to get someone to hire me?! No clue. Man do I feel unemployable.

I am overwhelmed.

This is the point in my day where the pain really wins. I feel the pain wins 99% of the time, and steals my life away, but when I get to this point I realize, nothing I felt today was anything, this, this is the real shit.

Everything hurts. Hurts to the point I can't think. All of me. Right down to my teeth. Even my skin hurts. My brain feels like it's going to bust out of my skull. My eyes burn when I close my eyelids. Every muscle, tendon, and fibre of my being ache, heck, most scream with pain.

I'm not sure there is anything that could distract me enough. Usually when I'm in pain I distract myself by clenching my teeth, by reading a good book, or watching fun TV, but this is too much. This is the level of pain where all I can do is sit here and try to continue breathing.

All I want to do is curl up in a ball and sleep until it's over. Right now I'm not so sure which "it" I mean. Because the pain, the pain will never stop, never relent, never recede.

I don't want to live this way. I really really don't.

My Life IS Pain.

I hate my life.

I hate my life.

I hate my life.

I hate my life.

Thinking Too Much. Again.

I just got the 'you should be making money, not living your dreams, you need income' lecture.

*sigh*

Ironic really since, just this morning I was thinking, that maybe, just maybe I could do what I've always wanted instead of what I was schooled for. I thought it was amusing that I went to school, to secure a career with a steady pay, but since I'm now chronically ill and totally incapable of working full time, I might actually be able peruse what I wanted to.

I've always wanted to write, but I've never liked the insecurity, the knowledge that I may never get paid enough to live one, the knowledge that creative writing won't feed you, and you'll have to have a 'day job' to fall back on, or learn how to be a commercial writer.

My husband just suggested I seek out freelance work to write crappy websites.

I'm ethically against ad farm websites with dubious and badly written content, just on principle; they're sneaky and sleazy.  Besides that, I'm not actually sure I could write that sort of content. What I mean is, I'm not sure I have any writing skills outside of the creative writing field.

There is of course, pay by the story options. Maybe? Someday?

Right now I'm just beginning to learn how to write. I feel like I'm a toddler, trying to pick out a career. I.... I don't feel ready for that?

All I really want right now is to finish my nano story, let it rest a bit, and then attempt editing it. I've never edited anything half so large. I think it will be a huge undertaking and learning experience.

I also really want to read more on the art, the science of writing and editing. Maybe take a course on mystery/suspense writing, and the one on writing for women and selling it - that one is sounding more and more like something I need to learn.

I want to sell my work. I really do. But I'm not even sure right now what kind of stories I'm capable of writing. I don't want to be some literary genius, I just want to write things I'm mostly proud of, things that others will read and enjoy. I'm perfectly happy being the cotton candy of the writing world. I love cotton candy!

It's been almost a year since I took the creative writing course. I haven't accomplished much since then. I haven't done any of the reading I'd hope to. Life has intruded. Also, a deep love affair with the cotton candy of the writing world. I have read so many romance novels! And most of them were yummy. I'm not entirely sure what I learned, except that I really love simple, cheesy, cotton candy romance stories.

My tummy hates me tonight. I'm not at all sure why it's angry like it is. I haven't eaten anything to set it off. But I know how I'm feeling isn't helping. Right now I'm feeling very guilty and worried.

Guilty for being a penniless burden. Guilty for wanting to live my dream instead of trudging to make some amount of money. I want to believe that living my dream, that writing what my soul wants to, would lead to money, but I know it wouldn't do it as fast as if I just sought out freelance work and wrote, gods knows what. Hell, I feel guilty for wanting to write instead of doing other useful things like getting groceries, doing dishes, cleaning our apartment, doing laundry. I can't do both, at least, I can't write mostly full time AND do errands or anything else. Nano has taught me that getting 100 pages in a month means ignoring everything else in my life. I can't keep that up long term, I'd burn our or contract some filth-related disease.

I'm worried my husband is finally starting to understand the burden he's placed on himself (me). Worried that he's worried about money. Worried that he feels the pinch of having a useless wife, and is, understandably blaming me for not helping out. I'm worried that I'm being totally selfish even considering trying to become an author. Being married to an author sucks, authors don't make a lot, but work a lot, and me, I work best at night - he might as well be single. As mentioned above, if I were to take a more serious attempt at being an writer, I'd have to devote time otherwise spent taking care of us. *sigh*

I feel utter selfish for wanting to live a dream. Just because I live with chronic illness, and my life is pain, doesn't mean I'm entitled to anything. As my husband pointed out, he wouldn't be doing what he does if it wasn't for the paycheck. I have no right to expect to like my job, never mind love it. I have no right to peruse something that won't help us financially.

I'm beginning to wonder if I should just give up this silly idea, and look for part time work a chronically ill person might be capable of. Clearly, I need to be making money, not living some foolish childhood dream. I'm an adult now. I didn't pick a field I loved in the first place, I picked one I thought would get me a steady pay check. I need to put that goal first again. Just because I'm chronically ill doesn't relieve me of the duty and need to actually support myself. Dreams are for bedtime. Work is for waking hours.

Harvest Muffins

These sort of, came about as a "Melissa can't read/follow a recipe", but they're delicious, so I'm actually writing down what I did!

Makes: ~28 cupcake-sized muffins

Ingredients

• 1 cup shortening
• 1 cup demerara-style brown sugar
• 4 eggs
• 1 1/3 cup buttermilk
• 1 cup raisins
• 1/2 cup chopped pecans
• 2 large apples, peeled and chopped
• 3 cups all purpose flour
• 2 cups bran cereal
• 2 tsp baking soda
• 2 1/4 tsp baking powder
• 4 tsp ground ginger
• 1 1/2 tsp cinnamon 
• 1 1/2 tsp cloves 
• 1 tsp freshly ground nutmeg
• 1/2 tsp salt

Directions:

1. Pre-heat oven to 350˚F, and grease muffin pans.
2. In a large mixing bowl, cream shortening and sugar until light and fluffy.
3. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each.  
4. Add raisins, pecans, and chopped apples to wet ingredients, stir well to combine.
5. In a medium sized bowl, combine, flour, bran, spices, baking soda, baking powder and salt.
6. Fold dry ingredients to wet until just combined.
7. Fill greased muffin cups 100% full (they don't rise much). Bake for approx. 20 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out of muffin clean.

Brioche Stitch is my Nemisis

Seriously.

In terms of pattern, it's super easy. It's 3 rows, with a two stitch pattern per row.

You'd think it would be easy peasy, but noooo!

I mean, try it. Count one, two, one, two, for about 200 stitches. You can see how easy it would be to get a "one, two, two," in there.

My rows are about 500 stitches at this point I estimate, and I've tried starting the Brioche stitch twice now, and screwed it up both times! The first time it was such a mess I had to rip back four rows!! Four!! This time I've just left it. I'm not sure what to do. Hopefully I'll only have to go back two rows. Still. It's bloody painful!

*sigh*

And it really doesn't help that it's very hard to see where you've screwed up. It's the nature of the stitch, it looks fine until you get to knitting it the second time around, then you realise it's not right at all, and you've messed up the "one, two, one, two" pattern.

I think I'm going to leave the damn shawl for a bit and come back to it. I just can't bring myself to rip out the two-four rows again. Gods help me! It looks like such a simple stitch.....

Update.

The weather lately has been fantastic! Sunshine, not too cold, not too hot either. Rather lovely. Today, however, looks like the last lovely day in some time - the forecast calls for all kinds of rain for the foreseeable future. So I'm hoping to go out today and do as much as I can. I'm not sure how much I'll manage. Chronic illness means I never have enough energy for the ambition/goals I have.

This weekend we are having a birthday party for my husband/apartment warming. I have no idea who is actually going to show up. Most of our friends seem to have other plans this weekend and can't make it. Makes me sad, but oh well. As Chris said, we tried.

I'm not sure if it's my particular mental stint, or if it's reality. I'm just...wondering if...friend is the right term. Maybe acquaintance is more appropriate. I mean, when we asked for help painting, and then moving the only offers we got were from my father (!!) and Shasta who lives with more pain than I do. I was shocked that my father was willing to help, he's basically ignored me my whole life, and I was saddened that none of our acquaintances cared enough to even make excuses.

It makes me realise why I've heard so many women say that their husband is their best friend. Many women marry men they would be friends with under other circumstances, but as it is, what with being married and all, their husbands are always there, always willing to listen, to help. I've always been jealous of women who say that. So very jealous. If it wasn't for the sex, for the marriage bit, Chris and I would not be friends. I love him, but I can't talk to him about a lot of things - things I would talk to my friends about, that I used to talk to my friends about, when I had close friends. But life, time, space, have combined to mean I just don't have close friends anymore, and Chris is my best friend. Poor man. I know he would never willingly take that post. And it's not that anything's changed. I still can't talk to him about chick things, or matters of the heart, or most of the things that eat at me, because he either doesn't want to hear it, or doesn't know how to respond. He's also a very solitary creature, and I often get the "I've had people talking at me all day, let me have some peace" speech when I do try to talk to him. So yeah. I try very very hard not to talk to him about most things. Even attempting to share my day with him never goes well.

I'm not good at making friends. I'm... not good with people in that way. But I mean, I can't relate to most normal life experiences, and most people have no clue how I live my life. I don't work. I don't even do most normal housewife things. I don't have kids (thank the gods). I live in chronic pain. I have no energy for anything. I just can't do so many things healthy people do and take for granted. How do I relate to them? I can't. That's the truth of it. So part of me holds back, but part of me just doesn't know what to say. =/

Anyway, thinking about this isn't going to make it any better. I don't know how to fix it. And dwelling just makes me sad.

Setting - as in City

So I'm trying to work out Maddie and Alejandro's story..... Alejandro is clearly of some kind of Hispanic descent, as is his fiance. That doesn't necessarily mean the city has to have a large Hispanic population, but... that was where I was leaning.

See, I had this dream, and it stole into my brain the setting for this story. A hot city street, so hot there were heat waves rolling off the pavement. Flat roofed, five story apartment buildings with stores on the first level lined the street. Above the street everyone had windows open, fans on. Old woman were sitting in the shade of their balconies with hand fans, trying to beat the heat. Above the street there were wires strung from one building across the four lane street to a sister building on the other side of the street. Maddie is sitting in her convertible at a red light. She looks up to see a young man start across one of the wires. On the other side another young man appears. The two young men walk to each other, long heavy poles in their arms. There are men on the ground watching, some are taking money, making bets. There is an eagerness to the men that wasn't there a moment ago. The heat forgotten as they watch the young men risk their lives. The light turns green, a horn honks, Maddie tears her eyes from the young men, and speeds on to her next job site, utterly flabbergasted.

I don't know why, I guess because of the later dream, I just always assumed the above scene would happen in a Hispanic district of some kind. It's just where my brain went with it.... But that would mean Southern US. Arizona, New Mexico, or Miami Florida maybe. The more I look into a real city, the more I realise I don't know shit about life in places like that. I mean, jesus fuck, how do you survive regular summer highs of 40˚C???? How do you live without a lake, or river near you? How do you live without a good source of clean, fresh water? I live in Canada, on the great lakes for fuck's sake. I really don't understand land locked at all.

I just don't think I can write about a city I don't know..... So much for wanting it to take place somewhere in Arizona. *sigh* I just can't picture life there. Now I have to figure out how to make it believable *here*.

Hell, can it be?? I mean, I wanted part of the 'in' for Maddie was that she spoke Spanish or Mexican (I don't even know if there is a difference. Ignorant, I am). But if it takes place here what's the likelihood of there even being a Spanish/Mexican/Cuban/something Hispanic community, or hell, even just one of the young men being Hispanic of some variety?? I mean, I live here, but honestly, I don't think I could tell Hispanic from general Caucasian without hearing them speak. I see other Countries represented, but it's more clear.... Can I just assume there has to be some number of Hispanics here since Toronto is such a diverse community? I don't mean assume there is like an area that is very Hispanic, I haven't found that to be true, but would it be too much of a coincidence if at least one of the young men was from Mexico, just as Alejandro's family was?? Hrm.. I just.. I don't know...

What I do know is, I can't fake American. Maddie is... well, she's a demon, so that needs to show through, but.... Land locked, hot as fuck cities? I don't think I could fake that. I'd have better luck with Miami. At least I've seen aerial views with CSI Miami, not that I believe I know the city from a tv show, but at the very least I've seen bits of it which is more than I can say for the rest!

If feels kinda.... boring writing about Toronto, but I don't know any other city, aside from my hometown, even in the least. I mean, I have the GTA in my brain, I have a feel of them, but elsewhere, not a clue. I've visited Montreal more than any other city, and I don't think I could write about it. There is a culture there that is foreign to me, I wouldn't get the feel right. So I guess I'm stuck writing about what I know. That's a saying though, isn't it? "Write what you know".

It's not that I wanted to hide that I'm Canadian or anything of the sort. I love where I live! It's just......I had an image in my head, and where I live didn't seem to fit in a reality/believe-ability kind of way. Maybe it's the hole tightrope walkers thing.... But I want that to be crazy. That's the point.

Maybe I'm thinking too much.

Journey

Learned two very important lessons in class today.

(ONE) Always bring a spare pen

(TWO) Only trouble makes for an interesting story

I went very low key in terms of accessories for this class. Not even a real notebook. Just a clipboard, pad of paper and a pen. Yeah. A pen. On the bright side, my pen died with ten minutes left in class, not at the beginning! I will be bringing two pens from now on.

In today's class we talked about story arc, and how conflict and tension breed interest. I'm not good with conflict. Not in real life, not in stories. I often have the beginnings of a story, but it's the conflict bit where I fall flat. At least knowing what needs to be there will help me create stories around ideas and characters I've created/found/invented. And my teacher gave me a wonderful tidbit, in that she said writers often find characters, and create scenes, create lives for them, before they invent the conflict that will make their lives a story worth telling. This makes me happy. I've gotten that far, I have people and a place, I've started to write about them, and then it just feels flat, or I'm unsure where to take things. This class totally gave me something to think of, another way to view the creation of a story. Even through all the pain, you can tell I'm excited. Can't you? Well, I am.

This week's assignment is interesting, I have to write a very short piece about two people in a car having a fundamental conflict: one wants something the other isn't willing to give. I've been thinking all week about what kind of conflict I want to write about, what characters I want to use. To be perfectly honest, I don't want to invent anyone new. I'm just not that good at it. But mostly, I really want to work on Maddie and her world, make it more real, make it solid, believable. I want her story to work. I want there to be a viable story there! So I'm thinking of Alejandro and Maddie in the car. I'll still need to do character work as I don't feel like I have Alejandro nailed down yet, he's still too nebulous for me. So I want to do that before I begin, or as I work on it anyway.

I'm not sure how well my idea will work... The argument I want Maddie and Alejandro to have aren't one I want to fully explain to my class. They are all so middle class, white bread, vanilla beans. I just don't think I could. So I'm going to have to be careful about it.. Also, with the wording, I'm not sure how exact we are meant to be. I'm thinking Maddie wants Alejandro to go with her to a party at her friends, and he refuses. Argument ensues. 250 words is not a lot to get that all out. I hope I can manage it.

I doubt I'll have time, but another fun idea I had would be Jazz, my succubus assassin arguing with her manager on a phone headset while speeding down a highway in a stolen sports car. Arthur, her manager wants her to take a job that's on her NO list (children, families, politicians), but the money was so good, he just had to ask her first. I like the juxtaposition of the revving car, the sleezy manager, and calm Jazz. We'll see. I still haven't done the demon bar idea from assignment one. Chronic pain, it eats time.

I'm Really Feeling the Pressure Now

It's coming down to the wire, as they say.

I still have to bake the cakes.
And frost them.
I need to pick a menu and wines.
I need to do a bit of sewing on my dress.
Hell, I need to get thread that matches my dress still!
And somehow get my dress to Toronto unharmed.  No clue how I'm going to manage it.
I have to finish choosing reception music and burn the CDs.
I have to finish putting together the Wedding Programs. Just finished!! YAY!
I have to knit at least one more Octopus.
I need to rope my guests aka friends and family into working my wedding, just a bit.
I have to decide if I'm doing centre pieces. -- I even have the catering manager saying I need something now. o.0
I have to figure out what I'm doing for a bouquet!
I have to make my bouquet and a few boutonnières.
Oh! And I have to pick up Chris' suit from being tailored!
And iron his shirt... I promised...

*sigh*

And somehow I have to do all this in.....under 11 days.  Battling nasty headaches, insane nausea, and all the other crap FMS is throwing at me lately.

Gods grieve me a monkey....

I just don't know how I'm going to get it all done!  I totally should have got Chris to take more time off to help me. Bah. Bah, I say!

Weird, yet telling dream

I always have weird dreams, perhaps I should stop prefacing my tellings with a statement of oddity?

Anyway! To the dream!

I've been dreaming of home lately. I'm not exactly sure why, but there it is. And when I do dream of home, home is always my parents house. Partly, I'm sure because that was my childhood, it was my home for 30 years of my life, and I'm just now trying to deal with the fact that it's not my home anymore. I'm always welcome there, I always will be, but it's not my home. I know too, that part of why I always dream of my parents house as home is because. although I've lived here for over a year, and Chris tries to make me feel like this is my home too, in my heart, this isn't my home. It's Chris place, not mine, I just live here. Does that make any sense? I don't feel like a squatter exactly, but... this isn't mine. My clothes live here, and some of my books, but all my furniture, all my yarn, all my accoutrements of home don't live here. They are packed away in my parents attic. So when I dream, I dream of my parents home, with my old room intact, when I had a place that felt like my own.

this time I dreamt that my family was going on a picnic. My uncle Russell and his family were at the house, helping my parents pack stuff in the van, they were going along you see. I'm not sure how much of my family was going. I think perhaps it was the once annual family picnic at Bing Park. We haven't done that in the past few summers, mostly because it's a)hard to arrange that many people to be someplace all at the same time, and b) the weather has been pretty shitty/unpredictable. Anyway, family picnic. I don't think Chris and I were going, though I don't know why. It just felt like they were leaving us behind for some reason.,,

Dreams don't have to make sense! Carrying on!

My Uncle Russell chided... someone? Maybe his daughter to hurry up. He said that even Neda who was notoriously always late was ready and waiting. "Neda?!" I thought, surely I must have heard him wrong. When I asked him what he meant, he said Neda was sitting outside in one of the patio chairs, waiting,

I ran out the door, flabbergasted, hopeful and angry. Neda was in South Korea, or Australia. She wasn't coming home, ever, not even to visit! And yet, there she was, sitting in one of mom and pa's lovely brown patio chairs, smiling, and looking quite at home.

I wanted to hug her. I wanted to slap her! She'd been home for gods knows how long, but she never bothered to call me?! Never bothered to answer, not one of the many messages I'd sent her?! Too good for me, she was. And yet here she sat, thinking how happy I would be, thinking I would welcome her with open arms. Think her so clever for surprising me.

Yeah. Not going to happen. I screamed at her "You bitch! You could have CALLED!" Then stormed into the house. Neda followed me, smiling even bigger, thinking I was just teasing her, thinking my anger was momentary.

Neda picked up a dish towel on the counter and started slinging it towards me in a playful manner. I don't remember what she said... something light, playful, teasing, very Neda. She likely punned at me. She's very punny. I, however, was not amused. I got another dish towel from the rack, and tried to thwack her with it, in earnest.

I started yelling about how upset I was. She abandoned me! She abandoned us!! She left everyone she knew, everyone that loved her, and went off in search of adventure. She didn't even have the decency to be honest with any on us, or at least with me about her future plans!! She made me think she was coming home, at least for a visit! I thought I might actually get to celebrate my wedding, my marriage, with her! But nooo! I'm not good enough! Of course she'd never come back for meeee I'm not important enough to bring her back here. Not to boring old Canada. Hell, I'm not even important enough to get to know the truth, to get to know her plans! And she thinks she can just show up whenever she pleases and I'll just welcome her back with open arms?? It will be like it was before she left?? That we'll be the best of friends?! That we'll be friends at all?! NO! No I tell you! I won't have it!

At this point I stormed off. The whole house was in an uproar. I was ready to cry, I was falling apart, and I just wanted to be alone. As I was walking down the hall, Christine, a friend of Chris and I's from Toronto, came in the front door. She was walking like she had a purpose. like she was late, with her usual big black bag that she kept her laptops in. I wanted to hug her, I was so relieved to see her, though I'm not sure why, we aren't actually close in real life, or my dream for that matter. Chris and Neda were both hot on my heels, so I forgo-ed hugging Christine and darted into the bathroom I managed to just get in and lock the door before my pursuers caught up to me. Neda wanted to 'explain', Chris just wanted to see if I was all right. I didn't want to deal with either of them. Of course I wasn't all right.

Chris and Neda started arguing, likely over who got to pick the lock. There was shuffling, and bumping, and groaning, and a female moan - in my mind I pictured Chris' bony elbow hitting Neda in the nose. (Yes, I realise neither of them would behave this way, it was a dream.) I was angry with Neda, I wasn't sure I wanted to be her friend anymore, hell, I wasn't sure she was my friend - how can you be friends when you are worlds away and you never talk?? But I didn't want her hurt. I didn't want either of them hurt. I opened the door. Neda was holding her face and Chris was looking angry, worried, and sad.

We all trooped back into the kitchen, the heart of my former home. Neda sat down, and I got her an ice back from the freezer and a tea towel to wrap it in. She looked at me, surprised and wary. I guess I deserved that. Whatever. I gave her the icepack and sat down with Chris on the other side of the room. I sighed, looked at Neda forlornly and tired to figure out how to deal with the situation like an adult.

The dream ends or fades there.

I still don't know how to deal with the situation like an adult. In my heart I'm not really much of an adult. I feel hurt and betrayed and abandoned. I want to hope she'll come home some day and I can have my best friend back, but the logical part of my brain knows she's probably never coming back. And even if she did.... Well who's to say she'd make any effort to be my friend? She's not made any in almost a year, what makes me think she'd start then. I know I need to get over the loss of no longer having a best friend. I know I need to grow up and realise grown-ups just don't get to have that. Best friends are things children have. When you grow up you date, and get married, and the myth is, your husband(for those that have husbands) is supposed to be your best friend. Only.... Mine isn't, or won't be. Sure I love Chris, I love him very much, and I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with him, but my best friend he ain't and never will be.

*Sigh*

I wish I was better at making friends. I wish I was better at fostering relationships... I know I'll never had what I did with Neda. I know I'll never have a group of friends as close, as trusted, and as loved as 'the gang'. I know I'll never get to feel so loved, and accepted as I did when we were all the best of friends. But I also know it's possible to have something else, something similar. Don't get me wrong. I do have friends. And they are very nice. I like them quite a lot. But we aren't close. Our relationships aren't the type where I feel comfortable asking for favours... I don't feel like I can call them up and say, hey, let's hang out. Hell, I'm not even sure I have any of their numbers. I know Chris has a few on his cell phone, but I don't have them. What I mean is, we have them because we have previously arranged to meet them, or been invited to parities at their places, but it wasn't like they gave them to me/us saying, hey call me some time, we should hang out.

I'm the kind of person you're happy to see at a party. You think I'm sweet, or nice or whatever, but I'm not the type of person most people think, 'hey, I want to hang out with her'. I'm just not that interesting. I don't work. I don't have job stories; I can't even relate to a lot of them because it's been so long since I have worked. I'm chronically ill, chronically in pain, this makes me pretty much a huge downer, and I know it. I'm not well read. I'm not up on current events or politics - I don't read the news, it depresses me. So I can't even carry on simple chit chat half the time. So it's not like I blame people... I just.... *sigh* I wish I didn't feel so isolated and... starved for female companionship.

I get snuggles from Chris. We talk to each other and all. But, ask him for his opinion, on just about anything I'd normally want/need one on, and he's clueless. Half the time he gets fed up and angry that I even ask. I'm trying to learn not to ask, or at least preface my talking with the knowledge I won't get an opinion but sometimes talking it out helps. And talking it out to myself, when I'm alone in a room, is just too close to crazy for me to do. I really miss chick time, cause women, we find a way to give feedback. I miss so very much being able to ask for feedback, even on simple things.

I think if it wasn't for Offbeat Bride and their community site, I would have gone crazy trying to plan our wedding! I'm just not used to making decisions based on opinion without getting at least some feedback from another person!

Though it's been literally years since I've had a shopping partner, I still miss having someone there. I've learned to shop on my own, all grown-ups have to, but it's just nice to have someone there to be the voice of reason, the voice of style, someone that knows you, who, unlike the clerk, isn't trying to sell you something, ya know? Men don't know... it's a chick thing to shop in groups. It's how we're socialized. And damnit, I miss it. I miss having friends, real friends.... *sigh*

Worries Gone! Mostly, anyway!

Okay, so I think all that worrying was for nothing. But sometimes everything just seems to come at you at once, and overwhelms you with stress, and GAH.

So, Pa is home - yay! I have a ride to my dress appointment, though I'm still not sure how I'll get my dress to Toronto. I think what might be best is to schedule the bridal shots closer to the wedding, get my parents to drive me to the dressmakers to pick it up some time before that. It can live in a closet or on the hook on the back of the spare room door until then. Taking it home on the train still sounds like my best bet. If it's all wrinkled from the bridal session/transit then I'll have to get it steamed...by someone. o.0 Hopefully someone I know in this city uses a dry cleaner they like/has suggestions for me on that count.

Chris totally stepped up to the plate and is currently my hero. He got the photographer answering him promptly - amazing all on it's own! And is taking time off on the 27th, and getting someone to cover for him during business hours (which will give us more than enough time)! Squee!! So so so pleased. He's also made sure his on call week is not the week of the wedding, heck, it's not even the week before the wedding!! which is just amazingly wonderful as he is always so tried the week after, this way he will be all fresh, and bouncy for the wedding! Well, as bouncy as he gets anyway. Which, I think some of our friends would be surprised to hear, in the mornings, when he's happy, he's adorably bouncy. mmhmm.

As for the needing help bit. You know, I think if I really need it, and I need like girl help, not something Chris can do for me, I'm pretty darn sure I can ask my Toronto friends and bribe them with chocolate cake or brownies; or really, they'll just do it 'cause they love me. Cause I'm starting to realise, they do love me, at least a little. Yay!

Oh! And as for my old friends who don't actually make an effort but expect me to make all the effort - screw that! Relationships are two way streets. If they aren't willing to meet me half way, well... oh well. Maybe our road just won't get traffic. I have to take the 'it's your fault' crap with a huge grain of salt. Cause, damnit, it isn't just my fault. So there!

Mom

I haven't posted in forever. Honestly, I've been too busy, or too tired for the most part. The last month has been a little crazy for me.

May 26th I was planning to go to Hamilton to visit my parents and get my monthly allergy shot. I get a call from my mom. I didn't answer because, well, I was exhausted and still in bed trying to actually sleep. When I got up, about twenty minutes later, I listened to the message.

My mom called to tell me to bring my keys because her and Pa weren't going to be home - Pa was taking her to the hospital. But I shouldn't worry. She was fine. A little shaky, but that was just nerves. o.0

o.0

I messaged Chris as work, nearly in a panic. Mom hates hospitals, she would not go there on a whim. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I got ready in record time and went to the only hospital I could imagine mom going to - the General. She just told me 'the hospital'. There are lots of hospitals in Hamilton! What if I picked the wrong one? What if they sent her to another? Gah. I went to the General straight from the GO Station. I took a cab. If mom wasn't there, I'd go home and hope she left a note. If not, I'd call every hospital in town until I found her. This was my plan.

Thankfully, she was at the General. I found her in an observation room in Emergency. They had admitted her and swept her away as soon as she arrived. For all the cut backs, sometimes, sometimes they get it very right.

When I talk to mom, she's shocked I came! o.0 Oh mom, she has absolutely no idea how much me all love her. Until I saw her, my heart was in my throat thinking I might have lost her -- not the last time I'd feel that way in this ordeal.

She looked pretty good, she had colour, she was talking, trying to take care of me - she was till my mom. She was still here. whew. But she was shaking. Scared I think really.

She tells me she had a heart attack, Friday night. 2am to 4am, Saturday morning, really. She was in so much pain she was scared to move. She thought she was going to die. She said if she'd had paper and a pen, she'd have written me a letter. o.0 I'm getting married in October, she didn't want me to not have a wedding if she didn't make it through the night. Jesus. She didn't even tell Pa until 11am the next morning!!

She refused to go to the hospital. Her eldest daughter was staying with them, she was going to visit her late husband's family in Calgary Monday, and getting a flight out of Hamilton airport. My Aunt tried to get mom to go to the hospital. Pa tried. No go. Finally they got her to agree to call Dr. Roy, our GP, Monday morning. But she didn't slow down! She went grocery shopping, she did laundry, she went to church, christ, she even vacuumed the living floor Monday morning. o.0

o.0


Pa had to hound her to even get her to call Dr. Roy! Finally she did. Pa then had to push to find out what Dr. Roy said. He told her to go to the hospital. NOW. Yeah. Geez Mom!

So, she's admitted to the hospital, much to her dismay. I stay in Hamilton - of course. Everyone's asking me how long I'm staying. I say, until mom is better. How could I leave?! Also, my Pa is 84. He's more capable than he lets on, but he still doesn't know which meds to take when, or even which are his or mom's. I can't leave him alone! They raised me. I'm not going anywhere until mom's home and okay.

In all this I learn she had a heart attack seven years ago! But it was no where near as bad she says. She did go to the hospital then, but they didn't test her as thoroughly, and said she was fine. o.0 My bet it she wasn't really fine, it just wasn't as obvious then.

They did all kinds of tests. We learn she did have a heart attack, and that there was damage to her heart, but they don't know how much. They schedule a angioplasty for the Wednesday, which was as soon as they could. There was this wonderful young female doctor, I wish I could remember her name! She was amazing. I really liked her. I can picture her face perfectly, but her name, I'm at a loss. doh. I'm not too positive, but I believe she was a cardiac specialist resident. She didn't look more than 28. She was a full doctor, but she had a boss, which is why I'm thinking resident. If she's the future of medicine, we don't have anything to worry about, I tell you what. Smart as a whip, friendly, caring, so so so good at explaining things! Oh, I can't speak well enough of her.

Anyway! The lovely doctor explains that they'll inject a die into one of mom's arteries, and take 'pictures' of her heart to see how it looks. If there is damage/partial blockage to one of her arteries that supplies blood to the heart muscle, which they believe there is, they will put a balloon in to compress the blockage, and then put a stint in to keep it open.

We don't find out until Wednesday night what they did/found. What a long ass day waiting! omg! My Aunt Alice and I go in to see mom Wednesday night. We meet Aunt Christine just leaviing, she's a mess. Crying, distraught. She tells us there is a LOT of damage to mom's heart. Way more than they or we thought. They couldn't fix it that way. But they can do something right, we ask. There has to be something else they can do? Right? Aunt Christine tells us all three of mom's arteries are blocked, and the only option is surgery, but mom doesn't want to do it. We all freaked out. Tears streamed down our faces. We shook. We sobbed. I thought my knees where going to give out. All three? All three blocked? Well she has to do it, I say. We'll convince her Alice and I tell Christine. We're all mom's daughters. We won't lose her. Not without a fight.

Aunt Alice and I wipe away our tears. Blow our noses. Put on our brave faces, and go to see mom. We see the drawing the doctor did of her heart. This doctor being the boss of the wonderful lady I mentioned above. He did the angioplasty. He even came by while we were there to explain to us how blocked her heart is. One of her arteries is blocked solid all the way along. The second is 80% blocked! The third is fully blocked in two places, making it unusable. Her entire heart is running on 20% of the capacity of ONE of her veins. Oh my fucking god. The doctor said they're really surprised she's still waling around. Woah. He said he's done what he can, and has referred mom to a surgeon, who will come talk to her soon.

Mom is still adamant that she doesn't want to do it at this point. She says everyone that has it done spends a year being an invalid, in pain, unable to do anything, then dies. She doesn't want that. My heart was in my throat again. I tell her to at least wait until she hears what the surgeon says before she makes a decision. Aunt Alice tells her about her husband's golf buddy who has had two heart surgeries, ten years apart, and he's fine. He's out playing golf! We try to tell mom medicine has come a long way, it doesn't have to be like that. Aunt Alice reminds her of all the great grandchildren that are going to be born in the next year - 3 more! She wants to be around to see them, doesn't she? I tell her, I'm getting married in October! She has to be there. The only reason I'm having a wedding is - my heart catches in my throat as I try to finish my sentence. I let the tears come and try again. The only reason I'm having a wedding is because I want you there mom, I tell her as I squeeze her hand. We beg her to at least not decide until she talk to the doctor.

I know my mom, if she makes up her mind, she's not going to change it. She's the most stubborn, strong willed person I know. So all I ask of her is not to decide. In my head I pray to Fria. It's been a long time, but she's the only one that's every answered. With all my heart and soul, I pray my mom just listens, just waits to decide until she knows all the facts.

We leave mom hours later, having at least gotten her to promise not to make up her mind until she talks to the doctor. Now we have to go home and tell grandpa. How are we going to tell him, we ask each other. Aunt Alice wants to wait till morning. She doesn't want to worry him. But he's already worried. This is his wife. He's been worried since Saturday morning. I decide, if he's up, we tell him. He has to know.

When we get home, poor Pa is beside himself. We left hours ago! What happened he asks. I say lets go and sit down. I can't tell him standing up. I almost fell down when I heard, I don't want him loosing his feet! So we tell him. He's just as shocked as we are. We all three agree we have to convince her. She has to do it. She just has to. We can't loose her. Pa says he'd be lost without her. And you know, it's so true. They've spent the last 63 years together! I can't even fathom it.

When Pa and I go in the next morning, we're ready for a fight. We are going to convince her. But when we get there, she's already decided she has to do it. Thank the gods. They are keeping her in the hospital - there was some question last night as to what they were going to do with her. They're keeping her until they can do the surgery. They've got it scheduled for Monday afternoon, the soonest they can manage it.

We meet the surgeon on Friday. I say we because it was Aunt Alice, myself, and uncle Russell. He tells us they are going to take veins from mom's legs, and maybe her arms, and replace the blocked arteries. Mom's heart muscle is very strong, but because there is so many blockages, it makes things slightly more risky. Yet again my heart is in my throat waiting for him to tell us the percentages. I'm thinking he'll say there's a 30% chance of her dying. I'm scared, and yet, I'll take those odds. If she doesn't do it, she might live a few days or a few months, but she won't be with us long. Dr. Lami (his name I remember because I saw it written a few times) tells us there is a 5% chance mom could have a heart attack or stroke during the surgery. Only 5%! That's a 95% chance of success I tell mom! That's great! I'll take those odds!

Mom seemed pretty stable, so I go home to visit Chris. I'd called him every night. I fell apart talking to him more than once. He was my rock. He tole me I was his wife. In sickness and in health. That's what he was there for. Sweet man. I needed to see him. I needed to spend some times with my friends. I felt a lot better coming home Sunday after some time with my beloved. He even came home with me to see my mommy. I told him he didn't have to. He said I sounded just like my mom (who I had been complaining was trying to take care of everyone but herself). Yeah. Caught. So he came home with me.

Everyone came to visit mom that Sunday. Alice, her hubby, her eldest son and his girlfriend. Christine and her youngest son, her eldest daughter, her hubby and daughter had already been in I believe. Her daughter Beatrice who hadn't really been talking to mom for. well, years. How good it was to see her there! I know just how much it meant to mom. Even two of mom's great-grandchildren who were visiting Hamilton, came in. Heck, even one of her daughters that lives in New Brunswick, came up with her husband to see mom!!

Monday Morning Aunt Alice came over around 9am, saying she was going to the hospital to see mom, she couldn't wait any longer. Pa went up with Rick and Doris (our N.B. travellers). Aunt Alice had said she was going to come back. I wasn't in a hurry. I'm just so not a morning person. But I was ready by 10 am, and wondering if Aunt Alice really was coming back. I had the phone in my hand and was looking for her cell number when she called. She said they were prepping mom for surgery and if I wanted to see her I better hurry. I called a cab as soon as I hung up with here. Heart in my throat again. I was feeling like it might just take up permanent residence there. I just had to see her. I had to. Oh gods. I couldn't miss her.

When I got to the hospital, I asked Information where she was, in case they'd moved her. I went to the bank of the slowest moving elevators I've ever had to deal with. There was none near the main floor. Screw this, I thought. It's only two floor ups, I can do those stairs. I have bad knees. Stairs in general just don't like me. On bad days my knees scream even going down, and up is always worse. But I just didn't care. I had to see my mom. I could take a little pain, hell, I could take a lot. I ran up the stairs as fast as I could. It took all I had not to run through the hallways. Actually, I was pretty winded, the main floor and one above it are extra tall, so it was more like three flights of stairs.

Mom was just coming out of the bathroom when I got there. She'd just had a bath. They already had the bed in the hall that they were taking her downstairs to surgery in! Jeez! Aunt Alice apologized for leaving me. She's such a sweetheart. She felt bad I was left without a way to the hospital. That's what cabs are for I told her. It's no big deal. I got to give my mom a hug. That's what was important. I told her she was the bravest woman I know. Alice, Pa, Doris and I all got to take the huge patient elevator downstairs with mom. Pa and I went into the surgery prep room and said our "I love you"s.

You know, if mom hadn't been in the hospital that weekend we would have lost her then. She had a few small attacks over the weekend. But she was getting better at telling the nurses when she had a problem. In the week she'd been in the hospital there had been an army of Hazeltons come to visit her. And we all told her the same thing: you have to TELL US when something is wrong! Geez. So she was slowly getting better at it. It's a hard habit to break. I have it too, I know. But things work out better when you tell people you aren't feeling well. Especially when you are in the hospital - they can do something about it.

They kicked us out at 1pm. They asked who the representative for the family was going to be when Pa and I were with her. I looked at mom. I said, she's always our rep. Who do you want mom, I asked. She said I better do it. Usually it would be the husband, but Pa is hard of hearing, and can't understand people with accents, like at all. It's best to be me. Same number, and then I can tell him, and everyone else. They tell us Dr. Lami will come see us in the heart investigation waiting room, at 5pm. We plan to be back there by 4:30pm. We don't want to miss him!

Alice, Pa and I end up arriving by 4:20pm. Just before 5pm Doris, Rick and Jean(another of mom's daughters) show up. Uncle Russell shows up just after 5pm. Our doctor is a no show, but we learn they didn't take her into surgery until 2pm, an hour later than planned. Richard, Aunt Barb's youngest arrives around 6pm. Felicia, Aunt Chistine's eldest daughter, arrives just after him. At 6:40pm, Dr. Lami finally comes to see us. He tells us the surgery went 'reasonably well'. Mom is being prepped for a blood transfusion. She's a little woman, with little veins, it was technically challenging, Dr. Lami said, but he's happy with the results. When can we see her, we all want to know. He said we should wait 40 minutes or so for them to to the transfusion and move her to the ICU. Then we can go to the ICU waiting room and call ICU West to see if we can see her. But only two of us can go in at a time he warns us.

Richard leaves, he has to go take care of his family. I can't remember if Felicia left just after him or not. Doh. Aunt Christine found us at some point. I think we'd moved to the ICU waiting room by the time she caught up with us. After we got the news Jean and Doris went for a walk. I think Alice and Pa just went to the other waiting room. I went for some food, I was freaking staring, and I had to take my meds. Taking them on an empty stomach would have been a bad idea. I wanted to call Chris, but I don't have a cell phone, I couldn't remember our 905 number, and calling our 416 would be $5 on a pay phone. And I really didn't feel comfy sticking my VISA in a pay phone.

We called 45 minutes after seeing Dr. Lami. They were still working with mom, and we couldn't see her. They asked us to call back in another 40 minutes. When we called back, they let us all come in to see her. She was in a bed near a window. She had tubes down her throat. She had needles hooked into her, and tubes everywhere. She was covered in this odd moving blanket. She was soooooo swollen. None of us had ever seen her look like this before. Pa nearly fell over when he saw her. Thank goodness he had three of his girls beside him. They kept him standing. All them with tears in their eyes, streaming down their face. It occured to me then that they were all the same height, the same small frame. I wasn't crying. She was still with us! She was here. She made it. The ICU nurse explained the odd blanket was keeping her warm with warm air. She'd had two blood transfusions. She was on lots of drugs, for pain, to help her heart work, all sorts. The nurse said she'd woken up, and squeezed their hand when they asked, and that now she was resting - they'd put her out.

Her first night was a little rough. Tuesday morning they did more tests, and found out that either during or soon after her surgery she'd had another attack and had done damage to the back of her heart. She was on lots of drugs to let her heart rest as much as it could, so her heart could heal. Scared. So very very scared. I didn't find all this out until Tuesday night or was it Wednesday? I think it was Wednesday that I learned all this. Yes, Wednesday. She was still the same, still needing lots of support. Still with the damaged heart. Jesus.

I was so scared I called Chris with no pretense even of not crying. I was so scared I was going to lose her. After all this and we were going to lose her. I couldn't lose her! I just couldn't. Heart in my throat. Tears streaming down my face. I needed him. I asked Chris to come to Hamilton, or maybe I begged, my heart was begging, I'm not sure what words were coming out; if he could swing it with work, that is. I was so scared. So very very scared.

I think it was Thursday when Chris came down to see mom. Pa and I went to the hospital in the morning and Chris met me there. We went up to see mom. He told mom he wanted her at his wedding, that he was expecting her there. She squeezed his hand. She was still hooked up to so many tubes, and that horrible tube down her throat! But she was doing better. She was stable now.

I didn't go home that weekend, Chris was sick. But mom had her tube out of her throat by Friday, and was telling me to go! I was not about to risk getting sick. I told her I was staying and why so she wouldn't worry about me. She's all hooked up, just had open heart surgery, and she's worried about me! That's my mom. I love her, and sometimes she makes me crazy.

It was a full week before she was out of ICU. But by that Saturday she was home! I left Friday to visit Chris. Mom had said they didn't think they were letting her out until next week, but she called me Saturday afternoon to tell me she was home! She told me Alice was there, did some laundry, had bought her some groceries, and that she didn't want for anything. So I came home Sunday as planned. You know, I was shocked to see her up and walking around the house. Go mom!

She's still recovering. It's a long ass road. I've been spending my weekends in Toronto and my weeks in Hamilton taking care of my parents as much as they'll let me. Mom can shower all by herself, cook dinner for her and Pa, fill both their pill cases, order prescription refills, all sorts, but she isn't leaving the house, she not that well yet. I think she's doing great! All I really do is get groceries, and do laundry, as that's in the basement.

We're working on plan to get the washer and dryer upstairs. I am finally moving out of my bedroom. Really, we're just playing tetris with the house. Most of my clothes and stuff are going up into the attic. I'm giving Pa my chair, TV, VCR, and DVD player, and letting him borrow the armour it's in. I think at some point I might want the armour back, but that might not be for many years. We're going to take apart my bed, put the frame up int he attic, and the mattress in what is no Pa's room. He'll get my room. And his room can be a pantry/laundry room I think. So much to do. Mom is thinking we don't need to move stuff up from downstairs, but frig, when I'm there I go up and down those stairs about 14 times a day! She can't be doing that. Dr. Lami said when she came home she wouldn't have any restrictions on what she could do, but how well she is makes restrictions. I'm not sure she can handle doing that many stairs! And why should she if she doesn't have to? So yeah, that's where I've been for the past month.

I have always been very very grateful to have my parents as my parents. They took me in when they didn't have to. They loved me and raised me like their own. They spoiled me, loved me, and taught me how to love, and what was really important in life. I'm so very lucky to have them. And after all this, I feel even more lucky. My mommy is going to be at my wedding. My guest of honour.

I told Chris, when we can, I want to donate to the Canadian Heart and Stroke Foundation. And I want to keep doing it. If it wasn't for them, for organizations like them, my mom would not be with us. There just isn't anything more valuable to me. I still have my mommy. And I'm hoping I'll get to keep her for many more years to come.

New Tattoo!!

So yesterday afternoon I got my first tattoo in two years. I've been wanting to get something done for just forever, but what with the not working, and living off the kindness of my man, I just couldn't rationalize the expense.

I started saving my 'allowance', and when I had what I hoped would be almost enough, I went in and booked an appointment. Though I only had to wait a month (with Rick that's really good), it felt like freaking forever.

I have a fairy, well really, it's a pixie, she has pixie wings, and a water lily on my left hip. They didn't really go together, they just sort of sat there, all awkward like. The lines on the lily just never healed right and looked all scratchy and bleck. I almost never heal grey right, unless Rick does it. I've got other tattoos where grey just lifted right out, it's weird.

So anyway, I gave poor Rick the task of figuring out what to do with it to make it look like one piece, and not be so freaking awkward and bleck. At least I gave him free reign. I didn't care what he did, as long as it looked better. I trust him. He's very good at what he does. And I wasn't disappointed, I have to say! It looks soooooo much better!

It's been awhile since I've been tattooed. Maybe I don't remember the pain that clearly, but honest to gods, nothing has ever hurt like that did. There were bits that hurt, but were totally bearable. But a few spots, like high on my hip, it was all I could do not to scream. I'd give it a 12 out of 10 on my pain scale. Seriously.

I think part of the issue is I have full blown fibro now, and I didn't the last time I was tattooed. My skin started to go into shock two hours in to the appointment, meaning that even gentle touch hurt. Actually, gentle, light touches hurt almost as much as the tattooing. Firm touches were the only ones that felt...right. It sucked, I tell you.

One of my worst 'tender spots' (spots where light/normal touching hurt like a mother fucker for us fibro sufferers) are the back of my hips....exactly where he was tattooing. Yeah.

I really should have brought some chocolate. Chocolate seems to calm/comfort me when I'm in a lot of pain. I didn't have any with me sadly, so it was all me. I didn't scream. I whimpered a few times near the end. At one point I actually asked him to stop because I was on the edge of a panic attack and I couldn't guarantee I wouldn't move if he kept going. He seemed really surprised by that. I'm not as tough as I used to be. :(

But I did it. I said, fuck your fibro, and I did it. I endured the pain, and once the fucker heals it will look so so so much better than it did! He relined the lily, coloured the leaves again, re-did the lily pad, the water, added winds and a few flowers, coloured the pixie's skin, gave her boobs, shaded her feet, fixed up the badly healed colour of her dress... It looks good, or it will, when it stops oozing. o.0

Yes, you read that right. It's over 24 hours later, and part of my tattoo is still oozing lymph fluid! WTF. I've never ever had a tattoo ooze for this long! I've had some bits ooze for 24 hours, but not more than that. Never more than that. 32 hours, and I'm still freaking oozing. I oozed through my pjs! I've put a sterile pad on it, and tapped it down. I hope to gods that will be enough and it will stop by morning. That is sooo not going to heal well if it doesn't flipping stop oozing!

The rest of the tattoo, all but that one spot on the bottom of my hip, has dried out nicely, and is on it's way to healing. It really is on the bottom of my hip. My whole hip is so swollen it's freaking round like melon. It's intense. I had to wear a skirt today so my clothes wouldn't be putting pressure on it! I don't like wearing a skirt; I felt vulnerable. bleck.

I really can't get over the pain though. I mean, it hurts now, it's tender and swollen, and likely bruised, but I expected that. The pain during, I never expected it to be that bad. Rick says it gets worse, the older you get. Bah! I do not want to know that! I still have other ink I want to get, but I'm not sure I can endure that again! I was mostly okay for the first two hours of the session, but the last two hours, I had to fight, and swallow the pain every second of it. Perhaps next time I should bring not only chocolate, but something solid, to very literally re-fuel during one of Rick's smoke breaks. Also totally need to remember to bring an extra sweater, just in case. Man, do they keep it cool in there! But then, Rick was sweating...tattooing is hard work, what with the pushing against me and the hot lights on me and therefore him.

It's worth it though, possibly just for the hugs. My tattoo, when healed will look sooo much better. Heck, it already looks so much better. It's cool now. I don't have to be so damn ashamed of it. Now I can be proud of it. It's cute and kinda cool. I'll be happy to show it to people, when the oozing stops. o.0 jeez.

Hrm... maybe I can survive this again. I know I want more tattoos. So I have to be able to endure it. I just have to. Fucking fibro, making everything more of a fight than it should be.

Note: I will post pictures when it finally stops oozing. Rick is Rick James of Mata Mata Studios. He gives awesome hugs. No, really. :)

Exotic Flowers

So, even though the weather today has been amazing, sunshine and 14˚C, I've been feeling not only grumpy/angry but also like I was hit by a mack truck. Fucking fibro.

So I decided, I needed to get out. I had no desire to go do something productive, like get a steamer, so not fun. I had to get out, so to convince myself, I thought, why not do something to cheer myself up? So I decided to get myself flowers. Flowers was something I'd totally leave the house for. So I did. :D



Aren't they pretty?? They barely all fit in my vase! Ha. I think I might need a bigger vase. So lovely. And worth every penny of the $30 I spent on them! $30 of flowers for immeasurable happiness? Oh yeah, so very worth it. I love, love love them.



I just can't get over the colours! So bright. Exotic flowers rock. I threw in some easter lily's too, 'cause well, I wanted to add some white and they work perfectly.

Living with Fibromyalgia

It's been a month and a bit since I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia. My doctor has given me a drug to try to manage my pain - a half dose of Cymbalta. Overall I really think it's helping. When I look back/read part blog entries, and I think about how riddled with pain I was, it's like night and day to now. I still get sore, I still have sinus headaches occasionally, and migraines randomly, but I'm not in pain 24/7. I'm not so sore that I spend days in bed crying. I'm still really tired. I get tired easily. I take a long time to recover/regain energy when I exert myself. But overall, huge improvement.

I can go out with friends. I was up till 4 am new years eve! I slept in till noon! noon! Slept like a rock! Like my old self! I've glowed on occasion even! I'm so so much happier. I feel a lot more like my old self. So much so that I've recently started beating myself up mentally for being so stupidly tired. My brain is ready to go, it wants to do things, and my body lags. It says "I want to stay in bed! I'm tired! Lets do nothing today!" And I find myself wondering, all over again, why am I sore, why am I so damn tired, what's wrong with me? Oh yeah, I have Fibromyalgia. It kicks your ass. It's not my fault. I also am either getting over a cold or have a sinus infection, I can't tell which, but both are very draining for me. So yeah. Life is so much better. Many days I even forget I have a chronic illness. How sweet is that?

Chris is so good to me. So so good. He takes care of me when I'm just not feeling up to it. He's been on vacation, and totally spoiling me. Cooking for me, doing dishes, buying groceries. I really appreciate the help. Especially on days like today when my body just feels heavy and tired, and sore. Not epic sore, but my knees hurt when I stand/walk, and I know if I had had to go for groceries I'd have been in agony by the time I got back. He's also the voice of reason so very often. He's the one telling me it's okay that I'm tired, that I've been doing a lot, that he doesn't mind getting groceries or making dinner, it's okay that I need to rest. I need to hear that. I have this horrible habit of beating myself up when I can't do the things I think I should be able to, that I was once able to.

Perhaps this will sound crazy, but I honestly do forget it's not my fault. I think, why can't I do these things? What's wrong with me? Like somehow it's my fault. But it's not my fault. I have Fibromyalgia, for pete's sake. I have a chronic illness, and it takes it's toll on me in a whole host of ways. It's not my fault. There is nothing I've done to contract it. There is nothing I could have done to stop if from developing. Even if there was, I had no way of knowing, neither does the medical community, for that matter. It is what it is, and I've got to learn to live with it. I have to learn to stop blaming myself, stop beating myself up for not living up to my own expectations. Chris is wonderful for this. Every time he says it's okay, I hear "it's not your fault, I don't blame you" and it sinks in a little deeper. It's okay to have tired days, or slow days, or bad days. I can't help it. He's not going to stop loving me because of any of it. I'm not ruining his life. I'm not wasting mine. I don't have the words for how much that means to me. I'm so very happy I get to keep him. I really really am. He's such a good man.