Needles, Headaches and Dammit! I'm Standing Up!!

I'm finally sitting up with only minimal head pain.  I had the big finale of tests this passed Thursday, the needle in the spine, the lumbar puncture.  My nerves were shot for the majority of the days leading up to it and finally on the morning of, I was a wreck.  They were putting a needle in between the vertebrae of my spine to steal my cerebrospinal fluid for testing and I was not really happy about the whole ordeal.  Sure it's the last test on the list but:  NEEDLE IN MY SPINE!!  All told, I ended up with twelve freezing needles and two in the spine.  It felt as gross as you think it did. Blech.

Once I arrived at the hospital and met my nurse I was almost immediately at a slight ease but still wringing my hands.  Normally tests don't make me nervous but this one did so, with the doctor's permission, she gave me a lovely dose of lorazepam and left me to grin until the neurologist arrived for the test so I sat texting everyone I knew furiously and staring at my feet swinging over the side of the bed.  I should not have watched the procedure on YouTube.  It doesn't look that bad but, it's a damn needle in my spine.  I think I'm still freaking out.

Happy pre-procedure with Ativan, johnny shirt & Chucks.

Aaaand what the final result of a lumbar puncture looks like.  Yuck!

There is also the fact that I'm still nursing a "spinal headache", a side effect of the procedure.  Basically if I'm standing up or sitting upright, my head is pounding.  I'd equate it to a migraine because light and sound hurt but I think I'd be putting down the power of the mighty migraine as I've never had one to compare.  All I know is that I'd rather have a fork jammed in my temple than feel that pain.  Yes, yes I know I can take ibuprofen or acetaminophen but it doesn't help.  The only thing that rids the melon of the throbbing spinal headache is to lay down.  Once I'm horizontal, I feel like a million dollars and can take on the world.  

Three days in bed is enough, I need to move before I fuse to the sheets and farther than just the school and back or answering the door for take-out.  I did force myself up today, swallowed more ibuprofen than I care to admit before tackling a shower and the weekly Sunday Big Breakfast.  I felt great bumbling into the bathroom with clean clothes and towels, excited for the hot water and fun smells.  By the time I was rinsing the shampoo out of my hair I couldn't keep my eyes open because the light hurt so much and the noise of the fan was, well I wanted to suffer the noise of the gun shot to make it stop.  I suffered through conditioner and getting washed while hoping to get my ass to bed before I had to start Big Breakfast but no.

I hopped out of the shower to a text that my regular Sunday morning guest was coming a little earlier.  That was fine as I still thought I had time for a quick lay down before I started cooking until I saw what the munchkins had managed to do to the kitchen while I was in the shower.  There was at least one load for the dishwasher, the floor needed a severe sweeping and mop while the table and counters were also in need of a scrub.  I sighed, I sat and I put three little people to work.  I was pleasantly surprised that these three who normally do their best to become my housework nemesis happily chipped in and helped clean the mess in the kitchen.  My kids, outside of their constant sibling fighting, really are thoughtful and awesome.

The bacon was a little burned, the sausages were a little extra greasy and the pancakes were unusual but edible at best.  I cooked, swallowed more ibuprofen, put my head down on the table, cleaned up and kept going.  I did it.  With a three day headache I managed to accomplish Sunday Big Breakfast, survived three squealing kids who take the words "Mom isn't feeling good, please be whisper quiet today" as a challenge of who has the highest volume and a lovely man loudly discussing the finer points of pistols and whiskey over a breakfast I didn't have the stomach for.

I wouldn't change it for the world, not one moment.  

I'm one step closer to full diagnosis, treatment and getting my hands back to at least some use.  I was shown just how much Lily, Chloe and Everett do care and reaffirmed how much I'm thankful that I have such thoughtful babies.  Plus I was able to be distracted by someone who enjoys the same things as I do, teaches me a lot of new things and isn't afraid to make fun of my spastic arm.  Through all that pain and feeling like my eyes were trying to escape my head, I couldn't help but smile and laugh and be at peace, happy in the moment surrounded by people I care about.

I really am a lucky girl.

THE BREAKFAST
(Yes, the whiskey was included.)

I Saw My Brain and Other Adventures

I woke up this morning with every intent on this being a good day.  That is until I realized I slept in for the first day of school.  I rushed and somehow managed to get three kids fed, dressed, washed, lunches made and out the door in time to get to their first day of school.  It wasn't without some battles of "there's no way you're wearing that" and the panic of making sure everyone has everything they need even though we've checked and double checked every day for a week now.  Let's add the breath test to make sure all the teeth are brushed and the face inspection to make sure no jam from breakfast was missed during the washing.  Clean kids is a small morning victory.

We all managed our shoes, our stuff and were on our merry way.  Lily found her grade six class, Chloe made it to her grade three room and Little Man Everett arrived safe and sound to grade one.  Once they were dropped off I slowly meandered my way home.  Kids first day back to school was a small morning victory so I kicked a rock, mailed a letter (yes, people still do this) and pondered how fast my kids are getting older and bigger and also, like most mothers, how weird it will be to have a quiet house all day even after a summer all by myself. However great this small victory, I still needed to get home and clean the house a little. 

So I get home and what faces me is two broken wooden beds and a bunch of boxes that I pulled out of storage to rummage through and purge.  That was a mistake.  I looked up the stairs and wondered how the hell I was going to get the energy to get up them let alone get the broken beds broken down for the garbage.  Not only that, I had company coming at ten for tea.  It was 9:30AM and I wasn't even close to ready for anyone to see the mess that had become my apartment.  I quickly kicked off my boots and grabbed the clothes and the Mr. Clean and the broom.  I had that place looking clean yet slightly disorganized with enough time to brush my teeth, my hair and change my shirt.  I stood with the broom in my hand, the dish cloth on my shoulder waving like a cape with my hand on my hip ... Super Mom? No, Super Procrastinator who completed a small task in a tizzy rush which I am counting as another small morning victory.

The kettle was on when my morning visitor came bearing gifts of a giant box of tea and a big jug of milk.  It was lovely but I was more excited about the smile, the hug and the little bit of affection I was craving.  I will not nor do I want to get into details of the discussion but let's just say that no one ran, no one cried, no one freaked out but someone did fart.  All in all, another small morning victory that left me happy, comfortable and secure.  

Now the big part:  the neurologist.  The kids went to my friend's place while I went for the bus which was late then the ferry which was also late then the walk which made me late to the office where the doctor was running behind.  Thank you universe.  There's only one other time I remember shaking in a doctor's office and it's not a time I care to remember.  I texted my friends, joked with the receptionist and listened to the older couple next to me try to figure out what the purpose of a neurologist was. They also whispered about me very loudly.

"She's too young to be here, there's nothing wrong with her."

"Ohhh wait, look! Her hands do that tremor thing like mine do .... hers are worse." (Picture the look of awe on a woman who is at bare minimum 80.)

Yeeeeah, dear readers, remember that sometimes people can hear you whisper when you're sitting next them separated only by an end table with two magazines.  Nothing else to do but giggle as they were freaking adorable.  Before I could debate too long on whether or not to tell them what the FRCPC meant after Dr. MacKelvey's name (Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians of Canada for anyone who was also wondering), THE Dr. MacKelvey was calling my name.  

Off I went but no skip in my step since I felt like I was walking to my doom.  I sat, he sat and reviewed my charts and then he did the coolest thing ever:  he brought up my MRI scan and showed me my BRAIN!!  I saw my brain! Top and side view and my neck and it was so interesting and so gross.  My eyes looked like boiled eggs and my cervical spine look like meaty ox tail.  The brain itself looks just how you'd imagine it, like wrinkled grey play dough.  The MRI scan was amazing, I could even see hairs coming from the line that was my skin and wrinkles and what would be muscle and the bone was incredible.  I was able to see the inside of one of my vertebrae!!  Small afternoon victory of seeing the inside of my own head and not a lobster's! Whoop!

I also saw my lesions and that's when it was real.  Reading the MRI report was one thing but seeing the white blotches on the screen that was MY brain, not a Google image, hammered home the reality.  I was in a neurologists office, not someone else, being told that although I seem to have gained some strength since my last visit, my progress was slow and it didn't look like my hand function was going to come back.  I wasn't holding someone else's hand when they were told that even though the lesions were small, there were a lot of them, I was wringing my own hands together.  It was my shoulder this man touched, looked me in the eye and promised me he was going to do what he could to keep my from progressing like my mother.  He told me not to give the 100% to the diagnosis yet, to keep hope up and there are still more tests to do then finished that statement with,

"All young women like you with these kind of lesions, it's always MS".

Lumbar puncture next week.  Going to look at my cerebrospinal fluid for oligoclonal bands, patterns of immunoglobulins (antibodies) which are products of the breakdown of myelin or something to that basic sort.  Testing positive for these bands is indicative of MS and will, along with the MRI and EMG test, give me the 100%.  Although, the way he looked at me changed and suddenly I'm being seen not at his office next time but at a hospital with all of my follow-ups at the local MS Clinic.

The receptionist was a little nicer on my way out, spoke a little softer when she handed me a blood work sheet and the clinic's card to call at any time with any questions.  She'll be in touch with the time for the lumbar puncture, which will happen within a week with a six week return on the results which, if positive, will be the result needed to start interfuron therapy to slow any progression and help put me in remission from this lapse.

No real victory this afternoon, just a good dose of reality.

The Great Gimpy vs Lobster Battle of 2013

Picture it:  Atlantic SuperStore, Fairview Halifax during a no-tax sale.  Myself and three small kids wandering through deciding on how to spend our very small budget to obtain maximum meal results.  We also required something for a celebratory meal since after months of stress, worry and spending copious amounts of money for requested paperwork, my long-term disability claim was approved.  I don't have to worry anymore about forcing myself back to work and can concentrate on my appointments, the lifestyle changes, regulating medications and getting myself to a good place before I have to add work to the equation but, I digress, as that is not the point of this story.

We traipsed around the store until I spied a big yellow discount sign in the seafood department, I swung a hard left almost knocking three tiny people down like dominoes and headed toward the beacon of money saving possibilities.  That is where I saw a sale on lobster.  LOBSTER!  So not only did I find cooked, fresh lobsters at a no-tax sale but also marked down for sale.  I rummaged through the bin with the other vultures, shooting necessary dirty looks until I found the perfect lobster.  Not too big and not too small not too big of an amount on the price tag which fit perfectly within the range of "I'd only spend it on tea at Tim's anyway" reasoning.  

Red Delicious

We brought home our fresh red delicious crustacean and carefully placed him in the fridge.  There he sat while I sat at the table realizing that I have the grip strength of an eight year old child and cracking a lobster could prove next to impossible.  The search for a volunteer lobster cracker began and, after two days and contacting pretty much everyone I know to see if they would be willing to come help me, I ended up with no help. Finally, on the second day I came to realize I was in the position where it was either eat the damn thing or introduce him to the compost bucket in the morning.  I almost mourned this lobster by constantly thinking about the newspaper and plastic bag covered table, the mess of the shells, how long it had been since I've dribbled lobster juice down my chin and the front of my shirt while I was tipped back in my chair and sucking on claw like a por... nevermind, not finishing that analogy but I'm sure you guys get it.

I decided to take out Red Delicious and while ripping open the plastic wrap had a chat with the lesions in my brain to please allow my hands to not be so weak today because there was something important that needed to be completed.  No, I don't have a nutcracker and yes I have a hammer but considering the fact that I drop almost everything I pick up, no one really wants me to be swinging a hammer.  I thought about it, I planned and, in some cases, I sent texts with subliminal messages such as, "feel like having some lobster?" but it didn't work.  I considered locking the munchkins in a room and digging out my hard hat so I could hulk smash this little beast but then thought of the possible holes in the walls or the broken kitchen window that could result from me flailing any type of heavy object.  Finally I was cranky and decided to go for it.

Calm.

Prepare for murderous rampage.

 I know, it's not very big but we had our talk and I think my hate face finally softened his shell.

I took some deep breaths, I had some minor meditation and then Red Delicious and I had our talk.  I explained to this beast that I was a mother with children to feed and that he was going to a better place, our bellies.  Finally I tried an intimidation tactic and showed this little, delicious ocean cockroach who was boss and brought out my hate face.  I put it on the table, I took off my sweater and put a bun in my hair and readied myself for the gimp battle of the year so far.  My cracking, aching hands were no match for my will power ... and, aside from that, I was hungry.  I grasped the tail, I twisted and I pulled.

SURPRISE!

Hell yeah, now let's get serious.

 The beginning of my victories over this beast of the sea!

I snapped that tail one way and then split it the other pulling the meat out and letting the juice spill on the plate below me.  I tossed the remnants onto a plastic bag and went for the body.  Slowly I removed each leg, one by one and enjoying every snap of the shell as it came off in my greasy hand with a crunch and a squirt of the salty water this monster once lived and was boiled it.  As I grasped the now legless and tailless body in my hands, I squeezed it in my fists and felt that shell crack which allowed me to open it and take out the gross stuff that none of us here eats.  However, I did get to inspect the inside of Red Delicious' head which followed promptly by disgusting myself at how a little too interested I had become in lobster brains.  

The tail was completed, the legs were removed and the plates were filling up with lobster meat but there was one part left:  claws.  This is the part I was worried about, the part that gave this Lester his strength in his life might be the downfall of my slow victories today.  I took a deep breath and started, each knuckle coming off easier than I expected (the lobster's, not mine although it was starting to feel like mine were about to snap off) and I pushed little pieces of meat onto the plates while the juices started spilling to the floor.  A messy clean up was worth these small conquests and I was happily sitting on the top of the food chain.  I did it.  I cracked the claws and dug out the meat.  The juices and bits of shell covered my shirt and I was loving it.

After wiping up the majority of the mess, I yelled to my kids to come taste the fruits of my labour.  One little lobster died so that we could have a treat ... CORRECTION: so that they could have a treat.  The three little monsters ate it up so fast by the time I turned back around from putting the shells in the compost, it was all gone.  Vultures.  I live with three tiny vultures but it's okay since they were smiling and happy on the top of their food chain too.

Thumbs up to lobster murder and dismemberment.

Things I Need to Stop, Please (picture me sticking my tongue out)

I'm starting this after a misunderstanding of a comment from a lovely cousin on a post I put on Facebook last night.  What started as a joke turned into a half a joke leaving me confused.  My cousin was able to squeak out a "stop please" before she ran to go for coffee with her friend and was unable to finish the joke she was making.  It left me sitting here wondering what it exactly it is I need to stop.  This woman is amazing and, even though we've barely had a conversation over the last few years, she's been quite supportive and offered a lot of support for my new journey with MS so I know there was nothing negative but, it still made me think.

I laid in bed staring at the ceiling making a mental list of things I needed to stop or possibly needed to stop.  Stop writing?  Oh hell no.  I don't care how awful of an author I am, writing this blog is the best therapy outside of getting a tattoo and we all, well most of us, know how therapeutic that needle can be. 

Do I stop getting tattooed?  Stop laughing, I was serious!  It'll never happen though, I don't feel finished yet and getting inked is a personal journey.  I'm sure I'll let you know when my canvas is complete.  Same goes for the ears, they're at a 0 gauge and definitely going to be bigger.  Swallow that thought now, I'm not arguing about it or justifying it.

Do I stop second guessing my abilities?  Yes.  I think that's one thing I can stop and learn to trust that I am an intelligent and capable woman.  Fear of failure stemming from doubting if I was good enough has already cost me a couple of dreams so dammit, I need to work on putting that one to bed as do a lot of us other smart, capable women.  A road to success is paved with failure.  Yes, it is now cliche o'clock.

Do I stop hoping to find love?  The answer six months ago was a resounding yes.  There was no way in hell I would even consider being in a relationship.  I didn't want it, wasn't looking for it and had no desire whatsoever to let someone in.  I was quite happy alone and was quite happy with staying that way.  There was no way I would let anyone set me up, introduce me to people, just no.  I very much enjoyed the freedom of being single, being on my own and doing my own thing without having to include anyone else outside of my little family.  Funny how things change when someone walks in your life and throws you for loop.  Seems all of my desire to never be in another relationship melted away and now I look forward to it.  I'm actually a little mad this person has made me a smiling, ridiculously happy hypocrite.

Do I stop the negative body image?  Another resounding yes!  So  what if I'm fluffy, I've actually grown to love the few extra pounds that I have.  The older I get, the less afraid of mirrors I have become.  Yes it can be difficult finding clothes since I'm too big for normal stores and too small for plus size but hey, I'm not exactly a person with a conventional sense of style anyway.  I've learned that no one is perfect and I've learned that it is the imperfections in people that I find beautiful because they're what makes that person different.  I needed to learn to love the imperfections in myself and I think I'm on that road.  So hey, calling me fat is not an insult, I know what size my pants are and if you don't like my fat ass, that's your problem and not mine.  I'm gonna flip my giant curls and keep strutting along.

Do I stop singing to myself?  Only when I'm alone in public.  I'm a rock star, my singing to myself is not going to stop so please, stop shooting the dirty looks up at my kitchen window when I'm putting on a concert for my cats.

Do I stop worrying?  I'm a mother of three kids, I will never stop worrying.  It's the things I worry about that needed to change.  Worry priorities!  Worrying what the people at my job think about my performance when I know that I'm doing my job to the best of my abilities is not important but worrying about my kids getting home safe from school is perfectly fine.  See the difference?  I have learned to, albeit not always successfully, prioritized the worries.  I'm working on it.

Do I stop shaking?  I have MS!  Okay, that's not funny but hey, I need a sense of humour with this diagnosis.  I won't stop shaking but I'm not going to stop working on taking care of myself and getting as healthy as I possibly can, learn to live with the symptoms I have, prepare for the ones that might be ahead of me and fight like hell to keep the Lesion Family in my brain from adding to their brood.  MS picked a worthy opponent, I'm one tough sonofabitch.   

I had a big list in my head last night while I was laying in bed but this is what I've managed to get out for tonight.  I expect that this entry may be edited to add more "stops" and explanations as to why I should or shouldn't actually stop them.  It was a nice purge tonight and must say I feel pretty good now.  Good enough for a cup of tea, pajamas and a snuggle up with The Big Lebowski.

OH!!  I will never stop with tea,  zebra print flannel or classic movies either ... 

It's That Time of Year ... 100 Pre-Sharpened Pencil Time!

I sit down a little while ago to do the inevitable and combine three school supply lists into one easy list for shopping.  As I have the three lists in front of me, I realize just how specific these lists are but horribly so.  It's not a pack of crayons, it's Crayola crayons only and very specific scribblers, pencils, etc.  Before I have a teacher jump down my throat here, I understand that it's better to have the classroom uniform and all the kids have the same things but my question is this:  does it really have to be Crayola, Hilroy, HB, Fiskars, Mead and everything else brand name?  Why can't it be no-name or dollar store brands?  I understand there are some things that can't be found as a no-name product but come on, there's no reason to not break it down to minimal name brand supplies.

Let's look at it this way:  I don't live in the best of neighbourhoods.  Where I am situated, although close to an elementary school, is a combination of low-income families, single working mothers/fathers, fixed income families and other assorted families peppered between senior citizens.  It's a quiet neighbourhood but still a little sketchy as one would expect from a low-income area.  So, if the majority of the children going to this elementary school are families like mine and budgeted to the penny, than how is it possible to expect all of these families to come up with the supplies?  Okay, I'll concede that a lot of them have one child which makes buying supplies easier but, for the most part, it's two or more children in the school and that can make for a small financial crisis.  I didn't start this to complain though as this is a time of year I normally enjoy and not just because the kids are back in school but because we have a lot of fun getting ready for it.

Back to school shopping is normally a game.  The kids and I pick a day to go to the stores with our list and turn shopping into a scavenger hunt where each will be given a supply to find and put in the cart.  Sounds kind of boring but think of chasing three little people with a shopping cart while they get excited over the pretty folders and the funky scissors, can't help but have a good laugh at the red-faced little people fighting their way through an aisle full of crayons.  Oh and the look on their faces when they can't reach is priceless and turns them into tiny engineers if I don't get down the aisle in time to get it for them.  Then it's home, a little pizza party to celebrate our conquest followed by sorting it all out.  Everyone in their own spot with their list yelling out what they need while I toss it in their pile.  Once that's finished, it's the labelling and packing and bed.  Doing this last year was actually quite simple and I was blessed with the list requiring a lot of dollar store items but this year, well see for yourself:

• Edit:  List of supplies has been removed as it was brought to my attention that the post was coming across as a shady way of asking for help and that is not the case.  My apologies to anyone who misunderstood the point of this entry and I do thank you for the offers of assistance.  Please, all I ask is that you keep on reading ...

I still have some supplies from the last school year but not nearly enough to get them through.  When I add school bags, lunch bags, gym sneakers, new clothes to the list it makes my head spin.  I want to enjoy this back to school season as much as the other ones, not fret over if we're going to get it all together in time.  I've already mentally written the note to the teachers to say, "sorry but you'll just have to wait for the rest".   No harm in that I guess and I'm sure I'm not the only parent who isn't able to afford everything all at once.  I know I could've done it all in bits and pieces over the summer but all of the extra money went to my doctor's office to pay for the reports requested by my employer, Shepell and ManuLife.  That itself is a totally new post.

So, dear readers, cross your fingers that at the end of this month I'm delegating the sharpening of 100 pencils to a group of tired babies of mine in preparation for the impending trek to the classroom.  I can't think of anything I'd rather do than a school supply pizza party with my little munchkins.

Who can resist chasing these three tiny crazy people around Wal-Mart?

Nightmares? No, I've had enough but thanks ...

Have you ever had one of those dreams that were so real that they stuck with you for hours, sometimes days after having them?  Or that they were so real that you woke up from your sleep mid-dream in either sweats, tears or panic, maybe even ecstasy?  That happened to me last night. I remember bolting upright in my bed with a tightness in my chest and an unnerving sense of urgency and panic thinking I was still in my dream.  I slowly realized I was in bed and in the dark except for the reptile lights, sweating under my comforter and trying to catch my breath.  The dream I had was so real that I really did want to pinch myself.

The evening started quite normally, I snuggled up with my copious amount of pillows, ensuring they were all placed perfectly where they'd be the most comfortable for me.  Three under my head, body pillow wrapped around between my knees one tucked behind my back and on and on.  I don't know why I do it, I wake up with most of them on the floor but it's a cozy way to fall asleep happy and relaxed.  The cats did their usual bounce off me and into the window but they settled down while I finished watching a silly show on the laptop before turning over and passing out.  Then I remember this:

Laying in a hospital bed surrounded by a doctor, a couple of nurses, my shooting instructor and a lawyer.  The lawyer I have never come across in waking memory which doesn't make any sense because I do have a lawyer that does my papers.  I remember them saying something that I understood as "feeding tube" and felt the actual pinch in my side.  I looked at the lawyer, the worried face of my charming companion and signed what I understood as a power of attorney, a living will.

That's when I woke.  Deep breaths, confusion and panic in the dark but I came around, sent texts to people that I'm close to asking if they ever had dreams that felt so real.  I ran to the washroom and did the cold water on the face trick that I think only works in the movies followed by some deep breaths.  I fell into some meditation breathing and snapped myself out of it, went back to bed and, after a long time and diary entry, fell back to sleep.

I don't think that this would be so much of a nightmare if it wasn't something that could possibly happen.  With the diagnosis of MS, I've had to rethink and redo a lot of things in my life from diet and exercise, work and yes, even my final wishes and plans, insurance and all that other lovely stuff.  Was this my brain telling me to get a move on with some of these things or just some fears manifesting in the subconscious state?  Was it a way for my brain to tell me that I've been a little too aloof with this diagnosis and to start taking it a little more seriously?  Either way it ruined my lovely sleep and I can think of much better things to do with my range companion than sign paperwork in a hospital bed.

Whatever the reason for it, it freaked me out, still is a little bit and for some reason, I felt the need to share.  To be honest, I'd take a zombie nightmare over that any time.  Zombies I'm ready for but lawyers scare the shit of me (teehee).

Brass, Sweat, Steel and Gunpowder

I walked through what looked like a dining room that ran almost the length of the building I just went into.  Rows of clean perfect tables, pine wood panelling and concrete floors with a directional star in the middle, shocking for the place considering what it was.  I stopped and traced the toe of my pink steel toe boot along the "N" depicting North and then the "S" that was pointing more toward the door that I needed.  I could see the lake from the windows across from me and feel the pine needles stuck to the bottom of my boots.  I scanned the place, found the smile I was looking for and followed the bearer to the door with some bundles of things we needed to do what we had come to do.  

He opened the door, the squeak of the hinges resonating though the building that was empty except for us. The room smelled like nothing I've ever smelled before.  I sniffed, laughed and commented on the different odour that was an overpowering scent of unpolished brass, sweat, steel and gunpowder.  It was an assault on the senses at first but after leaving to use the washroom and re-entering, it became welcome, almost comforting.  That could have been do to the person who was waiting for me to come back.  Did my brain make a connection between the smell of a shooting range to the person who was introducing me to it?  Probably.  I'm sure if I was dragged there against my will, that smell would not have become so pleasant.

We walked the length of the range together, checking out what was ahead of us and planning targets.  I poked the at the archery targets with the fascination of a child.  They're actually a lot more dense than I expected.  I don't know why I was thinking they would be soft, maybe because I'm warped by Robin Hood: Men in Tights since the targets are stuffed with hay and look so fluffy in that movie.  We found a target deer  that I became quite amused by and I'm sure my sanity was called into question when I walked back down the range to check out the hole in the boards that made up the wall at the end.  There was nothing but wood chips and angled styrofoam panelling, musty and pungent.  I walked back with a skip in my step and helped with picking the perfect position for a target.  We hung normal target looking papers first, then zombie targets.  I guess we were playfully preparing for the zombie apocalypse.  I can't hit the broad side of the barn so I guess I'm very lucky that my wonderful instructor nailed Eddie the Executive square in the eye.  

It was my turn.  Which one did I want?  I didn't care, I don't really know the difference between them all yet (relax, I'm studying and learning and still a newbie so please forgive my fuck ups).  With my MS I shouldn't really be shooting without my wrists braced but I felt good today, a little stronger than usual so I gave in to temptation.  He handed me two 9mm, told me to pick.  Not so easy while I eyeballed the .45 that I remember being so fond of the first time he had taken me to a range, that one outdoor.  The lighter one, it might be easier.  He gently reminded me how to slide the clip in, pull the slide and the whispered reminder to keep my damn finger off of the trigger until I was ready to pull it.  

It's a strange feeling to have a gun in your hands.  Having my two hands wrapped on something that has such a destructive potential feels both empowering and terrifying at the same time.  It's anticipatory adrenaline that brings your heartbeat to your ears when your concentrating on that target ahead of you and every time I pulled that trigger, felt that recoil and resonance of the boom, I felt stunned at how utterly powerful these weapons really are.  I was holding in my little squeals but I couldn't hide that crooked smile of complete disbelief that I was really doing this, the Buddhist was learning to fire handguns.  I could hear my charming chaperon giggling behind me, keeping me grounded and keeping me safe.  I'll reiterate, I cannot hit the broadside of a barn but I managed to get some on target and the only thing I really accomplished was realizing how much fun target shooting is, having some laughs and feeling a little more bonded with my tender attendant who is, obviously, a much better shot than I ever will be.

We packed it in.  I swept up the brass shells while he gathered up the equipment.  Oddly enough, the sounds of the brass banging together and pouring into the bin was almost musical, like a deadly falling xylophone.  I swept the range of the papers that came off our mutilated targets, happily pushing the dirt to the pile already started by the hole in the wall while I was quickly reminiscing on the day and smiling at the laughter I could hear at the other end of the building.  A hearty, infectious laugh that dissipates any shitty mood I happen to be in and brings down the guard I normally have quite high.

So, all in all, it was a marvelous day and one that I'm thankful for.  I can't wait to do it again ... and again.

One More Pet & I Can Charge Admission to My Zoo

I had a doctor's appointment today, I'm pretty sure it was appointment number 125 556 926 or at least that's what it felt like.  I'm sure I spend more time with my doctor than I do with my friends.  Today we filled out the paperwork for long-term disability and that was certainly not fun.  I have a list a mile long of things that my body just does not want to do or does without my permission.  Thankfully, I do not require diapers ... yet.  I'm sure I'll have a wonderful long post about that if the time ever comes that I welcome Depends into my life but as of right now, I'm good.  Well, I have to cross my legs when I sneeze or laugh too hard but I'm going to blame that on my kids.

During the question and answer period about whether or not my hands are working yet and a giggle about how my left bicep gets spastic when I lift my right leg, my doctor looks at me and says I look a little stressed.  I fell into sarcasm mode and replied with, "yes, another $150 for three pieces of paper to be faxed to a multi-million dollar corporation while I sit figuring out what bill I can avoid to use the money to pay for the report is always good for the stress levels".  Her raised eyebrow and suddenly pursed lips showed her surprise at my response but it was a true statement and she understood my frustration.  

Then the magic happened, my soft-spoken and well-meaning caring Egyptian doctor who never lets me leave her office before she tells me a corny joke makes a statement that I think is her corny joke, "you should look into adopting a companion dog for yourself".  I'm sure I choked on my own saliva before I explained to her that I have three kids, two cats, a free-roaming iguana and a tiny corn snake so if I added one more pet, I could start charging admission to the zoo that would be my apartment.  yI had to ask if she was volunteering to buy food and pick up poop because I have enough shit to deal with.  Seriously, between the litter box, terrarium and nightly iggy baths plus kids who forget how to flush and my own potty trips, I literally do have more shit than my fair share.  I'm not really complaining, I don't mind the poop but I certainly don't need to add another bum to this equation.

Then she explains to me that I should see the other animals, not including the kids here, as more of my owners, that cats and reptiles see the human they live with as their provider of food and, when they feel the need, affection.  They also see us as their cleaners of poop and other assorted pet tasks.  So basically, they love me but to them I am merely a caretaker and I get paid in random acts of affection that usually mean "get up and feed me".  Dr. Smiley then explains that dogs see us as caretakers but also see us as friends and actually value our companionship, love us unconditionally, give us affection without ulterior motives.  I beg to differ because I know if I was unable to get myself to the bathroom, I would be the kindest and most-loving creature to the person or alien that was going to be taking me there.

So, I've come to the conclusion that as much as I would love to have a dog around here, it's simply not feasible.  I know the kids would love a dog and I know if we adopted an older dog I could avoid some of the initial costs of having him fixed and the struggles of potty training and just get through the struggles of introducing an older dog to a ridiculously strange family dynamic.  Maybe sometime in the future when things calm down around here with me settling into my new diagnosis, treatment and the family gets used to all changes that are happening can we make room for a brand new slobbering, furry mess of an addition to the brood.

... and no, I'm not referring to a man although some do bare a striking resemblance to our canine counterparts.

She sat there during the whole process of writing this post, bumping my hands wanting to be petted.
Voice recognition doesn't work when all you're saying is, "Sasha be nice!".
And yes, I am sitting on the side of my bed using  stacked Rubbermaid containers as a desk, shoot me.

Tattoos - A Different Kind of Discrimination

I left the house today in a sleeveless shirt, a nice dressy one paired with clean, comfortable jeans that I save for special outings and some dress shoes.  My hair was down but it's obvious that it's clean, brushed and taken care of.  I wasn't wearing make-up today but that's not unusual for me either and aside from that, I was having a girl's day out to a movie and maybe some dinner with my buddy Miss M so, make-up was not a necessity.  A greasy, fast food supper that would hit the spot with it's horrific, heart attack inducing deliciousness.  Sorry, it's been a while since I've had the pleasure of A&W and A&W is where everything ends up in this post but first, let's get the details underway.

Everything was great when we went out aside from getting stuck in the rain and having no coat.  We managed to time the bus perfectly, had enough time to wander around some shops and sat in the movie theatre with an almost perfectly timed arrival with perfect sweet spot, dead centre seats.  Everything was perfect to watch some 3D zombie mayhem.

So, here's the issue:  when I go out with shorter sleeves it becomes apparent that I have tattoo work.  I'm working on a full sleeve on my left arm so I'm tattood from shoulder to wrist, have a couple of tats on my right arm, a piece on my chest and sprinkling of a few more in places less visible.  Today my arms and chest tattoos were out for the world to see.  Usually I think nothing of it and just go about my business with the attitude that these are mine, they're personal to me and if someone doesn't like them then don't look. By some standards I have a lot of work done, by others I have very little.  Tattoos and everything that surrounds them is subject to a lot of different factors with the biggest one being preference, of course.

Every time my tattoos are visible, I see people look and that's fine, I look at tattooed people too.  I do it because I love the art of it, the fact that we can use our skin as a canvas to tell our story amazes me.  I assume people think the same way I do, whether it's a respectful fascination and appreciation like mine or simply wondering what the hell is wrong with painted people, it's okay with me.  I've been pointed at and that's okay too.  I'm sure I am not the first or the only person with ink that has had someone point at them.  Sometimes people stop to ask me questions out of curiousity or a fellow collector in the permanent ink club and sometimes it's the weird guy who thinks that he can lick his finger and try to rub them off.  Sorry dude, they're not fake and you could have just asked.

I understand that even though our current population has more people with tattoos than without and the art is steadily becoming more mainstream, there is still a lot of prejudice when it comes to people with ink.  I still wear long sleeves on job interviews and cover them as much as I can in more "professional" situations.  My intelligence or capabilities did not drop when the needle banged some ink into my skin and my IQ doesn't drop with every new piece of work.  I see the issue with acceptance though, that some people just don't like the way they look and the old cliches that only the dregs of society have tattoos still sit in the back of some people's minds.

I guess what I'm saying is that while choosing to be tattooed, I also chose to be discriminated against.  I knew it going in but sometimes I'm just amazed at the lengths people will go to or what they'll say.  I have a family member tell me once that I'm intimidating because I look like I just got out of prison (no colour ink in the joint but they don't understand that) or some people drop their gaze from mine when walking toward me but that could be because I'm usually smiling like an idiot and say hello to everyone (a cultural thing that hung on and never let go).  To be honest though, I don't encounter much more that the occasional look or a point.  Long story short:  I am not a sailor, an ex-con, in a gang or a prostitute and I'm not intimidating.  I'm just me.

So with all that said, let's place myself and Miss M in A&W finishing those wonderful burgers.  We need to catch the bus back home so I run to the washroom to have a little tinkle before we head to our stop.  On my way I see a tiny girl with her grandmother happily bouncing about.  On my way back out of the bathroom, I see the same pair of cute little girl in glasses and the grandmother sitting at the table next to where Miss M and I are sitting.  The grandmother meets up with me as she's going to the counter getting their food, I smile and say hello and keep going to get Miss M so we can be on our way.  The lady I said hello to did not smile back but returned the greeting with that up-and-down look I'm all to familiar with and gave me a scowl.  That's okay, she's her own person and that's not an uncommon reaction to an unsolicited hello in the city.

Things changed for me when I sat at my table and noticed the grandmother moving her little girl away from me, looking at me like I was standing there with an ax in my hand as she swooshed the little girl clear across the restaurant.  At this point I'm shocked but my stomach flips when I notice she physically turns this kid's head when she notices the little one looking in my general direction while once again scowling at me.

My heart hurt.  Here was a wonderful opportunity for this little girl, nor more than three or four, to ask some questions or even just point at the colourful girl and instead her grandmother instilled the idea that tattooed people are to be kept at a distance.  I wanted to tell her that each of the cherry blossoms represent someone that I have loved and lost, the Buddha on my wrist reminds of my beliefs in living the best life possible by showing respect and love, the lotus on my chest with the skulls is something as simple as coming to terms with horrible decisions and finally being at peace with them, the ohm a meditative symbol, the treble clef a reminder of my pianist mother, my kids' birthdays in Roman numeral and the symbol of family with them.  I wanted to tell her that each of my three children are represented on my body with their own tattoo and that each and every one I have tells part of the story of the life I have lived so far.  I really do wear my heart on my sleeve or rather, have my heart permanently etched onto my body.

I don't know if this should have bothered me as much as it did but it made me sad to see someone so disgusted by my appearance which in all other ways was clean and normal and to project that disgust to the small child she was with.  I know I said I accepted the discrimination with the body art but sometimes, it hits a little too close.

Like A Kid Who Lost Their Nintendo ...

There is no delicate way to say this except to say, "holy shit it's hot today".  I'm cowered in my little apartment fighting with voice recognition software to try to write something to pass the time.  Fans and cold water are doing nothing to fight a "feels like" temperature of forty degrees.  Environment Canada's website is telling me there is a risk of thunder showers this afternoon and so, as I write this, I'm also saying a little prayer of sorts that at some point I will hear those blessed thunder bangs, a music in it's own right.

I know you're asking yourselves why don't I just jump on a bus and go to a beach or find a friend with a pool or sit on the balcony in the breeze I can see pushing the trees around.  The answer is simple: I'm not allowed.  I'd love to be able to get out of this stifling apartment and into the summer but it's simply not in the cards.  My doctor made it very clear during my last appointment by pointing out some of the symptoms I complained about that led them to scan my big ole melon in a giant magnet.  Kind of went like this:

Dr. Practical:  "Don't be out in the heat and humidity.  Try to stay inside until it cools off."

Me:  "Why? If it's a nice day I'd like to go out and enjoy it, even for a little while.  Go for a swim, maybe a hike."  (I'm smiling and dreaming a little at this point.)

DP:  "Photosensitivity. You burned in SPF100.  Your skin can't handle UVs even with protection.  Plus you got a sunburn on your legs through your bedroom window the last time I saw you, remember?"

Me: "Right."  (That was duh moment.)

DP:  "Don't forget the fatigue you get when you're overheated.  I know you're going to ask me and my answer is already a big N-O to energy drinks.  Those things make your tremors worse and you know how much your hands and legs swell in the heat so be prepared to lose more dexterity and have your symptoms amplified on the hotter days.  You'll be fine once you cool down and if it doesn't let up once you've cooled off for a few days in a row, call me right away since you could be having a relapse."  (Why is she still smiling?)

Me:  "Yeah, I know.  Cold water and a big hat?"  (Her cheery optimistic tone and sound advice has me a little defeated at this point so yeah, I'm sinking into the chair, pouting like a kid who lost Nintendo privileges and squeaking out my question that I already know the answer to.)

DP:  "Cold water and stay in the house.  Find something to do that doesn't require a lot of exertion so do your housework at night or first thing in the early morning and try to rest during the day or only work until you start feeling tired.  Stay inside though, especially during the hottest parts of the day.  Rainy, cloudy and cooler days though, enjoy the shit out of those ones."

Me:  "Got it, Captain."

That appointment left me feeling quite defeated.  These were symptoms of summer that I've had for almost as long as I can remember with the only exception being that now I can attribute them to something specific.  Then it hit me like a ton of bricks while I was skulking at home, pacing with my lip sticking out after the appointment, I really can blame all of this on something now and I don't have to feel like the resident gimped up freak who has two colours:  lobster red and Casper white.  Seriously people, I'm so white that I'm almost translucent. 

Put it this way, there have been times where I've been invited places or asked to do things that I knew I just couldn't do which would elicit the "she's so lazy" responses from people along with the looks of disbelief and the accusations of faking it so I wouldn't have to do anything.  I think I became known as a Master of Avoidance and Mistress of Excuses.  Well, neurological science bitches!  I'm not ashamed anymore or confused as to what the hell is wrong with me and I really don't owe anyone an explanation to begin with.  

I've come to the conclusion that I'm not trapped inside for the summer, I just have to rearrange my schedule. I'm not limited in what I can do, I just have to find some new ways to do them.  It's a new challenge and even though I didn't really get much of choice to accept it or not, I'm game for the next chapter.

Oh my fuck this heat sucks though ...

Here we go ...

Here we go, it begins again and by "it" I mean the job search.  I spent the day trying to retype my resume since my voice recognition software decided it hated my accent.  It will get done, slowly but surely.  I need to get back to work sooner than later so, I'm going to attempt to cross my fingers that at this time next week I will either have a return to work date, a new job on the horizon or some promising leads.

I promised myself that I was going to make this blog a little journal but I've been slow again.  Monday of last week turned into a trip to work to discuss new duties which are nothing and I'm being thrown back into a job that I couldn't keep up with but now I'll get to do it with a really weird keyboard.  I tried to explain that taking calls from clients is out of the question for me now since I cannot keep up with their metrics but they're not having it.  I'm told that I just need to pick which keyboard is easier to use and I'll be fine.  It definitely worried me a little that none of my new ergonomic equipment or desk was set-up aside from a lop-sided hydraulic desk even though my return to work is imminent.  Seems odd for me to say that given the above paragraph doesn't it but I'll get to that.

The rest of the week was trying to argue with my insurance company and my doctor that it shouldn't cost me $60 for two pieces of paper to show that although the symptoms that put me off work in the first place aren't gone but instead, we know how to work with them now that a diagnosis has been reached.  My doctor says getting back to a normal life would probably be beneficial while my insurance is screaming about liabilities.  So, a post-dated cheque, papers get faxed and my insurance company was happy to have something from my doctor telling them the same thing I was telling them for weeks:  "ready, willing and able but with limited capacity".  Insurance says legally my employer has to comply, they'll do a return to work plan with them, I'll probably be back within a week and I start getting excited to return to a routine.  With my blessing (more like begging) insurance sends the papers off to my employer aaaaand we wait.

And wait ... I'm rolling my eyes and realizing I have work clothes to wash and get ready for my return.

And wait ... Review payroll compliance legislature.

And wait ... It's Friday, I want to be back on Tuesday after the Canada Day holiday but still no word.  

Today I get an email with a letter as an attachment.  I had a little shake and dance thinking it was  my return to work plan but no, it wasn't.  Instead what I received was a letter stating that numerous attempts to contact my employer had failed and as such, my return could not be approved but my leave extended until August 4th.   What happens after August 4th?  I am advised to apply for long term disability until they can speak with my employer to work out my return and ensure that I can be accomodated.  I've been off since February with them having my ergonomic assessment report completed in December so this is not sudden news that I will require this equipment and the fact that I've been in touch with the members of the management of this company updating them regularly since I've been off, my current physical status shouldn't be a surprise either.

My brain went haywire, I'm sure even the lesions did a little W(hat) T(the) F(uck).  How can my employer, a nationally recognized, global payroll service provider not be reached?  My insurance company was reaching out to them for a week with no results.  Phone calls, emails and faxes were not returned or responded to or even acknowledged that the were received.  My case worker with my insurance seems just as frustrated as I am since my insurance is running out and she can't say, "sure, go back to work tomorrow" with no plan in place or the employer advising that yes, the doors will be open.

What do I do?  I contact my employer.  I call and email my supervisor, my secondary supervisor and the Human Resources department head.  Oddly enough, this company hides the emails and phone numbers of it's upper echelon very well and I was unable to reach out to them.  It's well passed the end of the day and guess what?  No answer, nothing, nodda, diddly-fuckin'-squat.  Is there a hint here I should be getting?  Seems that way.

Now, the real "WHAT DO I DO?" ... Panic? Cry?  Hell no, I move on.  I'd like to stay with this company and have a career there but if they're going to make going back there difficult for me then I'm at a point where I have to look elsewhere.  Maybe this is a hidden gem, a little kick in the arse telling me that I am meant for something else.  It's not going to hurt me to get that resume typed up and out there just in case this employer never reaches out for my return.  No point in getting worked up about it, I don't have the whole story yet and, in the meantime, my insurance is still good for the rest of the month giving me lots of time to get my shit together ... again.  All of this nonsense has a silver lining in it somewhere and, being oddly calm about the whole thing, I have a gut feeling that better things are on the horizon.

Holy crap!  I just realized that I am in a constant state of reinvention!  Interesting .... but before I ponder that tiny epiphany I have to ask:  anyone have a line on a job?

Long Awaited Update

I'm sitting in my bedroom fighting a pseudoexacerabation of symptoms brought on by a 31 degree humidex.  The house needs to be cleaned, clothes need to be washed but it will have to wait until I can cool down and wake up out of the fatigue while hoping the swelling in my hands and legs goes down.  It's only noon so the daily workout I've come to enjoy will have to wait too.  Waiting is what I do best it seems.

So, I've taken over a year off from writing to dive into work and family but I'm back now and have a lot of updating to do.  I know that some of you are reading the above and saying to yourselves, "symptoms of what?".  Well, here's the big reveal:

I have been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis.  The big MS.

There, I said it and now it's real.  There's only a few who know because I haven't started treatment yet and not even sure to what extent that I have it.  All I know is that Dawson has his fingers in my corpus callosum and there are nine visible T2 lesions that the doctors can see.  It seems my braces are hiding other parts of my brain from the MRI that need to be investigated.  Yes, I am 33 years old and have orthodontic braces ... I laugh at me too, it's okay.  So, once I have an EMG (nerve conduction study) and a possibly lumbar puncture, I'll know more but until then I will go untreated and sort of in the dark except to know that it's there and it's real.  We just need to investigate the extent.

I've learned a lot by making my family doctor and, with her frequent calls to him at my prodding, my neurologist batshit crazy.  I now know that photosensitivity really is a symptom and that the reason for my vampire lifestyle isn't all in my head.  For a long time I thought the fatigue I felt in the summer, the sensitivity to the heat was something we all felt but no, it's not.  Turns out that my exhaustion and how easily I fatigue in the heat wasn't all in my head either but a symptom of MS that over 80% of people with the disease suffer from.  I've learned that my hands are probably not going to recover and that my grip and dexterity are most likely gone forever, that my limp may or may not worsen.  I found out that the pains I started having eleven years ago during my pregnancy with my oldest weren't gall bladder pains (it's since been removed but the pains haven't disappeared), it wasn't severe acid reflux or an ulcer or a delusion.  The pains weren't all in my head like they suggested years ago because they couldn't find the cause, they are what's called an "MS hug" and actually quite common in patients with MS when intercostal muscles (the tiny ones between the ribs) spasm making it feel like I'm being impaled by a hot poker and hugged by a grizzly bear at the same time.  The swelling extremities, discomfort, occasional blurring vision and sometimes slurred speech are all normal and I'm not crazy but instead quite a textbook case so far.  

I started complaining of these some of these symptoms during my first pregnancy and now, eleven years later, I've found a doctor who finally listened and sent me to the right people for the right tests.  It feels good to know that someone finally believed me and helped me get the answer.  I almost lost my job when begging for understanding that my hands just didn't work properly and then I finally landed off on a short-term disability and then almost lost it again when someone started a rumour that I was faking the whole thing because I was ashamed that I couldn't emotionally handle the job.  It is very real and, even though the diagnosis is life changing, it feels good to know that someone finally believed me enough to help me find out what this is.

Am I scared?  Absolutely fucking terrified.  I watched my mother deteriorate and eventually lose her battle with this disease after 30 years of fighting it.  I am a single mother with three kids who are with me 99% of the time so I worry about what will happen if I do deteriorate or if I start needing aids like a cane, walker or wheelchair.  Those are bridges to be crossed at a later time though, right now it's all about extent of the disease, watching any progression and getting a treatment program in place.  One thing at a time.  Get healthy (I've quit smoking; started exercise and watching my nutrition), get educated (MS Society and my uncanny research abilities are doing me well) and get treatment (in the process of getting that figured out).

One thing that I ask is that anyone please not say this to me:  "But you don't look sick".  Trust me, there are more challenges every single day that I will ever admit to anyone outside of my doctors.  I am sick and it is literally all in my head, I'll show you the pictures sometime.  So, this blog is probably going to move from the random rants and observations to my experience travelling life with a serious neurological disease.  I was told to document all of my feelings, symptoms, possible symptoms, changes, observations and so on.  I guess that this would be a good forum for it. Maybe?