Birds, Bees and Hairy Armpits

I am a survivor, a fighter and an all around pain in the ass when it comes to certain things.  I dredged and trudged my way through a lot of hardships and losses, losing my parents and a daughter, failed and tumultuous relationships, financial struggles and then, the icing on the cake, being diagnosed with the disease that took my own mother's life.  I'm still smiling and I'm still happy and I'm still moving forward.  There is one thing that worries me like no other, one period of time that I'm now facing head on for the first time from the perspective of a mother and an adult.  This is scary business, some serious stuff that I really don't know how I'm going to handle.  It's called ....

.... dun dun DUNNNN ....

Puberty.

I am the proud mother of three babies, one of which recently turned eleven.  I'm looking at her and seeing my little girl, a chubby nine pound baby who had so many rolls she resembled the Michelin Tire Man (real name is Bibendum - I remember that but can't remember the name for scissors, go figure).  Now my chubby baby is almost as tall as I am with hips and a waist and ... lord thunderin' help me ... we're shopping for bras along with preparing for periods which I'm hoping that when it finally does come, will give a brief relief to what seems to be almost a year or more of severe PMS.  However, I also know that this is probably the tip of the hormone iceburg but I'm refusing to admit that yet.

Attitudes are changing, wants and needs are changing.  My little girl is in a strange transition period where she wants to be independent; choosing fashion and friends, taking babysitting classes and dreaming about her future while at the same time getting excited for Santa Claus and sheepishly asking for dolls.  Little Miss L who now looks eye-to-eye with her dear ole mother, is stuck between being a little girl and the reality of growing up.

It's becoming easier to embarrass my little girl and she's getting to the stage where being seen in public with Mommy Dearest and her "little" sister and brother is a shameful act.  That's where I dance around like a fool and watch her whisper through clenched teeth while her face turns red, "you are so embarrassing".  On the flip side of that, I'm not too embarrassing to be around when there's a nightmare, a bully or an issue with homework.  I am embarrassing when I start talking about how normal it is to get hair in funny places then complain about shaving armpits.  The two "little" ones find me hilarious while my blooming soon-to-be junior high student just turns red and ....

"MOM! NO! You're gross! Ewww!" ... *stomp* *stomp*

I guess it's obvious that we have a very open house about changes in our bodies and Miss L knows she can ask questions and get the uncomfortable answers from her mother.  I don't mind being open about the voice changes, hair changes, hips and boobs, pimples and moods simply because I don't remember anyone being that open with me.  I heard the word "menstruation" a lot but no one explained to me about cramps and bloating, PMS, leaks and what to do.  Ladies, we all know how beneficial it would be if someone had've taught us how to make an emergency pad out of toilet paper and that cold water takes blood out if you get it right away or, that a special selection of super comfortable "period panties" is an absolute must.  It would also help to know that small make-up cases in the bottom of our school bags would be perfect for hiding pads, fresh bloomers, deodourant or, what I would like to call The Puberty Emergency Kit.

I wish I had've been armed with the information so I'm hoping that my being so open about the changes we all experience to become an adult, as well as respecting our bodies when it comes to relationships with other people, will be of some benefit to her and to my other two soon to bloom munchkins.  I was twelve years old, only one year older than my snotty pubescent darling daughter, when someone was exceptionally inappropriate with me and my lack of even basic knowledge at that point left me in a situation where I couldn't even describe to anyone what happened.  Our girls need to know that our bodies are ours and no one has a right to touch us when we say no or when we're not ready.  I sincerely hope that my openness (no, my girls do not know what happened to me and this is the first I've come out with it outside of a therapist's office) can give both of my girls and equally importantly, my son, the knowledge, respect and ability to stand up for themselves and to know there is no shame in saying no or waiting and respecting the other person who may say no to them.

Mind you everything is appropriate according to ages although the little sister was quite jealous that her big sister got to go shopping for "panty stickers" without her.  That turned into an interesting conversation that ended simply with a disgusted eight-year-old whom, after absorbing the information, flipped her hair and strutted off doing her patented drama walk.  The boy might be a different story.  At this point he's simply fascinated with himself and that's wonderful but I do see a lot of phone calls to Daddy in the future.  Girls I kind of understand, boys are totally different animal.

With all that said, puberty scares the shit out of me and not because of talks or body changes or issues with sex or sexuality.  By they way, we are 100% supporters of gay rights and I myself identify as bisexual.  Wow, I'm coming out with a lot today aren't I?  I'm quietly giggling thinking of what twists my own, very private sisters would be in if they knew I was sharing so much with the world but hey, if I'm experiencing this stuff than so is someone else so why not share and commisserate and support each other?  Anyway, I'm on a tangent so back to puberty ... it's the realization of how fast time goes by.  Eleven years ago I was nursing a little girl and staring down at her, absolutely terrified of being a mother and shell-shocked that I really had a baby.   Then I blinked and I'm sitting here writing about puberty.  I never understood when people told me to enjoy them when they're small because it goes by quickly but now I do and I worry if the next eleven years are going to be just as fast.

I guess this is really a family transition and like all transitions, bumpy.  We'll survive and one day I'll get to do with my babies what I loved doing with my Ma before she passed and that was sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and talk about what it was like growing up, telling funny stories of things I did as a child that either I didn't remember or she never found out about.  I tell my kids that I'm not their friend, I'm their mother and here to guide them into becoming adults but, at some point in the future, we will be friends.  As much as I want them to stay tiny and innocent and ridiculously hilarious at times, I'm also excited to get to the friendship part of the parent-child relationship.

Those will be some pretty great stories ...

Another Hiatus ...

I guess my promise not to take another long hiatus from writing sort of went down the toilet.  In all honesty, it's been a pretty stressful couple of months or so with trying to figure a lot of things out.  It's okay though, I'm doing well aside from fatigue and a new relapse that is including vertigo which throws me off balance so if you see me out, I'm not as drunk as I might look.  I'm powering through it, setting myself some nap schedules and adjusting to my new normal.  Now that the diagnosis is definitive and the syringes of Copaxone are sitting happily in my fridge, I feel ... well, I feel surreal.

"New Normal".  Is there such a thing or is normal not so compliant as to allow itself to become in a state of newness?  I don't know how well or for how long I can wax poetic on the ever changing and morphing state of normal. I guess it can change, we change. I read somewhere that people tend to have gone through personality changes on an average of every seven years which explains why when we reacquaint ourselves with someone from our past, they can seem so very different than what we remember. Silly maturing brain. 

So I suppose the point of my rant before I drifted off into a pre-nap, exhausted tangent is that my new normal includes a feeling of being surreal.  I guess the surreal feeling is coming from having to adapt to something that I just wasn't prepared for nor did I ever want to be prepared for it.  Sitting across from a neurologist and hearing him say that he was positive I had MS turned my whole world upside down.  He went on after that explaining to me the ins and outs of the disease but all I heard was that I am now the proud new owner of the same disease that killed my mother.  I know, I know ... medications and treatments and outcomes are completely different now and the chances of me ending up with such an aggressive form of the disease is slim but I can't help it if I slip into memories.

There's a lot of new things that this new normal has brought with it, like giant pink elephants in the room with me that I try to ignore.  I'm sure this is perfectly normal to allow myself to slip into autopilot as I progress though the daily tasks of laundry and dishes and sweeping floors, chasing kids and making lunches.  The elephants sit there though, waiting for attention but I prefer the autopilot.  The old wonderful will has to be updated and we all know just how much fun that can be (definite sarcasm there) plus with that comes appointing guardians which means some difficult conversations to have.  Then there's determining a living will and the possibility of appointing someone power of attorney in the case that I can't make decisions on my own (already had a pretty intense nightmare about that one that required tea to recover).  There's also looking for a new apartment without stairs since my heavy legs are making it hard to get up and down the ones here.  I also have to hunt for some fat utensils for my gimpy hands, find some way to get some vocational training since office work is out of the question and almost impossible to me now and blah and blah and blah and elephants.  I prefer autopilot for the majority of the day and tackle the big things one at a time, no rush since I plan on being here until I'm at least 114 years old.

So even though I'm gliding through my days spaced out on Planet Distracted listening to old George Carlin stand-up and crossing things off of my multiple lists, I seem to be enjoying these days more.  I get excited for sunshine and snowflakes, the rain doesn't seem like such a horrible thing anymore.  I don't dread the housework but rather enjoy the outcome after a good cleaning session.  I like chasing tiny people around in the morning and waking the munchkins up has become a game.  I look forward to making supper and hanging out listening to the events of the day from the perspective of three elementary school kids whose hugs have become the best thing in the world, I could simply melt.  The daily trip to the gym to limp around with the other ladies, most of them over 65 and in better shape than me, is inspiring and amazing.  My lovely and sometimes strange BBM texts from two of the most wonderful and beautiful girls I know are sure to brighten my day and are definitely something I thoroughly enjoy, even if most of them are sent from the bathroom.  Then there are Thursdays.  Yeah, that's a whole other post but that amazing shooting teacher still gives me butterflies and makes me stutter.  Thursdays have become my favourite days, one that I can forget my elephants and relax with someone who loves zombies as much as I do, can talk as much as I do and smell the pears and caramel in a freshly opened bottle of whiskey.

It has become quite a surreal life these last couple of months.  2013 was frought with worry and wonder and 2014, although started quite oddly, seems to be settling itself into a balance of exceptionally difficult and exeptionally beautiful.

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.