I am the CamoBack of Mount St. Vincent

So, this post is a little late coming but I had homework.  Yes, that's right, I had homework.  I now have more homework that what I know what to do with but yet, I am still ridiculously excited about that prospect.  I did overdo it a little bit on a psychology assignment but I think that's my own, "OH SHIT THIS IS GOING TO BE SO HARD AND THERE HAS TO MORE TO IT THAN THIS SIMPLE ANSWER!! WHAT! THE! FUUUCK!" process of getting things done.  I breathed, had tea and settled and then just had at it.  Got it wrong.  I was on the right path but overshot the objective and went way too far.  Like aiming to walk to the fridge and ending up in Scotland in a furniture store buying a deep freezer.

It's okay, my professor just smiled and totally understood that I was away from this for a while.  I realised that it isn't advanced psych but rather, intro psych and catered to people who are fresh out of high school who are barely off their mother's breast, some still in Cadets and most unable to sit and discuss life's biggest inquiries, such as whether or not we are passed the age to trust a fart, over a nice glass of whiskey or three.  (Hint: my discussions with the my trusted other half is that once you reach 30, farts are questionable but 35-40 and beyond, fart on the toilet.  Unless you're helping me buy my first pistol.  In that case, just walk away from me and crop dust the entire Army/Navy Surplus store.  I won't name names ... **ah hem** ... Christopher ... **cough cough**.)

I will admit that the first day was intimidating.  I had my books in my brand new military spec, digital camouflage  (Canadian, of course) and equipped with lots of MOLLE  shit (Modular Lightweight Load-carrying Equipment, if you're wondering) in case I become overloaded and need five thousand places to hold my gimpy pens and pencils or a water bottle and maybe a bus ticket.  So I was weighed down, drowning in straps and velcro, twitching and spastic, tired, nervous that I'd get my classes mixed up or not find a lecture room.  My biggest worry, which I think is a pretty normal worry, is arriving late and everyone looking at me.  C'mon, I already stick out like a sore thumb so I don't really want to be the smiling, red-faced old woman, covered in tattoos, wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, Chuck Taylor's with out of control bushy black curls, cat eye glasses and an NFA (National Firearms Association) patch on my redneck camo bag waving and apologising as I walk into the room.  I'm a bull in a China shop on the best of days so you can just imagine what me coming late to a call would look like.

Hello everyone!  

Why did no one tell me that having a backpack on was like carrying around an evil being that like to sneakily knock everything over?  I have no control over that thing and I will blame my Multiple Sclerosis.  "Sorry, MS made me do it" -- MS is the devil, it makes me do things and it's minion is this camo thing on my back.  I am the CamoBack of Mount St. Vincent.  I think I need to go to bed.

Bottom line:  I think I made a good decision here and even though I'm only going into my third week, haven't written a big assignment or suffered the dreaded mid-term exams, I can honestly say that I haven't been this alive in a very long time.  Outside of family, who knew that my favourite things would be homework and gunpowder.

Mission Impossible: University Orientation Edition

I planned a nice, quick trip to the new school with the munchkins yesterday to try to blow through an orientation, an attempt to avoid the beginning of a "frosh" week and do a nice quick and out of the school before feeling like I need my cane.  The plan was to simply run to the bookstore and check to see if a horribly overpriced sociology book was finally in stock then run to get the orientation kit I ordered at three AM last weekend.  A bag packed with surprise goodies?  How could an overtired, overwhelmed, broke, cranky and yet excited to go back to school mom refuse?  

It was fun and quiet when we flooded off of the bus and up the hill to Rosario Hall.  Somehow everyone thought it was Miss Lily starting classes, not dear old mom standing in front of her asking all of the stupid questions and avoiding the chatter about the things I was avoiding like pub crawls and welcome dinners, mature student mixers and Shinerama (good cause but sorry, I really don't have the time).  We slid by the radio station team and the giggling teenagers in their shining, newly minted adult status being embarrassed by good ole mom and dad in front of their new drinking buddies.  I feel bad but I can't help but wonder how many of them will succumb to those butterflies and nerves and still be here when classes start, Christmas or next fall.  I hope they become familiar faces and keep those giant, excited smiles.  As much as overly excited young girls annoy the hell out of me with their terrified yet flexing young male counterparts, it's also incredibly infectious.  I danced in public.  I blamed my innate need to embarrass my children but that would be a lie, I danced for the hell of it because it felt good.  I was the oldest student in the vicinity so may as well work it and blame dementia.  Hey, 35 is ancient to someone who barely catching the wind of 19's first fart.

I managed to dance the shorties and I through the area of what I assume is a student lounge, slinked passed a service table complete with ice tea and cookies that landed in my purse without anyone even noticing (mom powers) and up the stairs to breathe before going full spy mode to get to the bookstore without running into more jovial, bouncing, wide awake students.  Nope, we ran into sad mom and what seemed to be an equally annoyed father.

"Hard to see them go, isn't it?" this poor woman quipped at me.  

"Oh I know, these guys are having a hard time seeing me go back to school,"  I replied and walked away from confused faces.  C'mon, I know that was a little mean to weird out those nice people but  how old do I look?  Don't answer that. Then a new game dawned on me... child prodigy.

We finally and, with surprising ease, found the bookstore and I released my children with their library rules while I went to the spot with that elusive sociology book.  Not there.  Card says it isn't in stock yet and I get my little panic in my belly and the over-reaction of what would happen if I didn't have my book in time for class!! Oh no!!  Swiftly I gathered my spawn and went to the desk, asked the nice lady if she know when the particular book would be in because my son was going to need it soon.  I pointed to Everett who just happened to be picking a wedgie at the time... awesome.  

Bookstore was completed and on to get the coveted orientation package.  The area was just down the hall from the bookstore, so it should be easy to not make eye contact with anyone in blue shirts or people at desks.  There was the line of tables manned by what looked like a cheerleading team.  I stopped, lined up the little people behind me and conducted some surveillance to see exactly how this worked.  I carefully watched the next two families go through to get their kits, making note of the order of the people they spoke to, the things they signed, what they walked away with and how fast it went.  I also realized in that moment that I may have some issues with being a social creature.  So far today my sarcasm and innuendo was lost on people plus I was getting nowhere with game of "Child Prodigy" which only myself and Everett found incredibly hilarious.

I signalled to move forward toward the first table, carefully bypassing a table for a charity sign-up (I support you but I don't have the time) and forward to table number one.  Two lovely young girls, neither with a clue of what's going on and seeming to not have found their groove after a possible party the night before.  

I prepaid for the package.  Next table.

Name, first and last.  They lovely young lady welcomed Lily to the school and asked her what size shirt she wanted and, without missing a beat, Lily gave her size while I smiled to put my hand out for the bracelet that would be marking me as one of their own.  Huh?  Yup, that was confusing.

"She's twelve, I'm the student but I promised her she could have the shirt."  I smiled at my very mixed up attendant before she pointed me to keep moving.

Table three.  Basic or enhanced?  This thing was $75 for a basic, well over $100 for an enhanced version.  I don't need pants or sweatshirts so I went for basic.  They attendant once again handed it to Lily and welcomed her to the school.  Everett suddenly yells that he's the one starting on the ninth... child prodigy for the win!!  I am sure that we have reached the point of being everyone's, "you wouldn't believe the nut I met today" story.

Again, how fucking old do we look??

All in all, the morning ended well, we trotted off after meeting some pretty incredible people with some pretty great stuff in my orientation package, well worth every cent and all the hard work the orientation team put into getting it all together.  I have even more of those little butterflies floating around in my belly in anticipation of my first class (psychology 1110 if you're feeling nosy).  So, with all that story out, thank you Mount St. Vincent University for making a fun and incredible morning for myself and my family, for ensuring that starting at thirty-five isn't going to be uncomfortable or weird, that my kids are now excited to see what post-secondary education actually looks like. My orientation package was dumped out (I removed the condoms and lubricant first without anyone noticing) and allowed my munchkins to rifle through and divide it up making them feel like a big part of this experience.  I couldn't be a happier mother, student or part of the story about the weird family at the orientation.

And, thank you for the mittens.  

Back to School x Four

I woke up this morning without my body pillow and instead of being wrapped around that incredibly comfortable piece of sleep heaven that not only saves my back but also my sanity, I was hugging tightly to a psychology textbook, drooling and panicking because not only did I miss my run, but my three rugrats were also still snoring and drooling.  While doing the rushed, gimp style roll and fall out of bed followed by singing the good morning song from the floor, my brain yelled at me, "you should really start writing this shenanigans down"... duh, I have a blog... that I haven't put an entry in for over a year now.  I have a new computer with new software and a fancy keyboard for school so, what's stopping me?  Laziness and lack of a topic maybe?  I'll settle on laziness since I consider myself a graduate of the fine art of carefully planned sloth between rounds of necessary activity.

So, let's start at the beginning.  There's really no point right now trying to explain why my kids decided to continue their education.  I'm sure it was difficult for them to figure out if grade three, five and eight are worth their time and trouble but let's face it, the final deciding factor for them, regardless of whether or not they were happy with the decision, is that dear old mom doesn't really give them much of a choice in the matter.  We've had the discussion about elementary math not being good enough to even mow lawns for a living but the boy chimed in with something about peeing in the bushes (I have no idea why, he's seven so just go with it) to which we discussed that adults that laugh while peeing in random bushes get a different kind of pay cheque or may be inebriated and make their money doing other things plus they usually also get arrested for doing that no matter how they earn their money.  He decided that urinating in bushes is not a plausible career choice at this point, maybe during a possible future drought.

Now with that said, let's get selfish.  Why did I decide to go back to university and work on a degree?  Yes, I know that's crazy considering my circumstances but guess what?  I figured out that in order to get out of these particular set of circumstances, I need to re-educate myself and move forward into something new.  This is not uncommon for people considering that a larger percentage of adults changes jobs and/or careers up to seven times in their lives.  My resume so far is a strange conglomeration of hops and strange deviations from seemingly interesting paths.  Sydney Tar Ponds remediation project to becoming part of the team refitting an oil rig then making asphalt.  Strange adventures for sure.  I've dabbled in graphic design, payroll, worked with an MLA and sat happily on my ass doing nothing.  One of the few things I've thoroughly enjoyed was, oddly enough, sitting in a class and taking notes, studying, the smell of new books, research to satisfy my curiousity and making the light bulbs go on.  However, it wasn't feasible to revisit that.  Oddly enough, becoming disabled did make it possible to return to school... weird how that worked, eh. (I'm Canadian, shhh.)

Then MS hit and all of you my lovely readers know that battle and that now I'm home full-time:  a disabled single mother of three.  That's what I was reduced to and that's what my identity became -- mother and the growing list of things I can no longer do.  Let's be honest, I do them anyway.  I break things, I fall over, I drop a lot of stuff, I trip, I injure myself but I'm not going to stop, just laugh and readjust.  Then other things happened other than the physical losses and losing control of my physical self was okay with me to a degree simply because I understand the personality of my disease.  I've never known life without it, my beautiful mother battled it her entire adult life.  MS is one of my  identifiers but, at the same time,  has it's own identity within me... like a bad roommate you can't evict but can slip some meds to and shut them up for a little while.  Your friends still visit despite the living situation and get a laugh out of the stupid shit the roommate makes you do... like fling a spoon halfway across the kitchen or the Quasimodo dance when you stand up and try to walk.

The things that are beyond my control are the fact that it is incredibly difficult to be taken seriously in this province as a mother and a single woman (I'm sure a single man as well) when they say that something just doesn't seem right either with themselves or with their children.  When there isn't an outward wound or physical symptom, the cases are thrown to the bottom of the list.  When there no blood and guts issue that can be scanned and looked at or a blood draw with a number in a specific range, there really isn't much in the way of help and the resources that are out there.  It took me eleven years of feeling like a hypochondriac and chasing doctors to find that one who believed me and sent me for tests to determine that I did have MS.  After reading my medical records, I discovered that I was symptomatic of bipolar disorder at 14 but it was swept under the rug, again it was referred to in my medical records after a suicide attempt at 21 but wasn't told and at 35, it took an irresponsible psychiatrist through the MS Clinic (she had my medical records that I'm guessing she didn't read for a full history) treating what she perceived as stress induced depressive episode with the wrong medication that sent me into an almost complete and dark depression for my family physician to determine that yes, I do have a mental illness that somehow I was able to maintain on my own and with limited care and medication during my adolescence and adulthood.  Funny how a lot of my decisions and behaviours now make complete sense.  I can now add crazy to my identifiers. 

Now, let's move on to my oldest who went through an incredibly tumultuous year of mind-blowing, erratic, dangerous and sometimes incredibly violent behaviour.  With many phone calls to 911, many trips to IWK emegency, two social workers from two different agencies coming to the home to help, her teachers and school officials making note of and reporting her behaviour and even myself asking Child Protective Services for any ideas of programs or assistance with getting involved with any program to help my family, nothing worked.  Finally, at the last emergency room visit we met with a psychiatric nurse, not a doctor because she explained that there is an incredible shortage of qualified psychiatrists and psychologists available in the province.  She gave us a referral and sent us home.  Came by ambulance with a twelve year old girl screaming she wants to die and ended up being sent away by a nurse with our fifteenth card for the Mobile Mental Health Crisis Team.  Joke, call them and leave a message, hope they return your call.

She gave a referral for an emergency psychiatric appointment with the IWK Mental Health Service team.  The same one that turned her away twice before.  When we received the letter for the assessment, we were given an appointment almost six months away.  It takes six months to see a doctor for emergency mental health in this province.  I called, I yelled and stomped my feet for something sooner and received a letter with a later appointment date.  Again I called and yelled and stomped my feet with an answer of being sent to a doctor that doesn't normally handle these kind of cases or see no one at all.  I took the option of the doctor which may have been a mistake with the result being not having the full psychiatric assessment that was requested but a small interview with the two of us in the room together (no privacy no comfort), asking me questions about my childhood experiences that ended with the following statement: "her behaviour has been great the last couple of weeks so, I'm going to give you some information on some programs you can sign her up for, youth groups.  It's all fine.  If I saw her a few weeks ago I would have said she has this ***** diagnosis but not now." ... What in the ever-loving fuck is wrong with this person?  When did a change in behaviour lasting two weeks mean that she was fine?  There was something wrong, whether it be some sort of condition or something that she experienced or simply the hormones of puberty hitting her little body a little harder than normal she needed support and care from an outside and safe source, Mommy just wasn't enough anymore.  Luckily, the two social workers stepped in and, happy to say, that little fart is doing much better, is smiling and laughing and incident free.  Mind you, I have yet to figure out how to stop the eye-rolling.  Now, because of her insane mother screaming about this to anyone that would listen, we were able to provide her with an enormous support system that is pulling her through whatever it is she was going through.  There was no thanks to our healthcare system because if left to them alone, we'd still be struggling and my little girl may have gotten to passed the point of no return.  I wanted my daughter, not a statistic.

Now, I have two other battles with two shorter cute creatures that also call me Mommy or MMOOOOOOOOOM!!  One who has no behavioural issues because she's a princess (my eyes are rolling, she's a diva).  We have had skin rashes and other issues that for years no one has really listened to me about.  Chocolate milk makes her puke, milk makes her constipated, there are other things that randomly do this but milk is the biggest one I notice, yes the steroid cream stings and burns these undiagnosed rashes she gets, yes I know that's not normal and no, doctor/pharmacist/nurse I don't know what it is, that's why we're coming to you.  Almost ten years with this and blammo, one doctor finally gives us a referral to a dermatologist.  We're still waiting on that answer.  For now she's happy in her dress doing twirls and planning her fashion career while I wash all of her stuff separately, make sure I tackle her when tries to drink or eat anything milk and/or chocolate, switched all her soaps and shampoos and pull the angry, overprotective, crazy, tattooed mom card whenever necessary to try to keep the rashes at bay.

The third one?  Oh, we have a psych-ed assessment coming this year that I've been fighting for since grade one and we're finally getting speech/language help, a resource teacher to work one-on-one with him and an occupational therapist to help with his classroom setting.  This took four years and one teacher to look at his grade primary level handwriting to agree with me that I have incredibly smart and creative son who obviously learns in a different way than the rest.  Some are saying dyslexia and ADD while others are saying he's high functioning autistic or what used to be called Asperger's Syndrome.  With lots of work at home and now, after a lengthy battle, the school on my side my little monster of boy will finally get a proper assessment so that we can focus on how it is he learns, what he needs around him to thrive and give him a better start.  Not a lot of families are as lucky as we are in this case and I know there are a lot of families who have children a lot older and in higher grades that are still fighting.

So, with all that said and all that peek into my personal life and that of my strange little family, I'll share why I decided to go back to school:

No one should have to fight as much as I have for myself and my family to be healthy both physically and mentally.  No one should have possible medical conditions kept from them by doctors.  No one's children should go without assessment or treatment.  No woman or man or child should be given the run around by a medical system who then places the blame on the parent or individual for not knowing how to navigate an intense medical bureaucracy.  Not all of us are capable of finding the resources that are tucked and hidden in the nooks and crannies of this antiquated, underfunded and broken system.  I was so blessed and so incredibly lucky to have firms like FamilySOS and Parenting Journeys come into my home, free of charge to me and not only be an advocate for myself and my children but give me the tools to be able to advocate for myself and family on my own.  With that said, I want to be able to get the credentials I need so that I can do my small part to make sure that another family doesn't have to fight the way I did.

That and I seriously do like to study and part of me wants to sneakily use some of my friends as research subjects.  So, let's take this serious post as an introduction to what's to come ... weird posts about school and cats and kids and adventures to the next phase. 

Love you all, thanks for reading :)

My three favourite study buddies!!

Cranky Slurred Attempt at Remembering My Point

This is my new PMS driven cranky post. I've been avoiding writing for the passed few weeks because there's been a lot going on: I haven't been feeling well which isn't unusual plus the passing of a lovely neighbour that left us all shocked and a lot of other confusing, dark and twisted things. I'm tired. Don't get me wrong, it's not all bad considering my amazing beautiful friends, The Mister, my strange and wonderful children and my now FOUR precious cats (that is no particular order of importance). They keep me supported and strong and smiling. 

There are endless lists of things I need to do, bills I need to pay, appointments I need to attend and getting my brain to remember even half of those is a battle in itself. In fact, today was the second day in a row where I was called because I was currently missing an appointment. Go me!  It makes me worry, I forget way too much lately and I don't know where to place the blame ... stress? sickness? overwhelming amount of crap?  I'd say a little from each column. 

I'm looking for a new, more affordable apartment and was lucky enough to find one in the building that a friend of mine lives in. Ground floor, lots of space, heat included in the more reasonable rent and a better neighbourhood. I filled out the application, provided my incredible references and now I sit here waiting to be denied. I forgot that my old, pervert landlord (see previous entry) has my credit screwed and now I'm embarrassed that I even filled out the application. I should be sticking to small privately owned flats in hopes that someone will take some pity on me. I thought I had a sublet a couple of months ago but, turned out they knew Mayez and let the tenant I was going to take over from know that if I showed up at the building, they'd have me arrested. Rapist: 1, me: 0.  

I've been passing my time cleaning, scooping poop and making mental lists of things I desperately want to remember to put into a list of things I'm tired of hearing, along with trying to remember appointments and phone calls that need to be made. I'm having a hard time with memory and, although laughable at times, it's getting annoying. 

For example, I completely forget what the point of this post was. I had it all mapped out when I was in the shower, I had specific topics to vent about and a point to make. Gone. Forgotten. I'll remember again sometime around 3am followed by telling myself I'll write it in the morning to which I'll just simply trot through the day and then once again remember when I'm in the middle of a shower. I figure that as long as I remember the important things, like to feed the kids and where I live, I'll be okay. 

C'mon, laugh. I'm having a wonderful giggle at my own expense. 

OH! I remember! I am not drunk!  Let's elaborate shall we: I have good days and bad days. I have trouble with memory and that includes trying to have a conversation because I sometimes lose my train of thought or have a hard time getting the thought from my brain and out of my mouth, that connection breaks. Add to that the fact that if I'm tired or fatigued, my speech slurs and we have a recipe for disaster. I'm slowly becoming reclusive because of this issue and because I know people assume I have been drinking. The people close to me get it but try going to Tim Horton's in the morning with the toonie you found in a parking lot, walking up to the counter and totally forgetting how to articulate what it is that you want to order. Some of my conversations with the Mister go like this:

"I had this wonderful idea where if we take that thing out to that place where we can, you know (I'm flailing in hopes that somehow my constantly moving gimp hands will help me form words) shoot or whatever, we can figure out how to make the thingy we were talking about the other day."

In my brain, I have everything I want to say but my mouth just refuses to do it, I legitimately forget how to articulate a thought. Luckily for me, the Mister smiles and responds: 

"If we drive to the range we can see the other frames people built to hang targets so we can build our own?"

Yes!

It's a small victory, a giggle followed by trying to figure out how the hell he figured that out. He speaks my language of doo-dads, thingy-ma-bobbers and quigger-jiggers. I am incredibly thankful for that and text messages. Texts are easy, I can stop and think about what I'm trying to say. Turns out my thumbs are smarter than my tongue. 

I am off on a weird tangent and I honestly don't think my memory was the point of the post. Feminism maybe, the plight of being a single mother and trying to be taken seriously but that is a long ass rant for another day. I'm in too good of a mood now after having a little laugh. 

Time for tea and relax time with my little people. 

PS: I didn't proofread this, please forgive my atrocious grammar. 

My body wants to be inside out ...

Can I be blunt here for just a few minutes? I'm in bed, flat on my back and trying to figure out how to describe how I'm feeling. Aside from a minor headache, I feel like my whole body is electrified, twitchy, my skin isn't crawling but my muscles are and my spine feels like it's going to crawl like an alien out of my back. It's almost as if every muscle in my body wants to tighten and flex, that's the only way I'll get rid of the feeling but dammit, that hurts after a while.  Why does my body feel like it wants to turn itself inside out?  Oddly enough, the only things that hurt are my hands but I think I'd take an ache over this because at least my ibuprofen could help with an ache. 

I have no idea if these feelings are caused by my medication or by my MS, I'm confused by the whole thing. Here's the blunt part: I hate every minute of this: every needle, every morning of waking up and wiggling everything to see if it moves. I'm already tired of being thankful for every step I take, every morning that I don't fall on my face and every dish that doesn't get broken.  I am grateful for all the little things but at the same time I wish my little victories were still being happy for the Friday bus ride home from work instead of trying to find new ways to open things that don't include my teeth or waiting for the kids to come home from school so they can help me open a yogurt. 

I'm not trying to have a pity party here and I understand that my prognosis can be positive. I am alive after all, I just wish there was a window into the future that could tell me what quality if life I am facing. Is there hope that I'll be on a Friday evening bus home from work again?  My neurologist says no to me right now, got the papers in the mail today saying so.  That's probably what set me up for a tailspin this evening. The kids are bed, the house is quiet & my brain decided to be over active. 

Silly brain needs to come up with a genius way for me to knit again instead of making me feel like there's a layer of slime under my skin.  I'm sliding around now like an eel. Hey! I found a bright side: I am becoming quite adept at squirming which is a bonus to know that I can wiggle away from danger like the imminent zombie apocalypse.  However, if I'm going to be gimpy, I at least would like the benefit of knitting scarves and poorly matched socks or sew more zafu pillows or not concentrate on my gait when I walk anywhere so people don't think I'm drunk at 8AM.  I do get to carry around a letter saying that I have MS and will not pass a field sobriety test. I find that one pretty amusing.  I don't drive but is it possible to get a WUI (walking under the influence)?

Okay, I'm getting silly and tired. I think it's time to cut this drivel short and try to find a way to calm my twisting muscles.  I do have to say thank you to my darling readers, your non-judgement and unwavering support over the last few years, months and weeks has been incredibly appreciated. I hope to have many more of these foolish posts to come. 

Note: I blurbed this out to the speaker on my phone so please excuse any spelling and/or grammar errors. Also, I'm a little too twisted up in my blankets with a cat on me to proofread this crazy post.