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. 

Birthday Schmirthday

I'm turning 34 today.  Seems like every other day since I woke up with a tiny person jumping on me at an ungodly hour, the kids are screaming, the house is a mess, the mister showed up late for breakfast and left early and I've barely sat down from cooking and cleaning the usual Sunday mess.  There are a mass of Facebook birthday wishes I'm quickly reading, liking then twisting to finish whatever mess I started trying to fix.  I'm taking a minute now to sit with a cup of tea and some music before I go break the ice off of the step.

My brain keeps trying to reflect on the last year, try to get a handle on things and pack 33 away before 34 starts rolling but I don't want to do that.  There has been so much good tempered with so much bad that it really was a year that left me shrugging my shoulders and wondering what the hell happened.  I would like to pack it all away without the reflection and the fight to understand this last year.  There are parts that I'll never understand and probably best that I don't.

If I could have one birthday wish, it would be that the bad things and the hurt don't carry over from one year to the next.  I wish that our birthdays were a cut-off date for shitty times from the previous year.  Whatever we were hurting from or stressing over the day before ends on our birthday and we can celebrate a new beginning, a fresh start.  Sure we got our lessons from the previous years, we remember how we learned and we grew but what if our birthdays carried us over to something better?  We take our friends, family, good times and happiness into the next year but the hurts and the pains and the worries stop as if they're hitting the wall.  It wouldn't be ignorning them, it would finishing them and moving on with only a somewhat bitter and fleeting memory remaining.  Basically I want to put Bad 33 in a box (MS, Mr. Khoury, finances, etc) and tuck it away but take the Good 33 box (kids, the mister, my friends) and leave it open to add Good 34 stuff to it.  Does that even make sense?

What I'm learning from today is to not put hope into something as trivial as the day the number on the life odometer flips over.  It really is just another day with all the same occurances, with all the same disappointments, heartaches, smiles and love from the previous day.  Change is simple and slow, sometimes unnoticeable until we take a few minutes to look back but sometimes it slaps us in the face with the recovery slow and almost unnoticeable.  This is especially true when looking at pictures of our 1980s hair.  I'm going to remind myself today that nothing lasts forever, it all has an expiration date so I shouldn't put too much stock in the hurt and enjoy the peaceful moments when they're here; feel it all, it all eventually goes away and that happens much too fast.

Except Madonna, she's forever so I'm going to throw on some of her tunes and dance in the kitchen to my guilty pleasure, read my Facebook wall posts again from all the beautiful people in my life because hey, it's my birthday and there's only a few hours left.

Mr. Khoury, You Don't Get To Win This One

This one is going to be hard to write but it has to be done.  My hands are shaking and my brain is going a mile a minute trying to clear up what it is exactly I want to say, where to start and where to finish.  I'm angry and so, I'm writing this open letter to an old landlord who just won't get out of my life.

Dear Mr. Khoury:

There's nothing "dear" about you but we'll get to that explanation.  We started our doomed tenant-landlord relationship a couple of years back when I took over an apartment from two dear friends of mine.  That place was a dream come true for myself and my kids with its big rooms and big yard with a garden, great neighbours and close to a school, parks, bus.  Beautiful place in a prime location so I'll give it to you that you're smart with real estate.  My friends warned me that you were a creep, that you would give me a hard time but I blew them off.  You see, I'm a tough girl and have survived quite a lot in my life that the majority of people who know me, don't know about and I plan on keeping it that way.  I figured if I survived those things, there's nothing you could throw at me that I couldn't handle.

Holy hell was I wrong.

It started out seemingly innocent, you'd drop by to see how the kids and I were adjusting and give me a hug.  Eventually you were around at least twice a week and hugs turned into hugs with an ass grab.  After a while I was thankful for the chain on the door because a few times you tried to get into the apartment while I was in the shower.  The ass grabs went from that to touching my chest and telling me you liked my shirt or using the excuse that I had a lint on my sweater ... you lingered a little too long.  You made too many requests that I wear lower cut shirts.

I finally told you that you were making me uncomfortable and that's when things went to hell.  Soon you were at the apartment every day, knocking on my door, yelling up at my window that you wanted to talk to me.  You were approaching my kids and telling them that their mother had better start behaving.  I told them you were joking but they were scared and soon nicknamed you The Scary Man.  Then you started coming in and telling me what furniture to get rid of, how I wasn't properly cleaning the apartment, berating me for not weeding the garden.  You gave me rules:  I wasn't to have any overnight guests except for female family members and there was to be absolutely no men allowed into the building.  You assured me that you would be watching and you did.  The kids and I would hide on the bed and be as quiet as possibly hoping that you wouldn't realise we were home and you'd leave us alone.  They refused to play outside because they were afraid you would come around and I would call my neighbour to look for you before I left the house and before I came home.  We were prisoners.

After a few weeks of living like this you called and left a message that you were having trouble with your bank account and would need to collect rent from me in cash.  I quickly called you back and offered to leave an envelope in the mailbox for you and you could leave a receipt in exchange but you refused.  The first month it was fine; you came in and took the money, hugged me, grabbed my ass, kissed my cheek, told me I was beautiful when I'm on my knees in the garden (I'm not the first or only person you've used that line on) and conveniently forgot your receipt book but would drop one off.  You left and I showered for what felt like an eternity to wash the stink of you off my body.

The next month was hell of hiding from you.  I couldn't stand the idea of you touching me, I could feel your disgusting hands on me, smell the sweat coming from you, the brown on your teeth and odd sweet smell from your breath.  I was looking for a new place, hoping to find something in the area so the kids wouldn't have to switch schools.  The kids were tired of laying on the bed being as quiet as possible when you were around which was now on a daily basis and for hours at a time just walking around the yard or standing outside the door waiting to hear a footstep or a toilet flush.

I was taking my time looking and I finally found a place one street over at the same time that you came for your next month's cash payment of $1200.  Even though the lease said $1050, you charged me extra for care and maintenance of the place and because I was late once and you were forcing me to pay your banking fees even though you wouldn't show me proof but I figured it was easier to pay you than to deal with you so I obliged.  So through the month I was withdrawing bits and pieces, stashing it away until you came around.  When you came this time, I let you in and you asked me to sit so I did, thinking you were going to sit with me but instead you stood over me.  I handed you the envelope and you told me once again that you forgot the receipt book.  I tried to stand up and you put a hand on my shoulder, pushing me back down into the chair.  Shocked I stared at you and you started berating me for having an unclean home, good women don't have laundry piles or dirty supper dishes soaking in the kitchen sink. I put my head down and bit my tongue when you finally sat across from me and reached for my hand which I quickly pulled away only to have you grab it back and squeeze.  I pulled away again and that's when you told me that I could make the issue with rent easier, that all I had to do was give in and spend some time with you in the bedroom.  You told me that you could show me what being with a real man was like and in exchange you would make my life easier by lowering my rent considerably.

I jumped up from the table and told you to leave, you refused and told me to sit.  I yelled at you to get out or I was going to have you removed, that I would not have sex with you but you refused to leave.  You stood up and walked to me, I was backing away from you while you were telling me I was a disgusting girl who didn't know her place and should have more respect for the men in her life.  I was finally backed into the corner of the counter while you kept grabbing my breasts, between my legs, pushing my arms away when I tried to cover myself, when I finally screamed at you to "GET THE FUCK OUT" and that's when you slapped me so hard that my glasses came flying off of my face and called me a dirty, disrespectful bitch and whore while you turned and ran out of my door. 

You didn't come around the next day.

The day after that I got a summons to tenancy court for eviction for not paying rent.

I thought this was good news.  I could tell the tenancy board what had happened and that I already had a place with a moving date.  I know you're wondering why I didn't call the cops but I didn't think I had the option.  I'm a single mother of three and had no where else to go so I thought keeping my mouth shut while I was still there was my best option and I could open it when I left, including the tenancy hearing.  You were very careful of making sure that you only did these things when the kids were asleep or I was alone so, I had to hope that someone would believe me.

When the tenancy hearing finally came, I realised I couldn't proved that I paid cash because you refused to bring me receipts but that was okay, I had honesty on my side and I knew that you had dealings with the tenancy board many times before.  Another thing I was wrong about.  I broke down into tears on the conference call for the hearing, no one would listen to what I had to say and the lady who was running the hearing was making it sound like I was a ghetto rat just ripping off my landlord when I yelled that "this man tried to rape me".  The lady disconnected from you and spoke only to me, saying that I needed to grow up and get a hold of myself.  She then told me that I would have her decision within two weeks.

Two weeks passed, I moved and no notice from the tenancy board.  I saw you parked across from my new place when I first moved watching me.  I know you refused my friend entry to finish getting the last of my things and clean the place so I figured you just wanted me gone as much as I wanted to be out.  Two dressers and some clothes were worth having you out of my life.  I saw you drive behind me slowly when I was going to Giant Tiger, I saw you pull in the mall parking lot and watch me going to Wal-Mart or Tim Horton's.  I see you driving by my apartment five to six times every single day.  You've approached the kids early in the time that I had moved so I rerouted their walk home from school and notified the school of the make, model and license plate number of your car.  I've watched you follow me, I saw you in my work parking lot more than once.  I saw you at my bus stop.

Months passed and still nothing so I thought that everything was done and over with. Then I go to the bank and guess what? Somehow, you were able to get a small claims judgement against me without my knowledge.  I never received a summons at home or at work.  I never had a phone call.  I don't understand how you were able to do that when I had absolutely no notification.  You know my bank, my address, my phone number, where I work and follow me enough to know my schedule.  The tenancy board also has all of that information so there was no excuse for me not to be able to defend myself against you in a small claims court.  You put a lien on my bank account six months and one day after the date of the judgement which was a smart move because that meant that I couldn't appeal the decision.  After a week of back and forth between courts and finally having a complete breakdown in the sheriff's office, I was able to get a sheriff who knew you and understood that I was being honest and the victim of your vengeance for loss of control and did what he could to make things easier for me.

I closed my account and went to cheques only and have been forced into the process of filing bankruptcy because I'm the sole provider of three children and on a long-term disability income after losing a great amount of dexterity from complications of Multiple Sclerosis.  I hope that makes you happy Mr. Khoury.

You never stopped the driving by, the stopping in front of my apartment, the pulling in front of me when I'm walking, pulling into parking lots and watching where I'm going but a couple of months ago you made a big mistake and that was stopping my girls.  Two little girls on their way home from their friend's house and you stop them on the sidewalk, wouldn't let them pass, yelling that you had a message for their mother and they had better listen to you.  They ran home, came in crying and just like the Mama Bear I am, I went over to the next street and I berated you.  Your only answer was that I was said that you "stopped fucking me and I couldn't handle it".  I almost threw up, walked back home and called the police.  You can do whatever you want to me but you will not scare my children.  They had a chat with you and the next day I filed a peace bond application.

That didn't stop you.

The hearing came and a friend came with me.  All you had to do was answer yes or no.  If you said yes, we'd sign the papers and agree to stay the hell away from each other, it would be over.  You said no and because of that, a hearing would have to happen.  My heart sank and I broke into a fit of tears.  I wanted it to be over, I wanted to be done.  The bankruptcy is taking care of the judgement and the bond would have taken care of the rest but no, I had to go through more.  I bawled in the courtroom, in the silence all I could squeak out was that all I wanted was for you to leave my family alone.  The sheriff rubbing my back while my friend stroked my hair and the judge told me to get some help and the hearing was scheduled.

I contacted the Avalon Centre and found some wonderful, amazing women who helped me put into perspective the sexual assault and supported my decision to not move forward with sexual assault charges.  You see, in the time since that initial peace bond hearing I was given my definitive diagnosis and started taking daily injections every evening so my concentration has to be my health, I cannot ... no, I refuse, to make you a priority.

That's where I'm supposed to be tonight, telling a judge why I think the bond should be in place but I'm home with my children instead.  I contacted Victim Services and a counsellor at the Avalon Centre contacted to court to do what they could so that I could go to court during the day while the kids were in school so that I wouldn't have to worry about childcare, I wouldn't have to do an injection in a courthouse and I wouldn't have to face you.

The court said no.  For some reason, the people who apply for peace bonds and are in fear of someone have to face them when it comes to a peace bond hearing, they have no choice.  Any other court case and the person in fear can be in a different room, provide video testimony or have a proxy but not in a peace bond case.  You have assaulted me, sexually and physically and I would have no protection from you in that court aside from a sheriff.  Victim Services and the Avalon Centre were great in offering to accompany me to the hearing but that doesn't help me with childcare or with my health issues. 

You get to walk into court tonight and the judge gets to throw out my application because I am a no show due to family and health issues plus was refused to be allowed to offer an affidavit, a notarised letter, video testimony or to meet with the judge at an early time when I wasn't sticking a needle in myself and putting three kids to bed.  It's not fair.

You get to hurt me, I don't get to tell.  I get silenced by red tape.  I get silenced because I don't have the money to fight you.  I get silenced because I am a single mother with medical issues and no one willing to work with me within the justice system. You get to hurt me and walk away scot free.  You get to hurt my family and get away with it while I'm the one who is moving out of the area, changing my phone number and moving the kids so that you can't find us.  It's not fair.  You get to hurt me over and over and over while I get to feel abandoned by the justice system that is supposed to protect me from you.

File sexual assault charges? Why? So I can suffer for years while you're being investigated? No, my family has been through enough hell with you and now you get to keep on doing it to me and any other woman that crosses your path that you think is vulnerable.  

You don't win though.  You didn't get my body even though you tried and you may have torn down big pieces of my life including my finances, my feeling of safety and brought me back to panic attacks and anti-depressants but you know what? I am not ashamed because I'm still here and I can tell other women that they're not alone, that we can survive what people like you do to us and that we will come out stronger.  I may have to eat an Ativan to help get me through the day but goddamn you will not steal my ability to have a voice against you and the stupidity of the courts when it comes to peace bonds.  I am positive I am not the only one and I'll scream from the roof about how unfair it all is, how unfairly I was treated from the tenancy board on down to the provincial courts.

So you see Mr. Khoury, you don't win this.  All you did was give me the fire to fight.

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.