This is it, I have dementia!

"I love you," says David as we snuggle in under the covers.

"And I love you," I return.   I contentedly sigh.  "Life is good."

"Life IS good."

"Yep." 

Smooch.  Smooch.

You know how sometimes your brain  goes off on these weird tangents?  One minute, I'm kissing my husband and the next I'm doing math.  Rissa is 14.  In 4 years she'll be 18.  She'll be leaving home in 4 years!  David will be 45.  I'll be 50.  We'll be celebrating our 20th Wedding Anniversary!!!  Last year, to celebrate all these events,  we had a huge party - The 45-40-15-13 PARTY.  We invited all our friends and family, rented a fancy hall - David did the lighting design.

Sometime in the midst of all the math, I realize that David's still smooching me. 

"What did we do for our anniversary this year?"

"We went out to dinner."

"We did?"

"Yeah.  You have the most beautiful blue eyes." Smooch.  Smooch.   

"Where?  Where did we go out for dinner?"

"Hmmm....  Wasn't the Northside... Wasn't Cafe Marca...  El Camino...  It was El Camino."

"It was?"

I have a moment of sheer terror in the pit of my stomach.  I can't remember our anniversary dinner!  I don't remember going to El Camino!!

"Was Rissa with us for the dinner?"

"No.  Just us."

More terror pools.

Rissa had come home with homework from her English class, she had to recall a sense memory of food.  Maybe food would jog my memory...  "Quick!  What did we eat!?!" 

"Tapas."

"Yes, but what tapas?  What exact tapas?!?"

"I... don't know..."  Now David's eyebrows are down, he tilts his head, swings it a bit, trying to knock free the menu.  "I know that I got you a card..."

I remembered his card.  "And I forgot your card..."

We usually forget the anniversary.  Almost every year.  We're always doing other things when it comes around: moving, travelling, renovating.  We high five each other if we both come down with cards in hand on the actual day.

I close my eyes. I will the terror to abate.  I can do this, I can do it.   Calming breaths...  There, just there... in the back of my mind, behind my left ear, almost there...  almost there..."

"No, we didn't!!"

"We didn't?"

"No, our anniversary was on a Friday, we were driving to my parent's place, I think we stopped and had A&W at the On Route."

"You're right.  You're totally right.  We had a glass of wine and toasted when we were in the family room in front of the TV.  You parents weren't home yet.  I must have been thinking of the Father's Day Brunch we did in June."  He looks sheepish.   "Sorry, didn't mean to Gaslight you."

"Oh thank Christ.  It's not dementia."  I feel the panic slide away.  "I totally get my Auntie Laraine now."

"You do?"

" 'Certain things you remember with no recollection at all.'  We're there now.  At least I'm there now.  You, Sir, are so screwed.  You better pray that I become one of those happy senile people."

"Every day."

And that folks, is why I chose HIM...

"Just so you know, if they tell me I have to amputate the arm to save my life, I'm not going to fight them."

David doesn't even pause.   "Damned straight, you're not.  That sucker's coming off!"

"For the first little while, until I have a proper prosthetic, I'll have arm proxies.  Like when I have to go shopping, and something needs two arms.  I'll just have to rely upon the kindness of strangers, like say, the really cute stock boys at No Frills."

"You'll be able to use it for sympathy too, at other social settings.  Someone'll ask you, 'Hey can you pass me the salt?'    'No!' sob 'I can't!'    'I'm so sorry, let me get it myself and pay for your dinner as well!' "

"Ooooh!  Ooooh!  When I have to have this arm amputated, you can set me up with a good robotic arm, right?" I ask.

"You betcha.  Articulated fingers - the whole deal.  You'll have the Swiss Army Knife of prosthetics.  Attachments galore!"

"And I'll be all... 'Here let me get that can for you', and then I'll CRUSH that can with my powerful robotic hand.  'Sorry, you mere mortal - you can't do that because you just have a regular arm!' "

"Is this a pop can or a can of diced tomatoes?  Because I can already do that with a pop can."

"Diced tomatoes, of course!  Oh, I'll need a can opener attachment for the arm too."

"Yes."

"And a hook!  I'll definitely need one of those!  You know, for when I want to be fancy."

"Diamond-encrusted?"

"Hell, yeah..."

"You do realize that the x-ray and ultrasound are probably only going to show some tendon damage, right?"

"I want to be prepared.  I'm all about the bright side."

DOWN!! Put the bread down!

When I was younger, I worshipped at the altar of white flour.  My Mom would get these crusty Kaiser rolls - the ones you could select with the fancy tongs in the bakery dept.  I would devour them - butter slathered all over their fluffy insides.  No protein anywhere to be found.  Just bread and butter.  Two, three rolls at a time.  They took me to a happy place; a place where simple carbohydrates were converted to sugar.  Over and over I made this trip.  And pasta?  I could be half way through a plate of spaghetti, already anticipating my second plate.

When I hit puberty I started having dizzy spells.  I was taken to doctors who told my parents that the dizzy spells were brought on by hypoglycemia and that I had to change my diet.  This was in 1982, so mostly what the docs said was that I had to give up foods that converted quickly into sugar.  White bread or anything made with white flour was no longer an option.  Potatoes were discouraged.  Wait a second, potatoes... discouraged?!?  Life seemed over, or it would have been had my diet been truly altered.

Because my hypoglycemia wasn't life-threatening, diet restrictions didn't seem all that important to follow.   I'd never actually passed out - never had a seizure - didn't even flirt with comas - I got just a little bit flaky - or in my case flakier - the consequences didn't seem too dire.  Or at least, that's how I convinced my Mom that I could still eat potatoes.  Because it didn't really get worse, I sailed away into the rosy carbohydrate sunset - oblivious to consequence.

Fast-forward 15 years and a bit. You know when things come back to bite you in the ass?  Well those toothy chickens came home to roost.  I'd have managed, but David, who'd never seen me in the midst of a good sugar crash quickly became horrified and dragged me to the ER.  I saw doctors, dietitians and naturopaths who pointed me to the straight  and narrow.  The doctor said my blood sugars were borderline.  The dietitian reminded me to eat smaller meals more frequently and told me to include whole wheat in my diet - I couldn't just have a microwave dinner at work, I also had to have a whole wheat roll along with it.  The naturopath said to avoid all things wheat - stick to brown rice or quinoa for my grains - Rice crackers, rice cakes for fiber.   Soy milk instead of dairy.  "Should I go gluten-free?"  "YES.  Definitely."

Rice crackers, rice cakes, rice pasta - for years now they've been the vehicle upon which I devour my protein.  Because a lot of people have now leapt onto the gluten-free bandwagon,  not eating wheat is a little easier.  There's a dedicated section of the No Frills filled with high-priced, sawdust-tasting, gluten-free options. Sure, I succumb to the call of the wild Timbit now and again, but mostly I've been towing the line.

Which is why I've been a little confused as to why my blood sugar has suddenly decided to swan dive.  Used to be I could go 3 hours between fuel stops.  Now, at the 2 hour mark, I'm thrown back into graphic reminiscence of first trimester nausea and dizziness.  Upon research - I'm more confused than ever.  Could be hypoglycemia, could be peri-menopause, could be thyroid...  Place your bets!  Place your bets!

As a hypoglycemic of the new Millennium, I've learned that I need to be concerned about the glycemic index and glycemic load of foods.  Anything in the "HIGH" range should be avoided.  Turns out that  the carbohydrates I've been consuming for the last decade or so are some of the WORST things I could be eating for my blood sugar.  And last summer a Naturopath friend found out I was on thyroid medication and freaked out when she saw me drinking soy milk.

"YOU CAN'T HAVE SOY!!"

"I can't??"

"NO!   It will render your thyroid medication ineffective."

"It will?"

"It will."

So the foods that were supposed to help me 15 years ago are now screwing with me?  Not cool advances in dietary restrictions!  NOT COOL!   I go in to talk to my doctor to get a referral to a dietician.

I tell him about the worsening dizziness and the new nausea.  He tells me I don't need to talk to a dietician.

"I can tell you what you need to do.  You need to have three small meals and three snacks."

"I do that."

"You  need to have protein with your carbs and/or avoid all carbs.  Avoid root vegetables..."

"Uhhhh.... what about what the Canada Food guide says?"

"No, carbs are bad.  I rarely eat any carbs..."

"I think maybe I should talk to a..."

"Almonds!  If you feel like your blood sugar's dropping, have a handful of almonds..."

"I do that.  I'm not so much worried about the dizziness... it's dizziness's sidekick, nausea, that's worrying me."

"Why didn't you mention the nausea?"

"I did mention the nausea.  That's why I wanted to talk to a dietician."

"Well if I'd concentrated on the nausea - we wouldn't be going down this path about the dizziness.  This is a waste of time.  I've now wasted my time.  If we're talking about nausea with hunger, that's a different thing.  That's possible stomach tumors."

Always great when your GP threatens you with stomach cancer to shut you up.

I refused to cave.  "Maybe it's best if I talk to a dietician."

"Good eating habits, if you follow them, can deal with all of this.  If you track your food patterns.  There this website that..."

"I track my food patterns."

He's circling his wagons now.  "Make sure you have protein with every snack.  You could do soy..."

Okay, we're back to the protein are we?  "I've been told to avoid soy because of my thyroid medication."

"Told?  Or did you READ about it?"

Ah yes, now I'm the hypochondriac who diagnoses herself over the internet.  Hold your ground, Heather.  "Told.  A licensed naturopath told me.  MAYBE. IT'S. BEST. IF. I. SEE. A. DIETICIAN." You patronizing, unlistening rat bastard... 

My eyebrows raise slightly.  This is ON...

He heaves a resigned sigh and grabs his tape recorder.  "Patient has been  having issues with possible hypoglycemia, worsening dizziness and nausea.  I have spoken to her about eating smaller meals with snacks, tracking her food patterns.  Patient would still like to speak to a dietician..."    He finishes with the tape recorder.  "It'll still probably take several weeks to get a referral."

"I can wait."

Death by Raincoat

Thunderstorms in the morning.  I'm dressed like a Popsicle: lime green umbrella, bright pink rain coat, yellow rubber boots.  Rain coming at me sideways as I walk to work.  I'm wet from mid-thigh to the top of my boots.  It takes me all day to get dry. 

It's bank day.  A couple of cheques to deposit and bills to pay for work.  I start the trek downtown.  No longer raining, but for a couple of drops here and there - sun threatening to break through the clouds.  By the time I get to King Street - the day looks to clear.  I'm waiting in line for the business teller.  Five minutes pass.  Another five.  Now I'm feeling a little woozy.  It's past snack time and I don't have a snack on me.  What's the rule Heather?   Always have a snack.  I can feel my shins begin to sweat in my rubber boots.  And then I notice that my ass and upper thighs, covered by the rain coat, are self-basting.  The underside of my breasts threaten to become a viaduct. 

I hold onto the queuing pole.  I unzip my jacket.  It has these two little grommets under each of the armpits - you know - to help you breathe while sheathed in plastic - but I don't think they're working. Would it be wrong to completely strip down to my underwear? I think that's the only thing that might stop me from passing out.  

I feel my throat.  It's clammy.  Clammy isn't good. Clammy, for me, usually immediately precedes... great, the little dots of light have come - dancing around my peripheral vision.    I bend my knees slightly, wiggle my toes.  I won't pass out... I won't pass out.   I'm muttering to myself.  Stop muttering to yourself Heather!  They'll think you're crazy or a bank robber.  Holding on tighter to the pole.  Looking straight into the security camera.  I am not a bank robber.  I'm just hot.  Scrunching my eyes shut to stop the dancing dots.  Then popping them open when the world starts to tilt. The teller is beckoning me forward.

"Strange weather today."

"Mmmm... hmmm..."  I place my bills on the counter.  Don't pass out.  Do NOT pass out.

"Well, at least you were dressed for it."

"Yep.  Little warm now, though."  I think I have sweat pooling into my boots now.

"I can imagine.  Those raincoats don't breathe very well, do they?"

I nod in assent, my own breathing now shallow.

"Well, I think you're all good to go here."  She hands me the bills, I somehow manage to throw them into my bag and stagger to the door.  As soon as I'm out the door, I whip of my jacket, matador-esque - nearly blinding myself when the drawstrings with their little pink plastic tightener thingies come up and whack me in the head.  I'm a sweat zombie, insensibly stumbling down the sidewalk. 

Death by raincoat.  That's how they'll describe this when it gets into the local paper.  I gulp in lungfuls of air - desperate for oxygen while still doing my best not to hyperventilate.  I flap the hem of my shirt - airing out my wet stomach.  I glance down at the potentially womanslaughtering garment.  Where were the airing out holes?  Where were they??  Under the armpits.  Two grommets in each.  The grommets were there, but they didn't go through the lining of the coat.  Holes in the outside rubbery part of the coat, yes, but not all the way through.  This was not a breathable jacket!  These exterior grommets were decoys!  I'm clutching the armpits in a murderous grip - threatening to strangle the coat when I hear...

"Love your boots!!"

I glance up, and there's my friend Henry, all dapper in his sweater and complementary tie - looking cool and British and not like he's going to pass out from heat exhaustion.  He smiles and waves.  I wave back and cross the road to say hello.  By the time I get to the other sidewalk, my breathing has calmed, I'm no longer dizzy.  I look down at my boots.  I love them too. 

Oh Body - why have you forsaken me?

Yesterday, we began renovations on our new home.  Today, my neck, back and achilles tendons no longer work.  Eight years ago, when we started the same process on our present home, I don't remember feeling like this.

I remember holding the mini-jack hammer and cackling with joy as I exposed the brick in our kitchen.   I remember swinging the mini sledge with ease.  I do NOT remember having to pause every two steps as I moved a bathroom fixture out into the hall.  Sure, a 70 inch whirlpool tub with the motor still attached is heavy, but I used to be able to heft with the best of them.

The majority of my time yesterday was spent applying a rough plaster finish over top of painted wallpaper.  Until yesterday, we hadn't realized that the walls had been wallpapered, nor that many spots on those walls were peeling.  Not a problem!  We'd had a similar issue in a couple of rooms in the old house.  I purchased a 20 lb container of spackle (felt my back twinge as I carried it to the car), brandished my spackling blades and went to work.  It was spectacular spackling!  Problem solved!  I didn't realize there'd been an issue until we'd stopped for dinner at Tim Horton's and I made the mistake of turning my head.

A couple of months back, I rolled over in bed and put my neck out - this time around it wasn't as terrifying - probably because I wasn't half asleep when it happened and I could actually move my head 15 degrees in either direction.  Plus, the "OH GOD, WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?" question was way easier to answer this time around.  I had just spent 2.5 hours moving my right shoulder up and down and up and down and side to side and side to side.  DING!  DING!  DING!!!  That clarified the shit out of this pinched nerve.

My face turned white as I tried to tilt my head back to receive David's kiss in the kitchen this morning - it immediately became apparent that this body of mine needs a tune up.  I'd been putting it off becasue I'd been in the midst of a show and I didn't want to deal with tension then, because I was afraid that if I had a massage, that my immune system would think that it was okay to give up and I'd get sick.  I was WRONG.  I should have had that massage.  'Cause now?  I don't have any spare time and I kind of need to be able to move my neck and back and Achilles tendons.

Bright side?  I did get to spend my first full day in the new house.  And even if it is now covered in shards of drywall and the upstairs bathroom no longer exists and our bedroom only has sub-floor - it's our wee cottage of a home and it WILL be amazing!

Me and Igor, we're like this...

If I were a horse, I'd have been taken out back and shot.    Or at least, that's what my parents always threatened to do when I was younger.

The limping started about a week and a half ago.  I blame 'Art.'  See, I'm in a show. I needed to get used to my costume before we moved to theatre.  It's the shoes' fault.  The shoes are kick-ass red.  They zip up at the back with these snazzy make-you-want-to-do-unmentionable-things-to-me straps that go around my ankles.  I am fierce in these shoes. The only thing I remember before the injury was that I zipped them up.  Yes folks - injury by zipping.   (How many men just winced?)  I had to convince my Achilles Tendons to fit into these fabulous shoes - you know, on account of the fact that I have such... well-defined... tendons.  I think maybe I convinced my right foot too hard - now it hurts to go downstairs.  And when I point my foot.  And when I flex it.  Strangely enough it doesn't hurt to just WALK on it.   But I do have quite a hitch in my get-along when I'm descending a staircase.

The incomparable Marty Feldman as Igor
and Gene Wilder as Dr. Frankenstein
in Mel Brooks' Young Frankenstein

Last night... Injury by tucking in.  Bed time with the kid.  Me, exhausted, from packing up our office.  I flopped down on top of Rissa - not unlike a dolphin out of water.  Then, as I prepare to hug her, I moved my right arm along the top of the quilt - and something 'popped'.  Rissa didn't hear the pop - all she heard was the screaming the accompanied the pop.

"OH NO!!! NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO NOOOOOOOO!!!!  Oh CRAP!  CRAP!!!!"

"What?!?  What did you DO?!?"

"I think I just separated my shoulder."

"AGAIN?!?  Mummy!"

"I didn't do it on purpose!  I was just trying to hug you!"  I tentatively try the movements that usually hurt when I've injured my rotator cuff.  To the side - not terrible... To the front - a little more ouchy.

"Daddy!  You better come in here!  Mummy just hurt herself."

"AGAIN?!?"

"I am not as clumsy as... Would you help me up please?... as you think I am."

"Un-huh..."

"I'm NOT!"

David, enters with the Traumeel.   "Where does it hurt?"

"From my shoulder to my elbow..."

"Pardon me?"

"FROM MY STUPID SHOULDER TO MY STUPID ELBOW!!!"  I'm already starting to favour my right side.  The hunching has begun.

"How?  How do you do this to yourself?"

"My ligaments are weird.  I'm a dork."

"Yep."

"This is a different pain though, so I don't think that it's the rotator cuff this time.  That's good, right?"

David kisses me.  "I'm so glad that you're a glass half-full person."

You know you're old when...

So this is how it goes is it?  I now injure myself sitting.  I came home the other night, and I ached, oh how I ached.  I could barely walk.  My hips, my knees, even my ankles refused give me support.  Apparently they were going out dancing, maybe speed skating or snowboarding while I was.... what?  Blacked out?  Had my nightcaps begun to excise actual time from my life?

What had I done?  NOTHING!!!  I went over my day.  I hadn't been running, I'd walked to work.  How was it different??  HOW?  The only thing different was that I'd worn heels.  Small wedged heeled boots. And then, later that evening, I wore a part of emerald green heels for an event at which I was performing. Am I reduced to that?  Wearing a pair of 3 inch heels prompts a bout of ... what?   Bursitis?  How is that even possible?  I shouldn't even know about bursitis!  I am 45 freaking years old!  But there were the joints of my legs - causing me such pain that silent tears rolled down my cheeks as I crawled up the stairs to find anti-inflammatories.  What had I done?  It couldn't just be the heels... could it?

Didn't hit me until yesterday when I was sitting in the family room, in front of the ottoman, gearing up to wrap more Christmas presents.  My hips and knees complained as I descended.  It didn't feel right - put stress on my already sore joints.

My lightbulb moment happened when I reached for the ribbon.  Oh, sweet merciful Jesus!  I had injured myself wrapping presents. That is what I've come to.  Sitting on the floor causes too much strain on my body.  I look like this hardy, stalwart girl - broad of shoulder - with now matronly hips, strong thighs...  but in actuality I am Camille - one sit away from rheumatism and one breath away from consumption.

So, here's what I'll be required to do from now on.  Calisthenics in the morning.  You know, to limber up so that I can... SIT.  I'd better start doing something.  Women in my family are long lived.  It'll be a painful next 50 years if I don't get my shit together.

Heather, the pug-faced girl.

Last winter, to ward off cold air chest pain, David purchased me my very own Cold Avenger / Darth Vader mask.

 

Well, it's winter once again, and though Ontario's November was pretty damned temperate, December has been colder than a witch's tit the last little while.  Not generally a problem for most stalwart Canadians, but cold air for Heather?  Cold air, in my lungs, precipitates chest pain.  I was a bit late on my way to work one morning, so I decided to run.  BAD IDEA.  When a person runs, they breathe air faster into their lungs.  Which, come winter time, is cold air.  And my lungs?  Are cold air pussies. I arrived for our staff meeting tinged a little green.  My boss took one look at me and said,

"You're not having a heart attack are you?'

"No, no heart attack.  Just chest pain.  We're good."  I gave a weak thumbs up.

"Chest pain...?"  The rest of the table then turned to look at me.

"No, no, it's okay.  It's not cardiac related.  All good.  See?"  I pummelled my chest like a silverback gorilla to show my strength.   Then I had to stop because I really wanted to lie down and die.

So the Cold Avenger / Darth Vader mask came out again.  It actually does help warm up one's breathing air... you know, the face-accessory equivalent of sand-bagging for an impending flood.  The only problem is,  I'm pretty sure I have the wrong size.  I didn't think that I had a ginormous face, but  if I wear my Cold Avenger mask so that the nose part is in the right place, it only goes down to right below my bottom lip and I get chin chafage, and if I wear the cup thingie below my jaw for comfort, the nose part smooshes my nose down and I become a pug with all their attending breathing issues.  Which, if you're already having chest pain, makes it kind of hard to do anything physical on account of the fact that you already want to pass out from not being able to breathe through your nose.

The plus side for all this, is that I can't help but laugh at myself when I'm walking.  Chortling, snorting, at times braying, laughter.  And laughing?  Even with the attending chest pain, always makes me feel better.  I'll willingly cop to being a little Sally Sunshine, 'cause there are worse ways to start my day.  Besides, if you can't laugh at yourself, you're pretty much fucked.

I jinxed it!

I should have known better than to post that I had an abundance of energy.  Those petty cold gods sure do love their schadenfreude.  Tuesday morning I awoke... no, strike that.  Who am I kidding? I never really woke up during the day.  Went back to bed for a couple of hours to see if I could re-boot, but when the 2nd alarm went off, it merely confirmed that I was in no way fit for work.   My voice drops an octave with a virus - all I have to do is say "Hello" on the phone and people know somethings up.  I'm either sick, or I've just had really great sex with a plugged nose.

I've been GO-GO-GO for so long that when I finally could see the light at the end of the tunnel... the train crashed.  This is a design flaw in our physiology.   Who builds something that does that?  A little bit less stress and the body collapses in on itself?  That's pretty fucked. 

My Mom always knew when I was really sick, because I would sleep.  I must really be sick. I have spent 17 of the last 24 hours sleeping.  This morning I remain entrenched in cotton-headed ninny-muggins-ness, but I can at least stand.  So now's the time when I get dressed and drag my sorry ass in to work.  Because that's what we do right?  We go into work.  We don't want to take the time to get well, because we can't afford it.  We would rather infect the entire office than lose a day's pay.  I might as well go up to everyone and lick them, no matter how much hand sanitizer I bathe in. Sorry folks!  This is all about me and my bottom line - your health is incidental.  Enjoy your complimentary surgical mask.

I'm entering my second adolescence.

For the second time in my life I am catastrophically clumsy.  I didn't get the memo.  The one where it tells you that when you hit peri-menopause you enter your second adolescence.  I trip,slip, bump into things, drop dishes, stub my toes and fall up the stairs.  Not down, but up.  My dork factor is at 11.

In the space of two days, I gave myself a black eye with the chest freezer door and pinched a nerve in my neck rolling over in bed.  If they'd happened at the same time I could have done a great impression of a pirate with a health insurance claim.

This is NOT me sporting a jaunty cap,
I have a cold pack over one eye

Dorky McDorks a Lot

There's nothing quite like believing you've paralyzed yourself to push you directly into hysterical hyperventilation.  Still half-asleep, I realized that my chin was stuck looking over my left shoulder.  When I tried to move it at all, sharp stabbing pains shot through my neck and then stabbed down into my right shoulder blade.  David was awakened by the sounds of my panic.

"Wha...  what is it??"

"I can't move!  I can't move!"

"WHAT?!?"

"My head, it's stu... stu... stu..."  If I could have moved my head at all, I would have searched the room for a paper bag into which I could  hyperventilate/vomit in terror.

"It's okay, it's okay.  You need to breathe."

"Can't! I CAN'T!!!"

Now I would have slapped me at this point.  David didn't of course.  I was still trapped on my side, so he would have been slapping my head into the bed.  If I'd been sitting up, he might have been able to slap the neck loose if he hit me from the other side. There must have been lots of the whites of my eyes showing because David was starting to look pretty terrified himself.  He managed to get me sitting up - my head still trapped looking left.  I had those hiccuping sobs going - still half asleep and by no means rational.

"What if it stays like this?!?"

"It's not going to stay like this."

"You don't know that!!  YOU DON'T KNOW!!!  Did we write about this in our living wills?  I've changed my mind, don't pull the plug."

"You've pinched a nerve.  I'm going to get you some anti-inflammatories."

"DON'T LEAVE ME!!!"

"I'll be right back.  I promise.  Just breathe."

It took David 33 seconds to come back with drugs.   "Now I'm just going to go downstairs and heat up the bean bag for you.  You need to stay calm."  He helped me lie back down.

I was awake enough then, that I tried to put on a brave face. I didn't claw at him, I didn't wail.  I wasn't going to be a baby about it.  The panic was still there, but fuck it!  I could pretend that it wasn't.  I counted while he was gone.  While counting to 197, I deliberately moved my head through the pain so that I could at least look straight up at the ceiling.  There were some crunching sounds, but as I was much less panicked with my head facing up, it was totally worth the pain.  David came back, armed wtih a cold pack, a heating pad and his lap top.  "Hey!  You're looking at the ceiling!  How did you do that?"

"Determination."

"It says that you need to alternate ice and heat.  Muscle relaxants are helpful.  You can have massage." 

If you are in desperate need of massage therapy or chiropractic adjustment, you will injure yourself at 4:00 a.m. on the Sunday of Thanksgiving Weekend.  I was on my own until Tuesday.  Sure, we could have trundled down to the ER, but it was a pinched nerve; they would have pumped me full of drugs, but not much else.  

This injury also coincided with the beginning of tech week for my latest play.  I had to be in rehearsal that night - it was a slapstick comedy.  To ensure that I wouldn't move my head when I was at rehearsal, David took me to Shopper's Drug Mart to get me a neck brace.

"I'm going to look like a dork!"

"Yes, but you will be a dork who won't hurt herself more."

If you ever want attention?  Show up anywhere with a neck brace on.  Complete strangers will ask you what you've done.

Now, 10 days later, after two massages and a chiropractic adjustment I have almost full mobility and the complete certainty that I won't survive paralysis.

The little grey pill...

 If you knew nothing about me other than the combination of pills I take in the morning, how old would you think I am? 70?  80?  To be fair, most of them are pretty innocuous.   Most of the pills are to up my immune-system so that the colds and flu that I used to suffer from multiple times a year don't happen.  Sure members of my family might shake their heads and think I'm way too crunchy-granola and believing way too much in health shoppe voodoo, but I have NOT been really sick in a LONG time.  (TOUCH WOOD)

The other pills?  Well let's just take a little tour of my supplement trail mix, shall we??  Let's start at the top left and go clock-wise: the big yellowy splotchy pill (that looks kinda like a buttured popcorn Jelly Belly) is a multi-vitamin, the gargantuan blackish one is the Omega-3 supplement (think cod liver oil that our parents used to take), the white one is calcium-magnesium (strong bones and all that), the little grey one at the bottom right is for soothing peri-menopause symtoms (more on this in a moment), the red is my special fancy-dancy iron supplement (that my doctor prescribed because apparently I'm anemic), the orangey one at the bottom left is...  oh sweet caduceus!  What the hell IS that pill?  Frickin' memory loss....  AHA!!   The B stress complex (to aid in warding off colds/flus etc), and the larger grey is Vitex, an herb that helps regulate my period (which means that instead of every 2 weeks I have my period every 24 days).  I know - all you're hearing is blah, blah, blah, red pill, blah, blah, orange pill, blah, blah, blah every 24 days. But trust me - I am not the only one who is glad that my periods are less frequent - David thinks it's a really good thing.  REALLY A LOT.

Until last week I was doing okay with this cocktail.  Then I added the little grey pill - the innocent-looking one that is made of sage and was supposed to help me with my hot flashes one of the 35 attending joys of peri-menopause. (see below)  Since taking it - I have NOT slept through the night.  Apart from the one night when I took a sleeping pill because I'd had a really delicious 2 hour nap in the afternoon and thought - There is no way I'll be able to sleep, I'm feeling too keyed up... By the clock-watching I've been perfecting this week I'm up pretty much ALL freaking night.  1:27 a.m.  1:36 a.m. 1:49 a.m. 1:52 a.m. ... 2:09 a.m. 2:13 a.m.  2:21 a.m. ...  I must get some sleep because I remember really weird-ass dreams.  And I think I might be hallucinating a bit.  Like the towel that hangs on the back of the bedroom door, looked like it might have been an old Italian woman reaching out a hand to curse me.  I also looked at David next to me in bed last night and I was CONVINCED that he was Rissa.  Which means I was probably just dreaming about Rissa and imagining she was there, but it took me a LONG time to realize that it was David.  I may have poked him a couple of times to get him to look at me.  "It's okay sweetie - just checking.  Go back to sleep."

So this is a list of 35 things associated with peri-menopause..  WTF??  Seriously?  Because why??  No REALLY.  WHY???    And what do men have?  Difficulty peeing and they might lose hair.  I just counted.  18.  I have 18 of these.  Well, it could be worse, I could have all 35.  I think I was just possessed by my mother for a second there.  That's actually a good thing.  Mom says things like, "Turn that frown upside down" and means it.  She will always be the optimist.  I am determined to follow in her footsteps.  My glass wil be 1/2 full!!  Given all my weird-ass medical shit - it's a freaking miracle that I don't have ALL 35 of the symptoms!  PLUS, but wait there's more, I have so much material that I can write about because of this 'time of life.'  AND... I can fix this.  I think.  This morning, I didn't take the little grey pill and tonight, I'm taking a sleeping pill to get a good night's sleep and all will be well in the universe.  And if I'm still having No 5. Sleep Disturbances after NOT taking the sage - I will... deal with it... perhaps with near-hysteria, but I'll deal with it.  Because really?  If you can't laugh about this kind of shit...  you turn into one of those older women who looks like they never learned to smile.  And that? Ain't me!

Six down, four to go...

So...

I couldn't catch the silver-grey tabby.  It didn't follow the cleverly laid trail of kitten treats to its trapped siblings in the cat cage... in the garage.  The mother cat showed up.  Along with the father/brother/uncle cat.  I couldn't turn in the captured siblings to the animal shelter.  I just couldn't.  All I could think was that I'd abducted these two completely innocent kittens and if I were to take them to animal jail (where they might possibly be put to sleep, because who wants a feral kitten?)  the mother cat and father/brother/uncle cat might well be emotionally scarred forever with the loss of the two kittens - who had nothing to do with my blood loss - while the silver-grey demon kitten was out running free.  The silver-grey kitten in turn would then have a complex about being the cause of its siblings' demise.

I opened the cage.  They bolted.  Guilt covering my very DNA, I put down a can of cat food.  The mother cat and father/brother/uncle cat came and ate some food while watching me - prepared, I think, to finish what their child/sibling/nephew had started yesterday. I gave them space.

They give you rabies shots in your large muscle groups.  In my case 1 in my bicep, 3 in my right thigh and 2 in my left thigh.  I have been advised that these puncture points could become sore.

Now David thinks that this might stop a person from approaching stray animals.  David... is wrong.  I may well re-approach the original silver-grey tabby in the hopes that we can salvage our blossoming relationship.  Kittens are pretty much crack to me.  I may have to be restrained if this family of feral felines continues to live near our home.  Yep, I just got 6 painful shots (completely deserved) for being too impetuous in my approach of stray cats.  I shall now be more stealthy.   Lesson learned.

Don't cuddle the feral kittens...

The good news is that rabies shots no longer number in the dozens, nor does one have to have them all upon on one's stomach.   The bad news??

Let us revisit yesterday, right before dinner ...

I am outside.  The weather is a balmy, breezy, sun-dappled 27 degrees.  I have just put the veggies onto the BBQ to grill.  I hear a wee "meeping" noise.  A kittenish noise.  A 'grab my animal-lover's attention' noise.   A noise that I immediately mimic back into the wild in the hopes that any stray kittens might willingly gambol towards me knocking me over with their enthusiasm for human contact.   I step to the edge of the deck, looking from whence I heard the 'meep.'  There are two tiny tabby kittens beside my house, hiding in the shrubbery.

One silver-grey with wide, expectant sky-blue eyes and a black and brown one, deeper in the shrubbery.  I quickly calculate the number of cats currently living in our home = 3.  Chances of my being allowed to bring any more into our home = 0.  But there is still the potential for kitten contact.  I lie upon my stomach on the deck, making the universal kissing noise that one uses to lure small animals into your grasp. The kittens keep their distance, but more importantly, they don't run away. I try my hand at the "Look I speak your language!" mewing once more.  Nope.  They aren't biting.  Not yet.

I run inside the house and find a sample bag of kitten kibble left over from when Steve and Lola became part of our family last year.  I sprinkle bits of the kibble upon the ground near the deck stairs.  Yelling upstairs, I tell David "WE HAVE KITTENS OUTSIDE!!!!"  I return to the deck and see the tail of one of the kittens disappear from the step and hide under the deck.  The kibble is now gone.  I sprinkle more kibble and lie in wait.  I am not disappointed, the grey kitten comes out.  On my hands and knees I silently approach, intent on feeling the warmth and sweetness that is kitten and scoop it up into my waiting hands.

Apparently, there is a difference between kittens from the litter of a happy, "well-accustomed-to humans" house cat, and kittens that are feral.  Feral kittens don't cotton to being handled.  This sweet and fuzzy grey tabby morphs into a hissing, spitting, growling demon kitten.

 
I try making the 'shush, shush, shush' noise to  calm it so that I can put it down safely, but it is VERY panicked.  I can't just drop it, it might get hurt in the midst of its hairy hysteria.  Well-versed in the ways of soothing the savage breast, I adeptly change my grip to the scruff of its neck.  Then the party really gets started.  The little darling opens its mouth and latches onto the fleshy part of my hand, right between the thumb and forefinger.  Now I really can't let go because it would just be hanging from my hand by its teeth.  Still growling and scratching (my wrist is now bleeding as well), the kitten doesn't seem to have any plans to release my hand, so I have to pry its mouth open a bit before making sure that the wee terror is not too high above the deck before I release it.  It skitters under the deck, while onlooking neighbours look at me as if I have turned into Hannibal Lecter himself.

"I was just... it seemed... cuddle...  I WASN'T GOING TO EAT IT!!!"

While at the Dr's office this morning, on a completely unrelated matter for Rissa,  I mention casually that I have been bitten by a very small, more than likely harmless, stray kitten.  Subsequent to this,  there have been phone calls to the Health Unit and Dr's office.  If I cannot contain the animal, I will have to have rabies vaccination shots.  And though they no longer number in the dozens, they do number in the several on days 0, 3, 7 & 14.  I realize that, through my own animal-loving stupidity, any hopes of catching the kitten are nigh on impossible now that I have made it terrified of humans in general and me in particular.

Choosing to be optimistic, I  go outside and check under the deck, you know, just in case.   I see a kitten skitter away.  One kitten.  I can't be sure if it's grey or not.  I gather my kitten kibble and put some on the step.  I go to check later and the food has not been touched, but I hear a sound from the garage.  AHA!  Kittens in the garage!

I arm myself with a pair of leather work gloves, a flashlight and a cat cage and enter the garage, closing the door behind me.  A kitten careens off the garbage can, bolts to the door, then behind the flammables cabinet and then back to hide in the snow-blower.  I think.  I take my flashlight and creep towards the business end of the snow-blower.  There I see two kitten asses.  One runs in the corner I manage to grab it and get it into the cage before reaching for the back end of the other.  We wrestle.  It sounds as if I am tearing out its guts through its throat.   But it too, ends up in the cage.  I have done it!  I have two kittens in the cat cage!!  Crisis averted!!

Unfortunately, upon closer view, neither kitten seems to be particularly silver-grey. The one that bit me yesterday was definitely silver-grey - its colouring was very distinctive.  I clutch at straws: maybe because today's weather isn't as sunny, the kittens' coats just don't look... the same way that they... did... yesterday?  In fact neither cat really resembles the two that I saw yesterday.  I go to check the kibble on the step - it is now gone.  That could mean three things: either the mother cat came back and ate it OR our white-trash druggie neighbours got the munchies, saw the kibble and thought "Cool!  SNACKS!" OR there is a third silver-grey kitten, still at large, that  knows the taste of my blood.

Hold on!  Rissa is yelling up the stairs.  "MUMMY!!! Come quick!!!  There IS a grey kitten!!  It is looking at the other kittens in the cat cage!!!"

If I put the cat cage back in the garage, and leave a trail of kitten kibble... might it be possible to capture the elusive silver-grey kitten?  There is the distinct potential for cat apprehension and avoidance of multiple rabies shots!!!

My brain might be melting

The release of steam at the end of a day.  This is what blogging is for.  Things like my cat.  Lola.   Or as we affectionately call her - Lola 'Bola Virus - who decided that she wanted to wear my rhinestone necklace this morning at 4:47 a.m. Our little cat burglar tried to abscond with it whereupon I had to chase her down the hall in my all-together, retrieve said necklace, and then hide the necklace and lock the bedroom door.  Plaintive meowing and pitiful paws under the door did not move me.

Plus, my daughter has a disease.  Not a dangerous one.  Don't freak out.  Fifth's Disease.  She has that "just slapped" look to her face and a lacy rash upon her body - which she shows off with pride.  "Look at my BELLY!!!  It's all rashy!!!" (pat, pat, pat upon her tummy)   Thank God she doesn't have any other symptoms other than the rash.  No aches, no fever - just this crazy-ass rash.  And Rissa can be prone to some interesting shit.  From  the time she was little-little, she could spike a fever of 104 to 105 (or 40 - 40.55 for those who know what SICK is in Celsius.)  Sometimes with an inner ear infection - for which she apparently had no pain at all, but when we took her to the Emerg they looked like they were going to call children's services when they looked in and saw how inflamed her ears were.  "She wasn't crying.  She wasn't in pain.  I DIDN'T KNOW!!!"  Sometimes the kid will spike a fever with the Common Cold.  I guess that should be common cold - if it's common it shouldn't be capitalized. 

Speaking of crazy-ass... I have this weird thing with my circulatory system.  (Well, to be fair, I have weird things with many of my systems.)  My fingers, toes and lips turn blue if my body thinks it's cold.  (Reynaud's Syndrome)  It can be like 22 degrees out and I'll start shivering.  David popped me into an emergency warm-up bath because one side-effect of my crazy-ass circulatory system is, um... chest pains.  That aren't real chest pains - trust me, I've had them for 4 years - I probably have small vessel disease for which you can do NOTHING but maybe take a shot (or 3) of Scotch - (I'm not saying take 3 to any docs that are out there - it's hyperbole), which I do, and the pain generally goes away.  Problem is now - when I get stressed - like as I'm working out the scheduling of important people for a big audition, this chest pain tends to stand up and want to be counted.  David's suggesting that I just stay slightly drunk most of the time to counteract those effects because alcohol helps with the relaxation you know.  He likes to fix things.  I suggest that perhaps that's not a good thing to start doing.  Although having a chocolate martini every afternoon might well be delicious, the extra calories would be bad.  Yes it appears I'm more worried about gaining extra weight than becoming a raging alcoholic.  I look at the world through Cosmopolitan glasses.

La La Land

I thought the cold was done.  Kaput.  Finito.  I was misinformed.  I woke up this morning and I was - to quote Will Farrell - "a cotton-headed ninny muggins."  I was in freaking La La Land.  Eyes, ears, balance?  Blurry, plugged, OFF.   And I'm not sure, but I might have had a seizure this week.  Possibly two.  The second one could just have been because I was downwind of the Mr. Sub shop, or at least that's what I'm telling myself.

What I think I actually had was an olfactory (smell) hallucination due to a migraine.   I was sitting at the desk typety-typing along with a titch of a headache (brought on by a stray reflection in the stainless steel sink when I was rinsing my lunch dishes) when suddenly I smelled burning wire.  I turned to David who was working across the room at his desk and said "Did you smell that?"  He said, "Smell what?"  Then I felt like my head was in a bit of a vice and my brain kind of went whoomp whoomp for a sec and I thought it might be best if I sat on the floor for a bit.  So I did.   It's amazing how quickly David can move - really quite impressive - like ZIP-BOOM fast!  And then after a couple of minutes it was done.  Olfactory hallucinations, I was pleased to read soon thereafter, can in fact be associated with migraines.  YAY - it's not necessarily a seizure!!!   If it happens again I'm seeing my Doc, but until then I'm not worrying too much. 

I swear that I'm not being lackadaisical about this - my body is just so freaking bizarre and sensitive to weird-ass crap that I really only pay attention now when I absolutely have to.  I wonder if the script-writers for House are looking for any new symptoms - I could give 'em a run for their money for sure.

When a person is sick they shouldn't exercise, they're supposed to rest up.  But when I don't exercise I find it hard to sleep at night and then I tend to just get sicker.  Because I know this about myself, I might exercise sooner than I should for fear of the Cold Catch-22 happening.  Which is probably why today I felt like a zombie and did next to nothing.  My big accomplishment was diving under our deck to get the stand for our off-set patio umbrella so that I could doze on our outdoor sofa in relative shade.   I had to sleep for a whole hour to get over the excitement of it all.

It's the long weekend in May and I refuse to be sick for the whole weekend.  Je refuse!!  I will get a good night's sleep tonight and arise tomorrow a new woman!  A woman with purpose.  A woman with verve!!  And I shall eat pancakes!!!  I need to chest bump something.

Is it a standing coma or just a cold?

Children are plague carriers.  Mine gave me her wretched cold.  But on the plus side I just got to type 'wretched,' so that's good.  I think I have mucous behind my eyes.

Colds don't completely knock you out but they do limit your brain power and as I have shit to do, this is an inconvenience.  I've got lists.  Or I would have made lists if my brain was working.  I have to make lists for the lists I have to make.  My multi-tasking skills aren't at their best.  In the Red corner we have: vampire rock opera with all its attending jobs: production, fundraising, casting, audition venue acquisition, music transposition and housing for artists. In the Green corner we have Peter Pan with all its attending jobs: production, fundraising, casting, scheduling, set design, personnel juggling.  (Ladies start your angina!) At the same time?  I'm doing this at the SAME time?  For a smart gal, I can be really dumb.  When David sees the whites of my eyes his go-to is: "Chocolate Martini?"

Things are slipping through the cracks.  Like last week we had no bread.  Or cheese.  Well, we had cheese slices, but the child won't eat cheese slices, she only likes real cheese, so for all intents and purposes, we had no cheese.  Or yogurt.  The little ones that fit in her lunch.  With the real ingredients - like cream and sugar and no aspartame.  I'd been doing so well.  I was making pumpkin ginger muffins for lunches.  I would put them into freezer bags.  I was organized.   Then it all went to hell.  And now she has Nutrigrain bars for her lunch.  Which taste a bit "sawdusty" to quote said child.

How do families with two working parents manage?  Who cleans the house?  We have dust rhinoceroses.  They're freaking massive!  I keep noticing things that I need to do, like paint the baseboards in the kitchen in the corner where the dishwasher is.  And wash the basement floors.  And sew those slipcovers for the dining room chairs that have been cut out for 2 years now, and strip the paint off the trunk that my friend Nathalie is convinced has "dove-tailed joints!"  Is there an alternate universe where all my baseboards are clean??  I just want to see it once.  Just once.  Then I could die... and I would be content.  "Just look at them.  Look at those beautiful clean baseboards!"

As I lay upon the sofa today, I made David promise that if I were to suddenly die he would use my passing to capitalize on all my artistic endeavours.   The rock opera would make it to Broadway, my children's books distributed through Scholastic, my screenplays made into multi-million dollar films.  "Have no shame," I told him.  "Show pictures of my dead body and Rissa weeping over me."

'Course that could have been the cold talking.