Going blind in the Bingo Hall

Those of you who spend thousands of dollars a year so that your child might dance, play hockey, sing in a choir, partake in tae kwon do, horseback ride, be part of a softball, archery or swimming team - might be familiar with Hometown Bingo.  Hometown Bingo is legalized gambling where local groups/charities work each bingo and then the bingo hall distributes a percentage of that cash earned to each group/charity.  Yes, Hometown Bingo - where smoking has been banned for years, yet its lingering stench remains embedded in the DNA of the building and one can find at least adozen handicapped parking spots out front. 

David worked a shift one night and, upon his return home, immediately donated $50 to a gambling addiction charity.

"This is MESSED UP," he said.  "Those people look like they don't have two loonies to rub together and they are plunking down $50 on Bingo cards."

"I know.  Crazy."

My job at Hometown Bingo?  To run to those who call "BINGO!!!" and then convey the card number on their winning card to the bingo caller, by using my big-ass diaphragm to read them out:

"ONE!  SIX!  EIGHT!! THREE!!" 

"That is a good bingo.  Any others?  Going once, going twice... this game is now closed."

This bingo runner job is a tad more difficult to do when one has gone blind.  Not 100% blind, mind you, but 50% migraine-induced-travelling-blindness, taking out one's peripheral vision and making the rest of the world seem like Swiss cheese on LSD sort of blindness. This particular bout of blindness hit me unexpectedly,  possibly due to slightly flickering fluorescent lighting in the bingo hall.

I bent down to grab money from my purse and knew when my frontal lobe started feeling funky that I'd better reach for my drugs at the same time.  By the time I came out of my purse with a toonie for a Twix bar and two travel vials of drugs - my vision was abandoning me.  Sucking back some water, I easily swallowed the ibuprofen, but the round, red acetaminophen pills - three of them, I think - were stuck in the bottom of the travel vial.  I banged the container on my hand.  No luck.  I banged it on the desk.  Nope.  I found a plastic knife and tried to dig them out.  What I really needed was a skewer...  Fuck it!  I threw the vial on the floor behind the desk... after four tries, I finally heard the pills rattle loosely inside.  I had just managed to swallow two pills when I heard "BINGO!!!"

I looked up and tried to see where the voice had come from.  I couldn't see anyone's hand up.  Where was she?  Where was... There was a hand... over... there... I thought.  I started walking towards her, hoping that I wouldn't run into a pillar if it suddenly disappeared from my vision.  I walked as quickly as I could without losing my balance and approached the woman.  She proffered a small rectangular piece of paper.  This was not a bingo card, it was a Pick 8 receipt - about 4 x 3 inches.  I'd never had to read this type of card - what the hell was I supposed to do with it?

"Read the date," the woman whispered to me.

The date... the dancing, wobbly date...  "MARCH 23RD!"

"Read the session," she whispered again.

"The session?"

"Here...  evening."

"EVENING!!"

"You have to go over to another player and double check the numbers on the top."

"I have to what?"

The bingo caller  now jumped in, "You have to verify with another player."  Then I think she indicated moving somewhere with her chin - or her shoulder - might have been a breast...

I staggered over to another little old lady.

"You need to read these numbers here," she whispered, pointing.

Right.  Line after line of numbers all dancing before my eyes.   I opened my eyes very wide, hoping that might help.  Okay, I could do this.  The date was up at the top and the numbers were...  "Which numbers?"

"These, dear... 36..."

"36!!!"

"22"

"22!!!"

"19"

"19!!!"

"52"

"52!!!"

The little old lady was looking at me like I was on crack.

"13, 26, 35, 42..."

 "13, 26, 35, 42!!!"

"That is a good bingo.  This game is now closed."

 I couldn't see their looks of pity, but I could feel them.  And as I walked back to the desk I heard, "Poor dear, she can't read."

Thyroidosaurus vs Perimenopauseratops

WARNING:  Female issues will be discussed.  

You get to be a certain age of woman and you don't put up with as much shit anymore.  You've made it through early parenthood and you're still standing.  You've mostly got it down, you know what works and what doesn't.  You've developed a rhythm and that rhythm generally lets you get through the day, the week, the year.  You are at one with your body, mind and soul... ish.

And then you hit middle age and it all fucks up.

Used to be that women just kept their mouths shut.  Female 'issues' were not discussed in polite society.  As a result, generation upon generation of women had no one with whom they could commiserate.  We all just kept it bottled inside thinking we were going insane as our medical issues became conveniently labelled as 'hormonal'.  After you've been living in your body for a few decades, you pretty much know how it works.  When things don't seem normal?  They aren't.

You should NOT be losing hair in handfuls.  Take what ends up on the shower wall and show the doctor exactly how much you lose EVERY time you shower.  Offer up that guinea pig-sized example of 'normal' at eye level and then watch them try to dance out of it.

FYI - you should NOT be bleeding through three three pads or tampons in an hour.  You should not have to take a towel with you to sit on... anywhere... EVER.

You should NOT want to go to bed at 7:15 p.m.

In the 50s, women coped by drinking.  In the 80s, it was Valium.  Fast forward to 2015.  Most gals attempt to stay 'natural.'  HRT with its frenetic dance back and forth between between being a Godsend and causing cancer, scares the shit out of most women.  And although the conversation about mental health is becoming more public - often we strive to be self-sufficient women who can 'have it all,' remaining stoic in the face of major shifts in personality and health.

I seek and offer COMMISERATION.  My body is one brutal hormonal cocktail.  Between thyroid disease and peri-menopause, there are times I want to crawl the 163 feet to the back of my property, cover myself in a blanket of snow and become a cautionary tale for those who make the trek past me.  I exercise and exercise and exercise, I eat sensibly and still find myself  30  pounds overweight with back fat that, in my twisted self-image, I am convinced could feed a family of 12 for a week.  I pass blood clots the size of toonies through my hooha.  FUCKING TOONIES!!  I have days mired down in despair, panic, apathy and bone-crushing exhaustion.

I am one 46-year-old woman amongst billions.  There are BILLIONS of us.  You know what that means?  You're not alone.  We can be in this together.  We should be cognizant of the fact that we're all doing the best we can, treading water with a medical system that pooh-poohs women issues as something to 'get through.'

So here's my suggestion folks: everyone who has a child out there interested in medicine... encourage them become doctors, researchers.  Encourage them to specialize in women's health issues.  Encourage them to find the solutions - to support women's health, to foster a health care system that makes it easier to move through middle age if you happen to sport a vagina.  We exist in a world where our life expectancy allows us to become octogenarians, if not centenarians - wouldn't it be great if the last 30-50 years of ours lives didn't suck??

If I were a dude, would I be a douche?

"Rissa, if I were a dude, would I be a douche?" I ask - brushing through my hair after my morning shower.

"Pardon?"

"If I was a guy, do you think that I'd be the type of guy who'd be kind of douchey?"

"Other parents don't ask these questions."

"I just had this thought, is all."

"Imagining that you were a dude?"

"Well... yeah..."

"David!" I call out into the hall.  "If I were a dude, would I be a douche?"

"What did you just ask?"  He stops in the doorway.

"If I were a guy, would I be the kind of douchey guy who'd want to sleep with as many women as he could?  You know, leaving behind me a wake of broken hearts?"

"Are you that kind of woman now?"

"Well, no... but I do have a pretty high libido, so I'm thinking if I were a guy..."

"THANK YOU!" says Rissa.  "Seriously, NO other parents talk like this."

"Are we still married?" asks David.

"Well, no...I don't think so.  Would you then be gay?  Would I be gay?  I think I'm just some unmarried dude, possibly unable to commit, who digs chicks." 

"Do you think that your personality would completely alter if you were a guy?"

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking.   If I was a somewhat attractive dude, who knew that he was attractive, and women were falling all over themselves to be with me, would I let it go to my head and make my way through as many of those women as possible?"

"No."

"Okay.  Good.  Thanks."

"Glad I could clear that up for you."

My cat is stealing my drugs

"Have you seen my puffer?"

"I think it was in the bathroom."

"I've checked there."

"Have you checked on the kitchen table?"

"I've checked on the kitchen table.  I've checked under the kitchen table."

"Have you checked on the bathroom counter?"

"I've checked on the counter.  I've checked behind the counter.  I've checked in the cupboard above the stove.  Rissa!!!  Have you seen my puffer?"

"Have you checked the bathroom?"

"Yeah."

"I think that's where it was last.  Wait!  Have we figured out where Lola hides things in this house?"

At this point I turn to our cat Lola.   We have been in this house less than a year - we have yet to find her secret cache of toys.  You know, the toys that she decides are hers: the hair elastics, the sponges, the caps from pens, the bobby pins...  I pick her up.  Lola hates being picked up.  She gives a pitiful meow - if you were listening from the next room you would think that I am trying to  disembowel her.

"Dude.  The puffer.  I need it."  She meows again pitifully, but alas does not lead me to the drugs.

LATER - AT THE PHARMACY

"I think that my, uh, my cat stole my puffer."

The pharmacist doesn't even blink. "I'll give you the official receipt, but I don't think your insurance will cover  that."

Later, as I am about to seek out the replacement receipt - I hear and odd mechanical grinding noise.  It takes me a minute to place it - it is the paper shredder.

"Lola!!  Seriously??"

And now I have to take extra underwear to work...

"Not cool!  This is NOT cool!"  I exasperate.

"What?  What is it?"  David responds.

"I peed my pants FIVE  times today while coughing!!!"

"Oh hon... You'll do better tomorrow...  Tomorrow you can make it to six!"

"Do NOT make me laugh."  I have already crossed my thighs in preparation for any laugh leakage.

David and Rissa attempt to keep their faces blank.

"It is NOT funny!  You guys!!  I'm coughing ALL THE TIME!!!  I should have done more Kegels.  I did so many a decade ago and it's all gone to hell."  I try one while I standing.

"Are you Kegeling right now?" David asks.

"Yes."  I focus on my nether regions.

"You look terrified and like you're trying to do trigonometry at the same time."

"It makes me feel all squelchy.  I wonder if it's even possible to do rehab for your urethra this far after you've given birth."  (It is.)

"Mummy, I think, just in case, you should take extra underwear to work."

"I'd have to bring a 1/2 a dozen pairs!"

"You could always wear adult diapers..." David suggests helpfully.

"Dude."

He shrugs apologetically, then gives me a look.  "Are you Kegeling again?"

"No, I'm trying to figure out how to accessorize the maxi pad I'll be wearing in my underwear tomorrow."  I pause.    "Now I'm doing Kegels."



 

Her name is Lola - she self-Brazilians...

I'm not sure what we do to them, but eventually, all cats in our household run galloping towards madness.  We've had cats who spontaneously paralyze, suck on carpet and hiss at the doorbell.  Since we moved to the new house, Lola - sveltest of our felines - is now attempting to change breeds - she is licking herself hairless.

Evolution to Sphinx...

  I give her six more months... et... voila!!

Who needs psychedelic drugs...

... when you're in the midst of peri-menopause? They tell you about the sleep disturbances, the night sweats - all that great stuff - they don't tell you that your dreamscape will be a cross between Terry Gilliam and Wes Anderson.

Last night, Inigo Montoya was waxing my bikini line before he replaced my kneecaps with silver plating.  To be fair - Inigo Montoya had been featured on the Mindy Project and I had watched an episode of Bones while I was on the treadmill.  It is possible I've been watching too much Netflix.

For years, I'd had no dream retention and now... TECHNICOLOR dreams.  In one night I can have 4 or 5 major dream excursions.  Hopping between murder mystery and house-shopping, archaeology and  extreme haircuts - usually accompanied by night sweats - blankets off - then the chills as the sweat cools, so in your dream you're now naked in front of your Grade 9 Geography class, with only post-its to cover your interesting bits.

I awake bearing a grudge against David because in one of my panic attack-inducing dreams there's a demon child who throws a patio door at me.  Trying to scream - only managing a whimper in my sleep - David 'there-there'ing me in his sleep, one arm curving around my midriff, patting me ineffectually when what I really need is to be able to climb inside of him so that he can keep me safe.

"You don't protect me," I say petulantly over breakfast.

"I was asleep!"

"You were awake enough to recognize that I was crying, you patted me, but then you just went back to sleep."

"Next time it happens, you have my permission to wake me up and make sure that I understand the gravity of your situation."

"Wake you up violently?"

"If need be."

I smile.  "You love me."

"Yeah."

"Enough to take an elbow to the gut?"

"Yeah."