My daughter, niece, and two of my sisters and myself threw a bridal shower for my nephew’s bride to be this weekend.  She’s a sweet girl.  She has been around for awhile, and I was always under the impression that she was a shy little thing.  After Saturday, I’m beginning to think my nephew is just keeping her down.  She talked openly and often.  She hung out with the in-laws just like she liked us. 

We sent out invitations to 34 people, and I think we had 10 show up.  I usually count on about 50% of the invitees to actually come so it was fairly close.  Her mom, aunt, and bridesmaids showed up, and I think she had a few additional friends.  It was small.  I was glad.  You see the blisters on my feet are back, and I could only do so much hostessing.  As it was I did 98% of my meeting and greeting from the Eames chair in the living room.

I can’t make my mother understand that these blisters are the result of a spider bite.  I’ve told her time and time again that my rheumatoid antigens are through the roof and that my body is in attack mode as a result.  I have been warned to stay away from sick people, and to avoid all forms of flu at all cost.  Yet when this new set of blisters popped up the first thing she said was, “I wish we knew what was causing them.”  Then I explain once again how the immune system works only to hear, “I think maybe you should see a different doctor.”  My very dear, very southern friend who lives down the street came by on Friday for me to give her a shot.  She saw the blisters on my feet and deduced that I have a concrete allergy.  “You’ve got a concrete allergy.”  “I’ve been walking barefoot on concrete for years.”  “Sometimes you build up an allergy, and I haven’t seen you in shoes all summer.”  “You haven’t seen me in shoes because I have these ‘effin blisters on my feet.”  “What did the doctor say when he got your blood work?”  “He said it was exactly what he expected to find.  High RA numbers and normal white count.”  “So he still thinks this is all from that spider bite.”  “Yup.”  “That’s crap!  You need to see a skin specialist.”  “You mean a dermatologist?”  “You know what I mean.  You have a concrete allergy.”  “Okay, I promise not to wear or ingest concrete, and we will see if these blisters get better.”

I love that these old women know more than my doctor.  And I don’t know why they would doubt that a spider bite on my big toe would have cause huge blisters on my feet that no one could possibly imagine if they hadn’t seen them for them self, but there they are.  I have listened to my podiatrist’s explanation of why this has happened and it makes perfect sense.  But looking at these mega blisters makes it hard to understand.  Especially if you don’t get the explanation right from the horse’s mouth. These blisters completely encircle my toenail.  They go down to the base of my toes and around the back of the toe to the second knuckle.  In addition, they are bright red.  They look as if they are filled with blood, but when they drew the fluid out to send in to the lab it was clear.  Now imagine that you have a total of six of them on two feet.  Ouch!  Yes, it is as painful as it looks.  I also have one on each of my heels.  Those are about an inch long and just as angry as the others.  My podiatrist has put me back on prednisone and of course, pain medication.  I sleep a lot, and my mother is taking care of the things around the house that I don’t trust my husband to do.  Mother has apparently forgotten that I don’t do things the way other people do.  I tend to get crap that makes my doctor turn his head to the side, like a little puppy, and look at me in confusion.  “I’ve never seen this before, but…”  I get that a lot.  He once asked me if I look up illnesses in the Mercke manual and then see if I can get them, just to test his ability to diagnose.

I’m not planning any more showers, for sure!  In fact I think my days of having showers are over.  All of my sister’s kids have had showers now, and my kids aren’t going to have me throwing their showers.  I hope.  My great nieces and nephews can have their cousins, or brother’s girlfriends, or sisters throw their showers, and what the hell happened to bridesmaids giving showers?  Wasn’t that the way things were supposed to be?  I wouldn’t know for sure, my bridesmaid was my nine year old daughter.  If she had thrown me a party it probably would have been a Barbie themed event.  That could have been fun…maybe I missed out.  My sisters threw me a lingerie shower, but most of the nighties never even made it past the bedroom door.  I think I wore most of them once, and then settled in to over size t-shirts and boxers.

Oh well, that is what is going on.  My computer was down for awhile, and I couldn’t blog.  Then all of this happened and I didn’t have time to blog, but I’m back!  I have two doctor’s appointments this week so there should be fodder for the blog all week long.  Stay tuned dear ones…the bitch is back!

 

I went back to the doctor (GP) on Monday.  He’s a very kind and patient man with a wacky sense of humor.  Part of that is due to the fact that I have been seeing him for about 15 years.  Anyway, being the excellent physician that he is he told me that all of my aches and pains are related to rheumatoid arthritis and that it is progressing.  He said that I should discuss all of this with my rheumatologist at my next appointment.  In the meantime he prescribed a “mild” pain reliever.  This medication is awesome! 

The medication is called Tramadol.  Stronger than ibuprofen (which makes my ears ring!) and milder than oxycodone.  He said take two every six hours…I haven’t felt anything since Monday evening.  I sleep alot, but I don’t mind.  Sleeping has always been a favorite pastime of mind.  I have come to call this particular drug “damnitall”.  I love it.  On Sunday I cleaned the house like I was manic.  On Monday I was so busy it felt like I was chasing my tail.  By Tuesday I was in my pajamas until 2:00 p.m.  Thank you damnitall!

This medication is in no way improving my arthritis, but it is improving my pain and thus improving my attititude.  With damnitall, I don’t care that the laundry has been sitting in the utility room since last Friday.  I don’t care that the front room looks like it has been hit by a hurricane.  The fact that every bed in the house needs cleans sheets just mildly amuses me.  Everything has become so much less important with damnitall.   I just really don’t care.   I haven’t even been in the pool in several days…Friday, I think.  I was thinking about cleaning out closets last week.  That’s over!  Those closets can stay cluttered for ever and a day.  Plus I think my OCD is cured!

If nothing else takes place I hope they keep me on this medication.  I am so much more relaxed than I used to be.  I mean soooooo relaxed!  It just doesn’t seem like anything is important anymore.  I know so many people I would like to see on this medication.  My daughter, for one.  She could really use a vacation, and I think damnitall is the answer.  It’s cheap, for one thing…and you don’t have to pack.  You feel amazing and nothing matters.  Who couldn’t use that? 

This is all I can write for now.  I need a nap.  Thanks damnitall!

Preseason football has begun.  As I speak the Kansas City Chiefs are recording on the DVR.  My colts are playing tonight (actually they played on Friday and I have been trying to avoid the results until I can see them tonight).  I’m wearing my Colts t-shirt.  I’ve got my Colts Crocs on, and I even painted my toenails Colts blue.  I’m geared up. 

This fandom started late for me.  I never really cared much for football.  I went to school at a place that only had basketball.  Yes, they had baseball too, but I was a cheerleader and if we didn’t cheer for a sport I didn’t consider it a sport.  So basketball was my thing.  I didn’t want to watch pro basketball, although I did take the kids to a Spurs game once and I got just as tied up in it as I did in my teens.  I loved watching the Jayhawks.  My son and I would watch Jayhawk games together.  I just never got in to football.  Then I noticed something.  When football season came everyone in the family who cared about football was cheering for the Chiefs.  My son was the one and only Colts fan.  When everyone started talking smack about his beloved Colts he couldn’t say much.  Mostly because I had taught him to treat his elders with respect.  I figured I had done this to him, I would undo it.  So I started watching the Colts.  I learned the names of the players.  I learned the basics so I would know when to cheer and when to boo.  I went to the games with my son.  Little by little I started to bleed blue.  Now when the family starts to tease about the Colts there is a voice that resounds back.  Not that I have to very much…the Colts have pretty consistently done better than the Chiefs.  I like the Chiefs.  I have watched them struggle and I hope that they get it together real soon.  They are my second favorite team.  This is the way my loyalty goes: 1) The Colts 2) The Chiefs 3)Whomever is playing the Patriots.

Recently my daughter and I were traveling through Indianapolis and we had to stop for gas outside of the city in a little suburb.  I was sitting in the backseat waiting for my daughter to come out of the gas station, when Bob Sanders walked out of the building.  I nearly killed myself jumping out of the backseat.  I threw open the door and yelled, “Bobzilla!” (a name my son coined for the little power house).  He turned to look at me and smiled a rather shy smile.  I asked him if I could have an autograph, and he obliged.  I told him that we needed him to be healthy this year because he makes up the Colts defense.  He smiled again, and shook my hand before we left.  I never thought twice about what a scene we made…a young, muscular, long haired (braided though), little package of TNT and a diminutive white woman of middle age.  I was just a fan seeking an autograph.  Until my daughter said to her friend, “can you imagine what he must have thought when he saw my little mama jumping out of the Tahoe yelling Bobzilla?”, then the hilarity hit me.  I had to laugh with them.  I called my son to tell him that I got Bob’s autograph.  I told him I called him Bobzilla.  He asked if he was nice, and I said that he was absolutely as sweet as could be.  “Good” he said, “I always have thought he would be.”

So now I am ready for the game.  I can’t wait to see “Payday” throw the football again.  “Per” Diem, Bobzilla, Dallas Clunk (so named because his catches are eratic, and all the rest.  I’m sad that we lost Coach Dungy, and I wish we still had “Marvelous” Marvin Harrison, but as long as the new coaches help us win, and the new receivers can catch the ball, I’ll survive.  I can’t believe this happened to me.  I was never going to enjoy a sport that was so brutal, but here I am…itching for the game to start.  I am one step away from having a horseshoe tattoo with the number 18 below it.  GO COLTS!!!!!!

 

I was shopping the other day, feeling good about myself, the day…life in general.  Then I went to check out.  The woman at the register looked to be in her mid 50’s or so (not that I commented).  I wrote a check, and the woman asked for my driver’s license.  I handed it to her, and she exclaimed “Oh my goodness!  I would never have guessed you were that old.”…good so far, right? But then she went on, “you sure look good for your age.”  I was stunned for a moment.  What exactly did that mean?  I look good for my age?  In effect she was saying that if I were ten years younger I would look like hell.  At what particular age would I look wretched?  Did I look good for 40?  How about 35?  More importantly, why would anyone say such a thing?  I had an aunt who used to say “You just don’t look like yourself!” when you changed anything about your look.  I always wondered how she recognized me if I didn’t look like myself.  Who the hell did I look like?  This backhanded compliment was sort of the same thing.  Why couldn’t she just say “you sure look good” and let it go at that.  The sales chick went on to say, “I would have guessed you were around my age.”  I felt I had been slapped.  I would have guessed she was MY age!  I was torn between two stinging retorts…1) “Hell, I look good for YOUR age!” and 2) “Listen you gross, unimaginative, minimum wage earning piece of crap…You look good for your age is not a compliment.  I hope you die a painful death!”  Obviously, I didn’t go with either of those.  I said ” gee thanks” with a sort of smart ass emphasis on gee,  and went on about my business.  Stewing with every step.

I have decided that there are certain things that no one should be allowed to say or assume as related to age.

1. (No duh?) “You look good for your age.”

2) “Is that your mother/father?”

3) “Is that your son/daughter?”

4) “When you get to be our age….”

5) “Is that your grandchild?”

6) “Did you read in the AARP magazine….”

7) “My mom/dad is about your age.”

See any reference to age can be misconstrued.  You can’t assume that some old man with some young woman is having dinner with his grand-daughter.  You can’t ask some older woman with a baby if that is her grandchild.  Not so long ago I was wrestling with my son and he sat on top of me.  When he rolled off to the side my knee cap dislocated.  We were able to put it back in place, but I had to wear a knee brace for quite some time.  During this time my husband and I went out to dinner.  The hostess asked me what had happened  to my knee.  I told her “I was wrestling with my son and my knee cap was dislocated.”  She looked at my husband and said, “did you do that to your mom?”  I calmly pointed out that she was speaking to my husband.  Not one to let a dead dog lie, she said “Wow, he looks lots younger than you!”  To which, my curt response was “he is.  I am one lucky woman.”  My husband thought this was a lot funnier than I did.  The stupid hostess made an assumption.  And you know what they say about assuming things.

I think political correctness is a load of crap, but I don’t think being sensitive is the same thing at all.  I am a middle aged woman.  I know that.  I don’t need someone else pointing that out to me.  In fact, middle aged might be generous.  I may not live to be 98.  I suppose some people would think the chatty little sales person paid me a compliment.  I think she needs a reality check.  Compliments should be simple.  I love your hair, dress, shoes, and so on.  She could have just said “I never would have guessed your age.”  Done.  K.I.S.S.  Then I would have respond just as simply, “thank you.”  Had that been the scenario I wouldn’t have had witty retorts swirling around in my head.  I only hope the mouth breather reads this.  Maybe then she will learn.

 

I have discovered the joys of resale.  Pay attention…I said resale not retail.  I was taking some things to my daughter at her place of work the other day, and on the way I saw a dress hanging outside a little house that had a sign out front that said Century Butterfly.  A big open sign was shining from the window.  Now it was about 5:00 in the evening and I didn’t have time to stop right then so I told myself that after I took Pookie her things if the store was still open and the dress fit I was buying it.  As luck would have it I drove back by and the cheerful little open sign was still beaming from the window and the dress was beckoning.  I pulled in. 

The building was a quaint little house that looked like it was probably built in the 19th century.  It was made of stone, and the steps leaned to the left.  The cars parked outside were questionable.  One was an honest to God hippie van.  It looked like with a little work it could replace the Mystery Machine from Scooby Doo.  There was a Volvo that had seen more than its share of accidents, and what I think was an International Harvester, 4WD something that had been jacked up above my head.  Not being a car snob, I pulled in between the Mystery Machine and the Volvo, parked and went inside. 

I tottered up the crooked stairs and went inside.  It was a tiny little store.  Two men and two women were inside.  It was full of things that screamed “70’s!!!!”  I could easily pick out who was driving the Mystery Machine.  He was sleeping on a couch propped up against the back wall.   He had hair down to his shoulders and a full beard.  He was wearing a Jimmi Hendrix T-shirt, jeans that were definitely bell bottoms, and flip-flops.  He made some of the jewelry that was in the store.  The owner, I think, was also the owner of the Volvo.  He and his wife were behind the counter with their daughter, whom I would guess was somewhere around 1.  He was a little unkempt but not in a 70’s kind of way.  More in the manner of “I have a one year old.”  His hair was pulled back in a ponytail.  His jeans and T-shirt were pretty non-descript.  I didn’t see his footwear.  His wife was a lovely woman, with short hair and an exuberant personality.  She was so friendly you felt like she knew you from somewhere.  The fourth person in the store, and I’m guessing the driver of the IH 4WD was a dried up little prune of a woman.  She might weigh a buck ten and looked like indoor tanning was a personal hobby.  The leathered skin hung off her bones, and her dry blond hair looked like it was on its way to dreads.  She looked 70, but was probably closer to my age.  She also made jewelry for the store.  Anyway, I asked about the dress.  It was a fuchsia creation with embroidery all over it.  It looked like it definitely had some Mexican influence going on.  It didn’t have a size, but I couldn’t let it go.  I figured that if I couldn’t wear it my daughter could.  So after a little haggling I purchased the dress.  I also noticed they had an extensive collection of head scarves.  They had silk and cotton in colors that pretty much covered the whole spectrum.  I had been wanting to buy some scarves for my Aunt Lori who is going through chemo for lung cancer.  She has been wearing a wig but doesn’t like wearing it in the house.  I thought some pretty scarves might be just the thing.  I purchased four.  I was speaking to the female owner and we were talking.  She commented that people rarely buy head scarves any more.  I explained to her that they were for my Aunt who was going through chemo.  Her mother had survived cancer and she understood how sad it is when a woman loses her hair.  We talked for awhile, and then she did the most generous thing.  She started choosing scarves for my Aunt and put them in the bag. 

Here’s the thing…this wasn’t a shop I would normally go back to.  The style that they endorse is more my daughter’s than my own.  In addition, I have never been one to buy previously worn clothes.  I usually get those from relatives or friends for free.  However; this generous woman changed my mind.  Of course I will go back and shop the tiny little store with the jacked up cars, crazy stairs, and old hippies.  I will refer them to people who might be interested in things they provide.  The woman, with her heartfelt gesture, did more for the advertising of her shop than 1,000 ads could have ever done.  She connected with a customer.

Well, it has happened…Boppy and I have sold our souls to Jenny Craig.  Tuesday morning dawned as many other mornings, at noon.  Boppy determined it was time to seek dieting help (I have been ready for awhile) so off we went to our local Jenny Craig office and saw our counselor…Anita.  As happens so often at offices that promise miracles, Anita was a tiny little thing who could probably eat chocolate cheesecake twice a day and never gain a pound.  Now I intend to follow this program like a disciple following his God, but it is hard to take dietary advice from a woman who has a part-time job as a coat rack. 

We didn’t have to listen to the spiel as much as some, because we did the Jenny Craig program about seven years ago.  For me it was successful.  For Boppy it was almost successful.  He made his halfway goal, but when I quit he quit.  You see that is the other thing, when “we” diet I do all the work.  He sits down at the table like a restaurant patron and waits for me to serve him.  His biggest question about his diet plan is “what else can I eat”.  It is my job to know the answer to that question. “Well you have two fruits left so I guess the obvious answer is some fruit.”  “What do we have?”  “We have grapes, nectarines, cantaloupe, strawberries, blueberries, raspberries, and apples.”  “I guess I’ll have….”  Which means he is not going to get up and get it because why would he bother to tell me what he was going to have unless he wanted me to make sure he has it.  Yesterday he asked me to bring him a diet coke….and some fruit….and whatever snack he was due for.  When I asked why he couldn’t get it himself, he said he was on the computer.  I gave in and got him all of his crap and when I came back I found out that his “on the computer” was actually a game of spider solitaire.  When I called him on it, he didn’t even have the grace to act guilty.  He just looked at me like “yes, and your point is?”

 This brings me to my Valerie Bertinelli reference…the only way you can get excited about a diet program (any diet program) is if you are being paid to be excited about it.  She talks about how great the food is…well it is okay, but not great.  Some things are better than others.  The chicken fettuccine is not bad for a frozen entree.  The cheese curls are borderline gross.  The first few weeks are pretty rigid.  If it is on the weekly list of foods you must consume it.  Later on you can replace items as you wish.  Let me tell you, it is hard to get excited about Salisbury steak in general, but frozen, icky Salisbury steak takes a paycheck to get you salivating.  Miss Valerie bounces out in a bikini and announces how all of that was possible with Jenny Craig and fat chicks everywhere decide that Jenny Craig is for them.  I am all for motivation, but Miss Valerie was motivated by money.  She not only gets paid, she gets the food for free.  She has a personal trainer to help her achieve that body.  Boppy and I shelled out about $300 for a week’s worth of food, and my personal trainer will be me (so fat chance that is going to work).

There is another issue that this whole diet brings to the fore front.  The amount of food you are given to eat.  I have a hard time eating everything on the menu.  I am on the 1200 calorie program.  I eat about every two hours.  I have to think about it all the time.  It is constant.  Boppy’s big worry is that there won’t be enough food to keep him full.  He is on the 2300 calorie program.  He also eats about every two hours.  The difference is he normally doesn’t eat much until around 8:00 p.m.  Then he eats until he goes to bed.  On this program you eat about every two hours and you don’t really change that as it gets closer to bed time.  In fact, they recommend that you don’t eat anything for two hours before bed.  That is peak eating time for him.  He’ll do it though, because I am making sure he does.

I’ll keep you informed of how things go.  Between us we need to lose about 100 pounds.  At an average of 1-2 pounds per week we will be awhile.  It should give me blogging material for about the next year.  Hopefully, other more exciting things will happen so you won’t have to listen to 365 days of dieting.  If you do have to endure that be warned that at first there will be whining about how hard it is to diet, and in the end there will be whining about how hard it is to lose those final pounds.  In short, there will be whining.  Just a little something to look forward to…because no one does it better than I.

I have a niece who performs in a country music revue in Eureka Springs.  She is  the only female vocalist and performs comedy routines as well.  I admit I am not a big fan of country music, however I try to go see her once a year or so.  Well, on Friday I had The Precious.  His mommy needed a girl’s night, so I told her I would gladly keep him.  I decided to take him to the show and I asked mother to join us. 

He was fine on the trip over.  He commented on all the cows we saw along the way.  He noticed the barns, and the tractors.  He pointed out each and every big truck, and chattered like a little monkey…all from his car seat in the back.  He was more than ready to get out of the car when we arrived.  He trotted his stocky little body straight up to the entrance and through the doors.  He headed straight for the auditorium and looked inside.  He promptly screamed “No” and ran right back out the same doors he had run through seconds earlier.  Of course I ran after him.  We went out onto the deck that is just to the left of the entrance and discussed what was going on.  I mentioned several times that there would be a piano, some drums, and that my niece (whom for the sake of privacy we shall call Betsy) was going to sing.  My sister arrived and came over to talk to The Precious and I.  He was very friendly until she asked if he was going to see “Betsy” sing.  “No” he said.  Betsy came out to see us and was playing with The Precious.  “Did you come to see me sing?”  “No” he said, and this time he promptly ran out into the parking lot looking for the car.  Finally I caught him and we had a little talk.  “We’re going to go into the show now.  We aren’t going to cry.  You can put your head on my shoulder and you don’t have to look at anyone…but remember we aren’t going to cry.”  He bravely took my hand and we went into the theatre.  As soon as the lights went down he crawled up onto my shoulder.  Every time the emcee would speak he would clutch me a little tighter.  Within minutes he was sound asleep.  Nothing woke him up until intermission.  I guess it was the lights that woke him up.  He took about one second to look around and then he took over.  He spoke to the gentleman across the aisle.  He wanted to go see Betsy.  He spoke to everyone who walked by.  He decided he wanted ice-cream and charmed the lady at the counter into making it a freebie.  He walked back down to our seats like he owned the place.  When the show started again he stood up on my lap and screamed “Hi, Betsy” and he also yelled at the comedian for the show.  “HI, Peanut!”  He clapped and ran his Budin’ up and down the aisle and along the back of the chair in front of us (which was empty).  When the show was over he wanted to go down to the stage and shake hands.  When all was said and done he was in the middle of a crowd of band members and Betsy and Peanut.  He had become the show.   He performed.  He did everything that was asked of him.  He shook his booty.  He raised the roof.  He was the star, but when I asked him to tell them how Emmy’s car went he did his usual double shift growl and then he shrieked like stomped brakes and yelled “crash!”  I have no idea where that came from.  My brakes don’t screech and I have never crashed…in that car.  Finally the drummer asked him if he enjoyed the show.  “No” he said and he walked out the door.  I reminded him that under 8 and over 80 have no filters.

All in all we had a great time.  I couldn’t wait to tell his mom how good he had been.  I tried to buy souvenir T-shirts for The Precious and myself but Betsy wouldn’t have it.  We got the t-shirts, but I didn’t get to buy them.  I still don’t get why she wouldn’t let me pay for them.  The last thing I gave her was the recipe to my key lime cookies.  You would think she would have at least held out until I promised to actually bake her the cookies again.  Yes, she is a real blonde…not as blonde as she appears, but real.  Anyway…back to the ride home.  I put The Precious in his Budin’ jammies, I poured him a cup of chocolate milk (I had brought a cooler just for the milk), and I turned Thomas the Tank Engine on the computer for him to watch.  He was thoroughly engrossed in his movie and sucking down milk like a bulimic mosquito when I heard a choking noise from the backseat.  I looked back to see chocolate milk pouring out of The Precious.  It was coming out of his nose, his mouth, and I think a little may have been in his ears.  I stopped the car.  I cleaned him up as best I could, I took off his jammies and put his new t-shirt on him, I cleaned the car seat with the intention of putting him back in it.  It wasn’t going to happen.  The seat was just too nasty to put him in, plus he screamed each time I tried to let go of him.  Needless to say, mother drove home and I held The Precious. 

There is a reason my mother doesn’t drive after dark.  She can’t.  She barely drove the speed limit.  She weaved back and forth on the road.  She would jerk the wheel suddenly and for no reason.  All of this was accompanied with “am I making you nervous?”  I wanted to scream “Hell yes.  Plus you are going to make the kid puke again.”  However I lied and said “no”.  We finally made it to The Precious’s house.  My mother was telling the kids about all that had happened and the last thing I heard was “I think if she doesn’t mind I will let her drive home.”  Mind?  Are you kidding?  I had every intention of driving home…or walking.  Thankfully it looked like I was going to get to drive.  I remember how much my parent’s hated giving us driving lessons…the worm has turned.

Aside from the puking I think a good time was had by all.  I knew my niece could sing…I didn’t know she was funny.  I was impressed with how well The Precious did, and other than mother thinking the band didn’t comment enough on her “fresh apple cake” things seemed pretty good.  My non-vag. daughter got her night out.  I got to show off The Precious.  Betsy got to showcase her talent, and granny got to receive kudos on her cake.  The only one who might have gotten left out was my sister.  In case she did…your daughter was delightful as always.  Thank you so much for the un-eaten hot dog and the soda.  You are a super, great aunt.  The Precious and I both love you very much.  If you need more than that you probably should get mom’s cake recipe.

 

I had to go back to the podiatrist today.  Let me preface this by saying that I have the coolest podiatrist in the world.  He is Vietnamese, but has great English language skills.  He is friendly and polite, but a little sassy too.   My favorite thing about him is that he never denies me pain medication.  As a person blessed with rheumatoid arthritis,  fibromyalgia, and all kinds of immuno-suppresant illnesses, I have never met a pain med I didn’t like. 

Today I asked him about prescribing muscle relaxers for me again, and  he didn’t even hesitate to pull out his Rx pad.  “Do you need more pain medication as well?”  Which caused me to wonder if anyone has ever said no to that question.  Now I am generally in pain, and with all of these blisters on my feet (and new ones appearing all the time) I teeter on the edge of agony…so of course I said yes.  Here’s the thing though…I take maybe one or two of the capsules on a bad day.  I don’t abuse the pain meds I have.  I have a running prescription for pain meds for my fibromyalgia and RA and that usually is enough to keep the pain at bay.  Even with this prescription for something stronger, I always fear the possibility of addiction and take as little as necessary to relieve the pain.  Still, I wonder if his other patients are as responsible with their medication.  I truly believe that he probably isn’t as free with the codeine with other patients as he is with me.  He knows that I have worked for a surgeon and an optometrist in the past and that I have a true fear of becoming addicted to pain pills.  He knows that I am not going to get in any trouble with this prescription.  In my mind though, I see a granny in a surgical boot slugging back some Oxycontin with a Ripple chaser. 

The other thing that cracks me up is when they ask you on a scale of 1 to 10 (one being very little pain and ten being the worst pain that you could imagine) what is your pain level?  What possible good does that really do?  First of all, I could lie.  Secondly my one might be anothers five.  Basically all pain is relative and all relatives are pains.  I think the worst pain I have ever had was when they set my broken ankle without giving me any pain medication at all.  I would definitely classify that as a ten.  A one might be a deep splinter.  Boppy, on the other hand, shrieks at the thought of having a wart frozen off his foot.  He was gritting his teeth and clenching his butt like you wouldn’t believe. If I had had a lump of coal that day, he could have produced a diamond.   He told me he almost thought he wasn’t going to be able to stand it.  A wart?  Really?  My point being…if anyone had asked him at that point if he would like a prescription for pain medication his response would have been an emphatic “Yes!”  When The Precious was being born we hurried to the hospital to await his arrival.  Upon entering the hospital room I saw my non-vag. daughter curled into a fetal position, eyes closed, holding the hand of my son.  We had brought him lunch so he pried his hand loose to go eat and upon telling him that the smell of his lunch was making her nauseated and would he please get away from her, she clamped onto mine.  If you had asked her then she would have told you that her pain level was a ten.  That is, if you could have gotten her to speak at all.  Twenty minutes later she was sitting up in bed, talking and laughing.  All the pain lines and frown creases were gone and she was writing sonnets to the anesthetist who had given her the epidural that was responsible for her incredible mood swing.  My hand, however,  has never been the same.

I used to think I wanted to be a doctor.  I still love all the medical ins and outs.  I love anatomy and physiology.  I love researching the symptoms of an illness and trying to see if I can diagnose it before the doctor does.  I’m right about 75% of the time.  I can do CPR.  I can give shots.  I feel certain that if I had to I could deliver a baby, but the one thing that I would never want to do is to determine how much pain someone is in.  It would be so easy to prescribe narcotics to a junkie without even realizing it.  I think one of the most important things that doctors do is to read their patients.  All of my doctors are great at what they do, and when I say “all” that is an extensive list.  Everyone from my GP to my podiatrist is very sympathetic to all of my aches and pains, and I think that is because they know that I have this very real fear of becoming dependent on pain medication.  I tend to under take them rather than abuse them.  My hubby loves to tell me to stay ahead of the pain, but that is impossible when your pain is chronic…you just learn to deal.

Anyway, back to today…my doctor used a syringe to withdraw fluid from the largest of the new blisters and sent the sample in to the lab to make sure that it is normal fluid.  He bandaged all of my many blisters and sent me to have blood drawn to see if the previous medications were doing anything to bring down my RA count and told me to come back in two weeks.  That is an improvement.  I have been being seen once weekly.  In two weeks we will be able to tell if the Methotrexate is bringing my numbers down.  Of course, if something happens or if I need to have more blisters drained, I will go back earlier.  I am still just thankful that it is summer (so I can go barefoot or wear sandals) and that all of the blisters are on the tops of my feet.

Until then it is back to what passes for normal around here.  Which basically means I am just waiting to see what new hell my body will put me through next.  There is a reason that I get along so well with all my doctors…I see them more often than I see my family.  I am the only person I know whose doctors hug them when they come into the exam room.   Building a relationship like that is necessary when your very existence depends on them…trust me.  I should know.  I’ve been to three doctors in the last three days!

Happy Birthday!  You made it through another year.  Good for you!  To still be getting around at your age is quite a remarkable feat.  I have been concerned ever since they got rid of mom’s rascal, that you might need it, but there you are.  Standing on your own two feet.  You see I’ve been concerned that all of that baggage you are carrying might weigh you down.  You finally got your James Bond Racing Set, but I have a strong feeling that there is so much more resentment that needs to be released.  Personally, I keep waiting for you to go postal.

I remember the first time we met.  You liked me then.  You didn’t know that your brother would marry me and that I would battle you for the title of family smart-ass.  I love the gentle quips we trade.  The humor that is lost on so many is not lost on you.  We are a lot alike you and I.  I am a wise ass. You are a wise ass.  I love gross medical stuff and google everything medical that I can, and you are just the same.  We have a lot in common my friend…except that age thing.  You are old, and I am not.  (There’s also a slight difference in height, but I’ll keep that to myself, Shorty).  You probably couldn’t imagine all those years ago when you were holding your baby brother, that he would marry someone closer to your age than his.  You’ve handled that well, by the way.  Much better than most members of the families.  You became instant uncle to three of the most unruly, mouthy kids on the planet and you’ve never smacked them once.  I’ve smacked your kid any number of times.  You obviously are endowed with great patience.

I don’t have a ton of stories about your childhood and what kind of kid you were because Boppy wasn’t around then to rat you out and Grandpa isn’t talking.  I do have pictures of you in that bitchin’ hat when you were somewhere around 12.  I can tell from that picture that you were a total playa.  I envision you as a Sinatra fan…although he was just a child when you were born.  The hat however, is totally Frankie.  I know that you were such a frightening child that mom and dad hung up their hats for several years before trying again. I know you were a young parent (not as young as me, but I’ve always been an over achiever), I know you were the President of the Chamber of Commerce in some podunk towns in Iowa and Illinois…guess you couldn’t get a nomination in a real state.  I know that you gave up big city life to run a trout resort in another podunk town (hoping for a C of C post?),  I will never forget the Christmas you held us all hostage while you droned on and on about how life had kicked you in the ass.  You listed every gross injustice you suffered from the beginning of your life through to the then current day.  In your opinion it all began with that damned James Bond Race Track.  Thanks for showing my children that you can grow old without growing up.  It is a lesson they learned well.  But the thing I know the most about you is that you would do anything you could for the people you love…and you have always made me feel that I could count myself among them.

Happy Birthday!!  I hope you get up the wind to blow out all those candles…but knowing how windy you are I am not too worried.  Don’t set off any smoke alarms!  Here’s wishing you a great day…which for a man your age should include a glass of prune juice with which to take his Viagra.

There are times in your life when you are just shocked.  In my case it’s usually because I had something come out of my mouth that I was totally unprepared for.  People are always amazed by my personal observations and the fact that I share them so freely, but I’m not the only one who says shocking things.  Several members of our family are very vocal.  I know my dad always said what was on his mind…sometimes too loudly, but it was my mother who shocked me most recently.

I was sitting at my mother’s on Saturday.  I had come for a visit after the long trip.  We had been to the fruit orchard to get some produce.  We had gone to my aunt’s house to see how she was doing (and also to scavenge some things from their garden).  We had moved her furniture around a bit so that she could more easily access her computer, and after all of that we were sitting and chatting.  Now my mother has always been able to start a conversation in the middle of a sentence.  I clearly recall a time when we were sitting in silence and out of the blue she says “yes, I was telling your daddy just the other day…”  I looked around to see if someone else had entered the room and she was telling them about some incident.  I feared that I had gone temporarily deaf and then had my hearing restored after the other person had spoken or in the middle of a grand enlightening.  But on this day she started the conversation in the right place, just in the wrong way.  “You know, if I could find a good Christian man for companionship, I think that would be nice.  I’m not looking or anything, but if that happened it would be nice.”  Some part of me was thinking about that deaf thing again, and really hoping that was the case…I mean not that I had gone deaf…but that I would…quickly!  The mature and supportive daughter side of me smiled and said “that would be nice.”

I remember the sinking feeling I had when I realized at 17 that I was going to be a mom.  I remember where I was when the Challenger went down in flames.  I remember being shocked by John Lennon’s assassination, and the many times I said things and then wondered if I looked as shocked as the people I was speaking to.  That look of abject terror, total surprise, and wishing you could rewind time has been a constant companion of mine.  This time however it wasn’t my mouth that was spewing unbelievable crap…it was my mother.  I felt like that smile was plastered on my face for hours while my brain was trying to think of an appropriate response.  Instead of screaming out “what the hell are you even saying?” my brain said I had to be the voice of reason.  So while I was saying how okay I was with what she was saying my head is going…”what are the odds?”  Then last Sunday some old dude hit on my mother.  It was kind of funny actually.  Apparently they met in the parking lot, found out they shared a Sunday school class, and talked a little bit more before church.  It was then that she learned that he went to Arizona every winter, and mother got a little worked up over that.  She said she wasn’t having any part of that.  She wouldn’t leave her kids for that long or over the holidays.  Do you see where I get my active imagination?  My mother already had them married and traveling to Arizona and she had just met him that morning.   At least I guess they were married…I kinda assumed they weren’t going to be shacking up but then again I never thought she would talk about marriage after my father died either.

Now all joking aside, there is an outside chance that she just told me all of this to point out how lonely she is.  It may have been a subtle nudge that I could be coming over more often.  Bless her heart though, she has my older sister coming over at noon for lunch and then again after work for dinner.  Plus, she told my sister about finding a companion too.  I try to go to see her 2 or 3 times a week and call every day.  I am doing the best I can.  I have a family to take care of.  I did have a thought though, you see I’ve got my eye on a greeter down at Wal-Mart.  He looks to be about 80 or so.  He seems nice enough, which is to say he always hands me a cart and says “welcome to Wal-Mart.”  He has a job and probably drives at night.  I’ve seen him there in the winter months as well as the summer so he stays local.  I haven’t noticed a ring, so I’m thinking about whispering in his ear that if he is a Christian man, I’ve got a woman for him, and if not and he can fake it, I’ll still hook him up…as long as there’s no pookie-pookie.  There’s an image I don’t need in my head.  I kind of knew the day might come when I would have to help care for my parent’s.  I sure didn’t know that would include being their pimp.  Now every time she smiles at some old geezer at Wal-Mart, the gas station, or any of the other places we go I’m going to have to worry about what her intentions are.  To quote The Precious “Ewwwwww!!”

 

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