"You can't wrap love in a box, but you can wrap a person in a hug."
~Author Unknown
I have always heard the expression "a country mile" used to express a long distance of nothing. Having hyper stimulus-sensitive triggers of SPS, I have serious issues with "a city block."
Several days ago, I had an appointment in a busy area of the city. Timing my appointment with peak medication efficacy, I had to "only" go two blocks and cross two streets. (I hear the Jaws theme as I type.)
In my previous entry, Frogger, I equate my perception of Frogger with getting from point A to B. Well, this day involved real street crossing. Without Frogger's speed, I boinged across street #1 with my two gait aids, a hiking pole and a roll-along case. Street #2 had a very sweet lady with a walker cross the street beside me. (Comrades in arms.)
It is effortless to get caught up in my own dramas. After crossing the second street, I noticed a couple standing by a garbage can and bench. (Metro decor combo.) People briskly passed as this woman was sobbing with pain from her soul. I stopped.
I approached her with a personal understanding of being passed by while in pain. I asked, "Maam, are you alright? Is there anything I can do?" On an impulse, I pulled her close to me in an embrace and she hugged me back crying harder.
I told her I would pray for her. Unexpectedly, she introduced me to her guy, DJ, and her name was Diane. She asked for prayer right then, the three of us together. So as people continued to pass, Diane held DJ's hand as she and I held each other in a simple shared prayer.
Diane looked up to the sky and said, "Thank you, Lord, for reminding me you are there." She told me I was an angel. No, she was the blessing to me.
SPS sucks. Life is challenged. I hurt physically and emotionally. But...there are so many others dealing with their own struggles. Because of what I live, I have no excuse to be 'one who passes by.' Giving a simple hug gave me so much more in return. I froggered back to my car wrapped in a warm heart, without a 'splat.'
Copyright © 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Frogger
I remember when my son received his young-boy Christmas dream of an Atari. In the background, I could hear a heavenly choir sing in harmonious rapture at his enthusiasm. The Atari games! Graphics, arcade music, and sound effects are archaic compared to current technology--except for Frogger.
Pre-SPS, I would watch in rapt fascination as the little frog navigated traffic and obstacles in crossing the road and river. Energetic 'boings' accompanied his strategic hops at his frantic attempt to safely navigate traffic and aquatic dangers. A graphic splat and flattened frog were uttered oaths and another attempt with a new, but numbered, 'lives.'
Since diagnosed with SPS, I am Frogger. Getting from point A to point B, my syndrome perception is a lifelong game of Frogger--planning my moves to the annoying urgency of the arcade game theme song. Splat! Boing, boing! The death drown. My goal is making it to the safety of the bushes--picking up some power points en route--extra 'only as needed' meds?
I just wonder how many 'lives' come with the Stiff Person Syndrome arcade version of Frogger?
Copyright © 2010
Pre-SPS, I would watch in rapt fascination as the little frog navigated traffic and obstacles in crossing the road and river. Energetic 'boings' accompanied his strategic hops at his frantic attempt to safely navigate traffic and aquatic dangers. A graphic splat and flattened frog were uttered oaths and another attempt with a new, but numbered, 'lives.'
Since diagnosed with SPS, I am Frogger. Getting from point A to point B, my syndrome perception is a lifelong game of Frogger--planning my moves to the annoying urgency of the arcade game theme song. Splat! Boing, boing! The death drown. My goal is making it to the safety of the bushes--picking up some power points en route--extra 'only as needed' meds?
I just wonder how many 'lives' come with the Stiff Person Syndrome arcade version of Frogger?
Copyright © 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
I Don't Do Mornings
"If people were meant to pop out of bed, we'd all sleep in toasters." ~Garfield
"Pre" SPS, I would wake up at 5:00 AM, shower, make my bed and lunch, arouse a sleepy and grouchy toddler, dress her and make her bed while the commotion awakened her older brother to get ready for school. Then--a dash to the babysitter, a prayer for no train at the railroad crossing, and clock in at my usual two minutes before the 7:00 deadline--early for work. One of my friends greeted me one morning with, "How can you always be so perky so early in the morning?"
Well...I still wake up at 5-6:00 AM, mentally. My SPS body is indifferent to the adage "the early bird gets the worm." Frankly, my body does not care if there are leftover worms.
I work on my morning warm-up which is feet on the floor, body remaining vertical en route to my first bathroom trip of the day--without event. Morning meds follow coupled with a quiet time to allow for peak efficacy...turtle pace without spasms.
Morning appointments can throw my routine into an SPS free-for-all tailspin. Locked muscles, back ripples, and increasing angst over making it on time make clock-watching seem like a death row midnight vigil. Mentally lighting my oomph candle, I chant, "Free Debbie!"
I had my infusion yesterday morning. It has to be morning because an infusion is a several hour process. I woke up feeling well, but the dreaded 'get up and go' kicked in my symptoms as I allowed myself four hours to prepare for my appointment. I showered the night before. Hair was just brushed and makeup was minimally applied. I managed my clothes, but shoes were an obstacle. I allowed myself a couple of 15-minute breaks to calm excited muscles as I chugged 3-4 bottles of water in preparation for my infusion.
Leaving an hour early, my body trembled slightly as I left pulling my food, drinks, reading materials, purse, and glucometer in a surrogate walker disguised as a computer case with my hiking pole in the other hand. My body jerked slightly as I got my gear and rear into the car.
Listening to an oldie station, my body settled as the hard part was temporarily over until I arrived at the parking garage. Luck was with me yesterday. A handicapped parking space three over from the door and elevators! (Available handicapped parking spots at hospitals are for another post.)
My veins were pumped. The IV was easily started an hour after my appointment, but my infusion went without a hitch. As I was released, my body was in a totally different temperment than when I arrived--it co-operated. It was afternoon. Like Garfield, I don't do mornings.
Graphics Hunt
Copyright © 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
My Strong Refuge
"I am as a wonder unto many, but thou art my strong refuge."
~Psalms 71:7 KJV
Part of my emotional coping is my spiritual faith. I enjoy a quiet time in the morning reading Scripture and praying. I relate to King David and enjoy his writing in the Psalms.
When I read the opening verse, I smiled. With SPS, I am "as a wonder to many," myself included. I loved David's recognition of God being his strong refuge. It is how I feel. Whether alone, happy, sad, scared, or uncertain, He is always my strong refuge.
Copyright © 2010
~Psalms 71:7 KJV
Part of my emotional coping is my spiritual faith. I enjoy a quiet time in the morning reading Scripture and praying. I relate to King David and enjoy his writing in the Psalms.
When I read the opening verse, I smiled. With SPS, I am "as a wonder to many," myself included. I loved David's recognition of God being his strong refuge. It is how I feel. Whether alone, happy, sad, scared, or uncertain, He is always my strong refuge.
Copyright © 2010
Stay Down Or Get UP
“When life knocks you down you have two choices- stay down or get up.”
~Tom Krause
November 7th. I woke up feeling good. I love my new church and waited for meds to kick in to shower and go. With Stiff Person Syndrome, that "feel good" feeling can change on a dime. (I lost that loving' feelin.')
Being a little on the chilly side outside, and with my SPS angst of getting "ready, set, go" with out of the house preparations, minor back ripples announced a danger possibility as I adjusted the shower water to hot. Alone, I laid my SPS battle gear on the back of the toilet: opened medications, cell phone, telephone, and towel. Feeling somewhat bolstered, I stepped into the shower.
Hot water ran down my rigid spine as I soaped my hair with one hand while I white-knuckled the soap handle with the other. Occasional ripples converged into full-blown torso spasms as I heard my mentor, *Stephen, coach me that only ground zero will break the clonic spasms. (So the SPS tinman falls.)
Somehow, my shaking hands managed to grab a few "as needed" extra meds as I slid to the tub floor on my side. As my body hiccuped with the dissipating spasms, I was still white-knuckling the soap handle. A recession boon--Admission to the shower thrill was free!
I managed to turn off the water with my foot as I lay on the tub floor to give my medication a chance to find its way to my errant GABA. Cool air caressed my skin in SPS aggravation, sorta like a very unwelcome advance at the drive-in with an algebra geek pity date?
Pulling myself into a kneeling position, (It was Sunday and I was praying.) I shimmey-shook as I one-armed rinsed my hair and bathed. A hammer and chisel-wielding Hulk would not have disengaged my stronghold on the soap handle.
The next hour was an interesting battle of staying up vs going down as I dressed my rebellious body. Settling in my rocker, I soothed frayed nerves and rested stressed muscles as I mentally prepared to leave for church.
My soul was blessed by the music, message, and new friends, but major fatigue set in over the morning's struggle. After choosing to get up, an afternoon nap was my choice to stay down.
*Stephen was a beloved friend to many with SPS, teaching me about SPS quirks with his 30 years experience of living with the syndrome. Ironically, I understand his untimely death was not due to SPS.*
Copyright © 2010
~Tom Krause
November 7th. I woke up feeling good. I love my new church and waited for meds to kick in to shower and go. With Stiff Person Syndrome, that "feel good" feeling can change on a dime. (I lost that loving' feelin.')
Being a little on the chilly side outside, and with my SPS angst of getting "ready, set, go" with out of the house preparations, minor back ripples announced a danger possibility as I adjusted the shower water to hot. Alone, I laid my SPS battle gear on the back of the toilet: opened medications, cell phone, telephone, and towel. Feeling somewhat bolstered, I stepped into the shower.
Hot water ran down my rigid spine as I soaped my hair with one hand while I white-knuckled the soap handle with the other. Occasional ripples converged into full-blown torso spasms as I heard my mentor, *Stephen, coach me that only ground zero will break the clonic spasms. (So the SPS tinman falls.)
Somehow, my shaking hands managed to grab a few "as needed" extra meds as I slid to the tub floor on my side. As my body hiccuped with the dissipating spasms, I was still white-knuckling the soap handle. A recession boon--Admission to the shower thrill was free!
I managed to turn off the water with my foot as I lay on the tub floor to give my medication a chance to find its way to my errant GABA. Cool air caressed my skin in SPS aggravation, sorta like a very unwelcome advance at the drive-in with an algebra geek pity date?
Pulling myself into a kneeling position, (It was Sunday and I was praying.) I shimmey-shook as I one-armed rinsed my hair and bathed. A hammer and chisel-wielding Hulk would not have disengaged my stronghold on the soap handle.
The next hour was an interesting battle of staying up vs going down as I dressed my rebellious body. Settling in my rocker, I soothed frayed nerves and rested stressed muscles as I mentally prepared to leave for church.
My soul was blessed by the music, message, and new friends, but major fatigue set in over the morning's struggle. After choosing to get up, an afternoon nap was my choice to stay down.
*Stephen was a beloved friend to many with SPS, teaching me about SPS quirks with his 30 years experience of living with the syndrome. Ironically, I understand his untimely death was not due to SPS.*
Copyright © 2010
Monday, November 1, 2010
A Date With Solitude
"I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits, unless I spend four hours a day at least - and it is commonly more than that - sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields, absolutely free from all worldly engagements." ~Henry David Thoreau
With SPS, 'sauntering' would be an achievement and four hours in the woods would be a news-breaking star search for me by the 911 rescue team. (I wouldn't get far!)
To maintain physical health, I need to nurture my spirit, and that requires times of solitude. Yesterday was such a nurturing time, a date with solitude.
Starting my morning with a wonderful dose of soul food at church, (wonderful message and stirring music), I stopped for a Subway $5.00 special. Recession savvy, six inches for lunch--six for supper, compliments of a gift card from one of my children.
I felt good, light, free...a delusional moment from my SPS reality. After savoring my lunchtime portion of Subway's Spicy Italian, (Sounds like a hero from a romance novel.), I donned my new lightweight walkers, grabbed my two hiking poles, and headed for the tranquility of a walking trail discussed at church.
Meandering along the river, ancient oaks provided an occasional canopy over the trail in cooling relief from the afternoon sun. In a shock to me, I crossed the road to access the trail with ease. Emboldened with my feat, I started walking along the trail, enjoying the faint breeze caressing my face.
Sometimes my body remembers how to move with a rusty fluidity pre-SPS. This brief respite allowed me to enjoy the beginning of my walk--sparkling water gently lapping the shore, the intermittent shriek of a sea gull, the rippling splash of a jumping fish, greeting a sporadic walker--feeling almost normal.
SPS sensitivities noticed cracks in the sidewalk, deep chasms to syndrome perception. Dips in the sidewalk resembled alpine declines. SPS paranoia lingered under the surface of my pleasure reminding me to breathe...slow, deep breaths.
"Good" is a window of time for me or a math equation. Medication + exertion = a set time. Reaching a point I mentally designated as halfway, I turned to go back. SPS is unpredictable. My perception of the same walk on my return was completely altered. Unnoticed expanses of open space emerged, coupled with the energy I had already exerted, made my return a challenge.
Breathe deep and slow, stop, bend and stretch my back. Stop, sit on this stump. Go to the next tree. Stop. Rest. Go to the sign. Stop, bend, breathe. Look down, look over the water. Stand still. Breathe. Crossing the road to my car loomed in my mind as the final major challenge. I prayed. Reaching the dreaded crosswalk, a woman was taking out her garbage from across the street. I asked her for help and she navigated me across the road.
Back in my car, I exhilarated in my walk with a toast of my remaining bottled water. "In spite of" SPS, I enjoyed the tranquility and beauty of the place and found healing comfort in my solitude.
After the fear threat subsided, the walk had limbered me. Feeling triumphant and deliciously feminine, I ran a hot bubble bath, (not too full), with a cranberry soap. Dimming the lights, lighting scented candles, and playing soft mood music, I soaked and thanked God for a wonderful day of solitude, life, and living.
Solitude was not only cathartic but a fun date.
"We live in a very tense society. We are pulled apart... and we all need to learn how to pull ourselves together.... I think that at least part of the answer lies in solitude." ~Helen Hayes
Copyright © 2010
With SPS, 'sauntering' would be an achievement and four hours in the woods would be a news-breaking star search for me by the 911 rescue team. (I wouldn't get far!)
To maintain physical health, I need to nurture my spirit, and that requires times of solitude. Yesterday was such a nurturing time, a date with solitude.
Starting my morning with a wonderful dose of soul food at church, (wonderful message and stirring music), I stopped for a Subway $5.00 special. Recession savvy, six inches for lunch--six for supper, compliments of a gift card from one of my children.
I felt good, light, free...a delusional moment from my SPS reality. After savoring my lunchtime portion of Subway's Spicy Italian, (Sounds like a hero from a romance novel.), I donned my new lightweight walkers, grabbed my two hiking poles, and headed for the tranquility of a walking trail discussed at church.
Meandering along the river, ancient oaks provided an occasional canopy over the trail in cooling relief from the afternoon sun. In a shock to me, I crossed the road to access the trail with ease. Emboldened with my feat, I started walking along the trail, enjoying the faint breeze caressing my face.
Sometimes my body remembers how to move with a rusty fluidity pre-SPS. This brief respite allowed me to enjoy the beginning of my walk--sparkling water gently lapping the shore, the intermittent shriek of a sea gull, the rippling splash of a jumping fish, greeting a sporadic walker--feeling almost normal.
SPS sensitivities noticed cracks in the sidewalk, deep chasms to syndrome perception. Dips in the sidewalk resembled alpine declines. SPS paranoia lingered under the surface of my pleasure reminding me to breathe...slow, deep breaths.
"Good" is a window of time for me or a math equation. Medication + exertion = a set time. Reaching a point I mentally designated as halfway, I turned to go back. SPS is unpredictable. My perception of the same walk on my return was completely altered. Unnoticed expanses of open space emerged, coupled with the energy I had already exerted, made my return a challenge.
Breathe deep and slow, stop, bend and stretch my back. Stop, sit on this stump. Go to the next tree. Stop. Rest. Go to the sign. Stop, bend, breathe. Look down, look over the water. Stand still. Breathe. Crossing the road to my car loomed in my mind as the final major challenge. I prayed. Reaching the dreaded crosswalk, a woman was taking out her garbage from across the street. I asked her for help and she navigated me across the road.
Back in my car, I exhilarated in my walk with a toast of my remaining bottled water. "In spite of" SPS, I enjoyed the tranquility and beauty of the place and found healing comfort in my solitude.
After the fear threat subsided, the walk had limbered me. Feeling triumphant and deliciously feminine, I ran a hot bubble bath, (not too full), with a cranberry soap. Dimming the lights, lighting scented candles, and playing soft mood music, I soaked and thanked God for a wonderful day of solitude, life, and living.
Solitude was not only cathartic but a fun date.
"We live in a very tense society. We are pulled apart... and we all need to learn how to pull ourselves together.... I think that at least part of the answer lies in solitude." ~Helen Hayes
Copyright © 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
SPS - Hammered & Screwed
A successful tool is used to do something undreamed of by its author.
~ Samuel Curtis Johnson, Sr.
A special space for just me - my own computer room! The oversized, clunky computer hutch was about to become trash pick-up roadkill. (Or bounty for those who peruse the neighborhood under the cover of night looking for curbside 'treasure.')
Entering a furniture store with giddy visions of a streamlined and efficient computer desk, I was informed by the salesman they did not carry computer furniture. Helpfully, he offered that Office Depot had a great selection; only they do not deliver and come unassembled. For $90.00, Office Depot assembled his desk for him and he was able to get it into his oversized 'guy' vehicle. (But as a 'guy,' he could not assemble it?)
Discouraged by the transport smallness of my mid-size vehicle and the word "unassembled,' the $90.00 price-tag was a death nail in my budget...not to mention my SPS limitations and potential challenge and stress. I struggle keeping a semblance of me assembled?
I headed for Wal Mart for an 'unassembled without delivery' computer desk within my financial means and hauling home trunk capacity. For $69.00, a trim trio of a cheap overseas computer desk, filing stand, and bookcase in one of the smallest boxes seemed to be an SPS doable.
In a triumph of determination over ability, I managed to scoot and slide the box out of my trunk. A year ago, I had purchased a small dolly for a surrogate walker/transport for heavier purchases, but never used it until now. SPS trembles and sweat resulted in a victorious perch of my computer ensemble onto the dolly, just to have the handle disengage. My neighbor noticed my distress and came to my rescue.
Dismay and disbelief tickled my SPS triggers as I looked at the 20-plus pages instruction booklet. Thankfully, all of the hardware was segregated in a plastic packet labeled as YY, WW, etc. All I knew was assembly required a hammer, screwdriver, and doctorate in Rubik's Cube solution. With SPS, I have immense experience with being hammered and screwed. Daily working through my SPS struggles seems like solving a Rubik's Cube blindfolded.
Identifying and separating the many wooden pieces into three potential furniture piles, (How did all of this come in one small box?) turned my living room floor into an SPS obstacle course.
With my hammer and screwdriver, I battled aching hip joints, back ripples, and aerobic-worthy sweating to slowly construct wooden piece A with hardware WW with syndrome-learned patience and fortitude. An occasional standing break had my SPS triggers of spatial paranoia and rigidity plague me during my water gulps.
Hours later, I am SPS hammered and screwed. (No, not an evening at the corner bar with Jack Daniels and a stranger?) In a victory for the home team, (me) I hammered and screwed a deceptive small box of numerous parts into an impressive trio of updated office furniture.
From which I type...
Copyright © 2010
~ Samuel Curtis Johnson, Sr.
A special space for just me - my own computer room! The oversized, clunky computer hutch was about to become trash pick-up roadkill. (Or bounty for those who peruse the neighborhood under the cover of night looking for curbside 'treasure.')
Entering a furniture store with giddy visions of a streamlined and efficient computer desk, I was informed by the salesman they did not carry computer furniture. Helpfully, he offered that Office Depot had a great selection; only they do not deliver and come unassembled. For $90.00, Office Depot assembled his desk for him and he was able to get it into his oversized 'guy' vehicle. (But as a 'guy,' he could not assemble it?)
Discouraged by the transport smallness of my mid-size vehicle and the word "unassembled,' the $90.00 price-tag was a death nail in my budget...not to mention my SPS limitations and potential challenge and stress. I struggle keeping a semblance of me assembled?
I headed for Wal Mart for an 'unassembled without delivery' computer desk within my financial means and hauling home trunk capacity. For $69.00, a trim trio of a cheap overseas computer desk, filing stand, and bookcase in one of the smallest boxes seemed to be an SPS doable.
In a triumph of determination over ability, I managed to scoot and slide the box out of my trunk. A year ago, I had purchased a small dolly for a surrogate walker/transport for heavier purchases, but never used it until now. SPS trembles and sweat resulted in a victorious perch of my computer ensemble onto the dolly, just to have the handle disengage. My neighbor noticed my distress and came to my rescue.
Dismay and disbelief tickled my SPS triggers as I looked at the 20-plus pages instruction booklet. Thankfully, all of the hardware was segregated in a plastic packet labeled as YY, WW, etc. All I knew was assembly required a hammer, screwdriver, and doctorate in Rubik's Cube solution. With SPS, I have immense experience with being hammered and screwed. Daily working through my SPS struggles seems like solving a Rubik's Cube blindfolded.
Identifying and separating the many wooden pieces into three potential furniture piles, (How did all of this come in one small box?) turned my living room floor into an SPS obstacle course.
With my hammer and screwdriver, I battled aching hip joints, back ripples, and aerobic-worthy sweating to slowly construct wooden piece A with hardware WW with syndrome-learned patience and fortitude. An occasional standing break had my SPS triggers of spatial paranoia and rigidity plague me during my water gulps.
Hours later, I am SPS hammered and screwed. (No, not an evening at the corner bar with Jack Daniels and a stranger?) In a victory for the home team, (me) I hammered and screwed a deceptive small box of numerous parts into an impressive trio of updated office furniture.
From which I type...
Copyright © 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Stress Rehearsal
“Reality is the leading cause of stress for those in touch with it."
~ Jane Wagner
“There cannot be a stressful crisis next week. My schedule is already full."
~ Henry Kissinger
'They' (Whoever they are?) say "stress will kill you." SPS unleashes a maniacal stress Trojan into my neuroinhibitory modem. Norton, aka modern medicine, does not have a fix, just temporary patches, for this destructive worm.
If I were dealing with 'normal' stress like a death, over-seeing homeland security, or "Do these jeans make my butt look fat?"...life would be less complicated, maybe more tolerable. SPS stress has an ADHD antibody doing an overdrive on my emotions and perceptions over a carpet wrinkle, a sense of hurry, or unfamiliar territory...everyday simple compounded with serious reality...overstressed for the occasion of healthy and happy living.
I think I am de-stressing my life, but things keep piling up like a worst case episode on Hoarders, cluttering my senses, thinking, and derailing my quality of life. I let too much 'can-be-eliminated' accumulate, a never-ending stress rehearsal.
Once again, I evaluate me and call in my stress-buster S.W.A.T. team to be a cheering audience as I perform a Gypsy Rose Lee striptease to a parody of Let Me Entertain You.
(Take the stress off - take it all off...)
Let me entertain me
Let me make me smile
Let me do a few tricks
Some old and some new tricks
I'm very versatile
And if I'm real good
I'll make me feel good
I want my spirits to climb...
Copyright © 2010
~ Jane Wagner
“There cannot be a stressful crisis next week. My schedule is already full."
~ Henry Kissinger
'They' (Whoever they are?) say "stress will kill you." SPS unleashes a maniacal stress Trojan into my neuroinhibitory modem. Norton, aka modern medicine, does not have a fix, just temporary patches, for this destructive worm.
If I were dealing with 'normal' stress like a death, over-seeing homeland security, or "Do these jeans make my butt look fat?"...life would be less complicated, maybe more tolerable. SPS stress has an ADHD antibody doing an overdrive on my emotions and perceptions over a carpet wrinkle, a sense of hurry, or unfamiliar territory...everyday simple compounded with serious reality...overstressed for the occasion of healthy and happy living.
I think I am de-stressing my life, but things keep piling up like a worst case episode on Hoarders, cluttering my senses, thinking, and derailing my quality of life. I let too much 'can-be-eliminated' accumulate, a never-ending stress rehearsal.
Once again, I evaluate me and call in my stress-buster S.W.A.T. team to be a cheering audience as I perform a Gypsy Rose Lee striptease to a parody of Let Me Entertain You.
(Take the stress off - take it all off...)
Let me entertain me
Let me make me smile
Let me do a few tricks
Some old and some new tricks
I'm very versatile
And if I'm real good
I'll make me feel good
I want my spirits to climb...
Copyright © 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Where Do I Go?
"It is only when we silent the blaring sounds of our daily existence that we can finally hear the whispers of truth that life reveals to us, as it stands knocking on the doorsteps of our hearts." ~K.T. Jong
I am so angry and furious...with me. SPS is a fence that creates a physical boundary. I make promises to myself about moving forward, but find myself running around in my enclosure yapping without purpose to the world outside of the fence. It is so easy to drown in the comfort of familiarity, life's roles of wife, mother, child, or patient.
I have been relatively quiet lately, pondering my life (again), and coming to the conclusion I have neglected me immersed in my roles, misguided sense of duty, and just plain laziness.
I have been going to a gym for a few months, dusting off some old sneakers while I creak, groan, and sweat in pathetic moves, but in a jubilant triumph of "doing." It feels good. ;) Now, to explore the world outside of the comfort of family and home. It is a course I keep taking over and over again...guts and fortitude.
I am tired of being a medical chart number, known by the formal "Debra" on my birth certificate instead of the friendly "Deb" or "Debbie," my identity before SPS. It is time to silence my daily yapping at the outside world and listen to the whisperings of my heart. I may find a gate. ;)
Copyright © 2010
I am so angry and furious...with me. SPS is a fence that creates a physical boundary. I make promises to myself about moving forward, but find myself running around in my enclosure yapping without purpose to the world outside of the fence. It is so easy to drown in the comfort of familiarity, life's roles of wife, mother, child, or patient.
I have been relatively quiet lately, pondering my life (again), and coming to the conclusion I have neglected me immersed in my roles, misguided sense of duty, and just plain laziness.
I have been going to a gym for a few months, dusting off some old sneakers while I creak, groan, and sweat in pathetic moves, but in a jubilant triumph of "doing." It feels good. ;) Now, to explore the world outside of the comfort of family and home. It is a course I keep taking over and over again...guts and fortitude.
I am tired of being a medical chart number, known by the formal "Debra" on my birth certificate instead of the friendly "Deb" or "Debbie," my identity before SPS. It is time to silence my daily yapping at the outside world and listen to the whisperings of my heart. I may find a gate. ;)
Copyright © 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
An SPS Superman
"I'm not a prophet or a stone aged man, just a mortal with potential of a superman. I'm living on." ~David Bowie
Logo
Cloaked beneath my red cape of medication peaks, I am confused as a superhero wearing my practiced smile of hiding pain while mentally devising continual strategies to circumvent triggers. Superman...courageous, strong, fighting the relentless onslaught of syndrome symptoms.
In recognizing only my strength, my fragile vulnerability is often overlooked by those who admire the perceived superman within me. Misunderstood, the seriousness of my SPS is often trivialized or dramatically emphasized. SPS becomes the entire focus of me. A rare oddity, I have been treated with condescension, pity, scrutiny, curiosity, and sometimes cruelty.
I am not a hero nor a victim, but a woman. Perseverance and hope are the only options to emotional death. I dream. I feel. And alone, I cry. It's not easy to be me.
Copyright © 2010
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Going Steady
"My boyfriend's back and I am in trouble." ~Debbie's Song Parody
I remember way back in Junior High, (now Middle School), the prestige of being given a boy's ID bracelet to wear. His name on your wrist was a badge of honor, tween envy of having a boyfriend...going steady.
A dramatic SPS episode last week was a brutal reminder of how precarious and unpredictable an episode assault can be. Syndrome rarity makes emergency treatment a danger for me if I am unable to communicate.
The rest of my summer is anticipated visits with my mother, family, children, and grandchildren. Some of the visits require me traveling to parts unfamiliar with SPS.
SPS is a boorish bully following me through my life, unfortunately my steady Freddie (Krueger of Nightmare on Elm Street notoriety.) With great reluctance, I yielded to wearing his ID bracelet...an unattractive silver Medic Alert tag with black lettering. Nothing in the jewelry selections for the fashion diva in me so I went for the Scrooge frugality of cheapest.
Now I am 'tagged' from the healthy herd. A loose annoyance on my right wrist, I have an impressive display of engraving for all my ails with a case number and an 800 number to call for my lengthy info.
If I add anymore to my list, I will need the WWF Championship belt buckle to contain the engraving!
Copyright © 2010
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Beast Side Story - An Attitude Parody
Anger blows out the lamp of the mind. ~Robert G. Ingersoll
We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
~Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere's Fan, 1893
=====
Preface: I understand the pain, physical and mental, of living with a chronic diagnosis. Currently, I am living with four and waiting further test results.
I experience times of grief, anger, depression, and sadness. It is my choice not to dwell in those places - Too much energy spent on negative nothing. Energy I would rather use for something positive - creating joy in my life, cherishing the simple, and sharing it with others. ;)
Inspired by those who choose to live with, and encourage in others, a chronic bad attitude. I did a parody of West Side Story - I Feel Pretty. ;)
_______________________________________________
Beast Side Story
I FEEL SH***Y
MISERY
I'm a victim,
world's only victim,
I feel angry, and bitter and whine.
And I pity
myself more with the passing of time.
I feel like ranting,
See it enchanting--
It's alarming how harming I feel,
And so sh***y
That I hardly can believe I'm real.
See me the victim in that mirror there:
Who can that travesty be?
Such an angry face,
Such a bitter mess,
Such a nasty smile,
Such a sh***y me!
I am blaming
And entitled--
Feel demanding and ranting in rage,
For I'm a victim
And a star on the Internet stage.
GLOOM, DESPAIR, & AGONY
Have you met my good friend Misery,
The angriest girl on the block?
You''ll know her the minute you see her--
She's the one who acts out in an advanced
State of shock.
She thinks she's a leader.
Of other's in pain.
She isn't a leader,
She's merely insane.
It must be self-pity
Of her rare disease
An attitude so sh***y,
Or maybe it's fleas.
MISERY
I'm entitled,
So entitled
That the city should give me its key.
A committee
Should be organized to honor me.
I feel angry,
I am bitter,
I feel angry and bitter and whine,
And so sh***y,
All doctors can just resign!
See the victim in that mirror there:
GLOOM, DESPAIR, & AGONY
What mirror where?
MISERY
Who can that poor victim be?
GLOOM. DESPAIR, & AGONY
Which? What? Where? Whom?
MISERY
Such an angry face,
Such a bitter mess,
Such a nasty smile,
Such a sh***y me!
ALL
We are blaming
And entitled--
Feel demanding and ranting in rage,
For we are victims
And stars on the Internet stage!
**For those too young to remember:
==========
Epilogue:
The purpose of a support group is to instill hope by sharing experiences, information, and extending an uplifting hand or word of encouragement to someone who is emotionally or physically drowning, not submerge them in negative hoplessness.
Floating around in SPS support cyberspace for 10 years now, I have seen some individuals feed on and encourage negativity, anger, and blame with pack mentality. Suffering wears many diagnostic faces, but I have seen some behave as if SPS is the only evil diagnosis in the medical world...trapped, by choice, within their own quagmire of woe.
I have been blessed by countless angels who lift me up while enduring the heated wrath of the SPS dragon. My heroes.
Copyright © 2010
We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.
~Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere's Fan, 1893
=====
Preface: I understand the pain, physical and mental, of living with a chronic diagnosis. Currently, I am living with four and waiting further test results.
I experience times of grief, anger, depression, and sadness. It is my choice not to dwell in those places - Too much energy spent on negative nothing. Energy I would rather use for something positive - creating joy in my life, cherishing the simple, and sharing it with others. ;)
Inspired by those who choose to live with, and encourage in others, a chronic bad attitude. I did a parody of West Side Story - I Feel Pretty. ;)
_______________________________________________
Beast Side Story
I FEEL SH***Y
MISERY
I'm a victim,
world's only victim,
I feel angry, and bitter and whine.
And I pity
myself more with the passing of time.
I feel like ranting,
See it enchanting--
It's alarming how harming I feel,
And so sh***y
That I hardly can believe I'm real.
See me the victim in that mirror there:
Who can that travesty be?
Such an angry face,
Such a bitter mess,
Such a nasty smile,
Such a sh***y me!
I am blaming
And entitled--
Feel demanding and ranting in rage,
For I'm a victim
And a star on the Internet stage.
GLOOM, DESPAIR, & AGONY
Have you met my good friend Misery,
The angriest girl on the block?
You''ll know her the minute you see her--
She's the one who acts out in an advanced
State of shock.
She thinks she's a leader.
Of other's in pain.
She isn't a leader,
She's merely insane.
It must be self-pity
Of her rare disease
An attitude so sh***y,
Or maybe it's fleas.
MISERY
I'm entitled,
So entitled
That the city should give me its key.
A committee
Should be organized to honor me.
I feel angry,
I am bitter,
I feel angry and bitter and whine,
And so sh***y,
All doctors can just resign!
See the victim in that mirror there:
GLOOM, DESPAIR, & AGONY
What mirror where?
MISERY
Who can that poor victim be?
GLOOM. DESPAIR, & AGONY
Which? What? Where? Whom?
MISERY
Such an angry face,
Such a bitter mess,
Such a nasty smile,
Such a sh***y me!
ALL
We are blaming
And entitled--
Feel demanding and ranting in rage,
For we are victims
And stars on the Internet stage!
**For those too young to remember:
==========
Epilogue:
The purpose of a support group is to instill hope by sharing experiences, information, and extending an uplifting hand or word of encouragement to someone who is emotionally or physically drowning, not submerge them in negative hoplessness.
Floating around in SPS support cyberspace for 10 years now, I have seen some individuals feed on and encourage negativity, anger, and blame with pack mentality. Suffering wears many diagnostic faces, but I have seen some behave as if SPS is the only evil diagnosis in the medical world...trapped, by choice, within their own quagmire of woe.
I have been blessed by countless angels who lift me up while enduring the heated wrath of the SPS dragon. My heroes.
Copyright © 2010
Master Of Illusion
June 30, 2010
“[•] How Does He Do That? ... Pan The Camera 45 Degrees.”
~ David Copperfield
Often I hear, "How do you do that?", when I explain I have SPS. Disbelief reactions at some of my perceived 'normalcy' in regards to appearance, a clean house, or animated conversation. It is all illusion, smoke and mirrors of medication magic.
Yesterday morning, I felt the tightening and ripples of what I 'thought' was just a bad morning. As my morning progressed, I sought help from Gertie, (my walker), and was alarmed at how my symptoms were worse than the typical bad day. I was also home alone.
A severe SPS attack occurred in the hall. Wracked with intense myoclonic spasm and inability to move, I managed to slide down Gert to lay on the hallway floor. From my SPS Primer, I remembered an early lesson from my SPS mentor and friend, Stephen. "Ground zero will usually stop an episode as a fall or a deliberate maneuver to get there."
As I lay on the hallway floor, the spasms alleviated and I rested while I mentally planned on how to get to the computer room with access to a phone. Getting upright, I managed a tightened with tremors, slow shuffle with Gertie to the computer room.
Wracked again with severe spasm, I slid down the door to the floor. After a few beached fish flops, my body quieted. I reached for my meds in my pocket and managed to shake a few diazepam on the floor. I crunched them and waited a few minutes to try to get to the desk.
My computer desk was only three feet away. Managing to get to my desk, SPS symptoms again overtook my body in a myoclonic seige. Helpless, I managed to lay back in my chair while my body convulsed for 15 - 20 minutes. Experience had me know, (hope), when the diazepam had time to kick in, my body would relax.
As the diazepam quieted the spasms, my body hiccupped in aftermath shocks as Gertie navigated me to bed. With a few shivers, I managed to lay down. It had been ages since I had an episode this severe or prolonged.
Looking at the clock, it was time for lunchtime medication. I was shocked when I opened my bottle to discover I had forgotten my morning baclofen dosage! (The trigger for my severe episode.) I heard Professor Stephen's voice telling me, "Always remember, without medication, you are 72 hours from your worst."
Today I am fine. None the worse for wear. I am a master of illusion. Medication, diversionary props, timed performances...all smoke and mirrors. Pan the camera 45 degrees.
"Art has a double face, of expression and illusion, just like science has a double face: the reality of error and the phantom of truth."
~ Publilius Syrus
Copyright © 2010
“[•] How Does He Do That? ... Pan The Camera 45 Degrees.”
~ David Copperfield
Often I hear, "How do you do that?", when I explain I have SPS. Disbelief reactions at some of my perceived 'normalcy' in regards to appearance, a clean house, or animated conversation. It is all illusion, smoke and mirrors of medication magic.
Yesterday morning, I felt the tightening and ripples of what I 'thought' was just a bad morning. As my morning progressed, I sought help from Gertie, (my walker), and was alarmed at how my symptoms were worse than the typical bad day. I was also home alone.
A severe SPS attack occurred in the hall. Wracked with intense myoclonic spasm and inability to move, I managed to slide down Gert to lay on the hallway floor. From my SPS Primer, I remembered an early lesson from my SPS mentor and friend, Stephen. "Ground zero will usually stop an episode as a fall or a deliberate maneuver to get there."
As I lay on the hallway floor, the spasms alleviated and I rested while I mentally planned on how to get to the computer room with access to a phone. Getting upright, I managed a tightened with tremors, slow shuffle with Gertie to the computer room.
Wracked again with severe spasm, I slid down the door to the floor. After a few beached fish flops, my body quieted. I reached for my meds in my pocket and managed to shake a few diazepam on the floor. I crunched them and waited a few minutes to try to get to the desk.
My computer desk was only three feet away. Managing to get to my desk, SPS symptoms again overtook my body in a myoclonic seige. Helpless, I managed to lay back in my chair while my body convulsed for 15 - 20 minutes. Experience had me know, (hope), when the diazepam had time to kick in, my body would relax.
As the diazepam quieted the spasms, my body hiccupped in aftermath shocks as Gertie navigated me to bed. With a few shivers, I managed to lay down. It had been ages since I had an episode this severe or prolonged.
Looking at the clock, it was time for lunchtime medication. I was shocked when I opened my bottle to discover I had forgotten my morning baclofen dosage! (The trigger for my severe episode.) I heard Professor Stephen's voice telling me, "Always remember, without medication, you are 72 hours from your worst."
Today I am fine. None the worse for wear. I am a master of illusion. Medication, diversionary props, timed performances...all smoke and mirrors. Pan the camera 45 degrees.
"Art has a double face, of expression and illusion, just like science has a double face: the reality of error and the phantom of truth."
~ Publilius Syrus
Copyright © 2010
Stalker
June 12, 2010
"There is a fine line between serendipity and stalking." ~David Coleman
I woke up this morning with a pulse. This is a good start. Unfortunately, hormones have SPS on the offensive. Next medication peak, I hope (?) to get groceries.
I have a confession...I stalk shopping carts. The handicap placard is of no use to me without an "open the door accessible shopping cart." (And medication mojo working.) Some stores are 'Johnny on the spot' getting wayward carts corralled back into the store. So...I slowly patrol the parking lot, waiting for someone to abandon the necessary wheeled independence for me...my target.
I noticed a warning on one store chain's shopping cart. The cart has a built-in alarm to alert the store at any attempt to remove the cart from the parking lot.
I just stalk carts. I do not kidnap them.
Copyright © 2010
"There is a fine line between serendipity and stalking." ~David Coleman
I woke up this morning with a pulse. This is a good start. Unfortunately, hormones have SPS on the offensive. Next medication peak, I hope (?) to get groceries.
I have a confession...I stalk shopping carts. The handicap placard is of no use to me without an "open the door accessible shopping cart." (And medication mojo working.) Some stores are 'Johnny on the spot' getting wayward carts corralled back into the store. So...I slowly patrol the parking lot, waiting for someone to abandon the necessary wheeled independence for me...my target.
I noticed a warning on one store chain's shopping cart. The cart has a built-in alarm to alert the store at any attempt to remove the cart from the parking lot.
I just stalk carts. I do not kidnap them.
Copyright © 2010
The Killing Fields
June 12, 2010
"Life is a shipwreck but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats."
~Voltaire
Most people are familiar with the Holocaust and the genocide of Hussein. The Killing Fields was a movie depicting the torture and slaughter of one million Cambodians. Why did I choose such graphic horrors to open this post?
Stiff Person Syndrome, as with any disabling neurological disorder, is an horrific diagnosis, sometimes a living death by choice. Negativity, anger, and bitterness become embraced attitudes of entitlement...an emotional death.
I experience occasional bouts of negativity in the natural grieving process of what I have physically lost to SPS. I choose not to dwell there. I can't carry a tune, but I try to be one who sings in the lifeboat.
Stiff Person Syndrome is the dictator, but I have found some support groups to be 'killing fields.' Negativity, blame, anger, and pity are encouraged and justified. By choice, many die an emotional death cheered on by comrades of commiseration. Victimology is a black swampy quagmire, sucking each step with defeat, drowning in self-pity.
I understand the necessary need to grieve. Many individuals with SPS have been an encouragement and inspiration to me, conquerors, not conquered. Under some of the syndrome's worst conditions, I hear them singing in the lifeboat.
"Oh, my friend,it's not what they take away from you that counts. It's what you do with what you have left." ~Hubert Humphrey
Copyright © 2010
"Life is a shipwreck but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats."
~Voltaire
Most people are familiar with the Holocaust and the genocide of Hussein. The Killing Fields was a movie depicting the torture and slaughter of one million Cambodians. Why did I choose such graphic horrors to open this post?
Stiff Person Syndrome, as with any disabling neurological disorder, is an horrific diagnosis, sometimes a living death by choice. Negativity, anger, and bitterness become embraced attitudes of entitlement...an emotional death.
I experience occasional bouts of negativity in the natural grieving process of what I have physically lost to SPS. I choose not to dwell there. I can't carry a tune, but I try to be one who sings in the lifeboat.
Stiff Person Syndrome is the dictator, but I have found some support groups to be 'killing fields.' Negativity, blame, anger, and pity are encouraged and justified. By choice, many die an emotional death cheered on by comrades of commiseration. Victimology is a black swampy quagmire, sucking each step with defeat, drowning in self-pity.
I understand the necessary need to grieve. Many individuals with SPS have been an encouragement and inspiration to me, conquerors, not conquered. Under some of the syndrome's worst conditions, I hear them singing in the lifeboat.
"Oh, my friend,it's not what they take away from you that counts. It's what you do with what you have left." ~Hubert Humphrey
Copyright © 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Shadow Boxing
"I've seen George Foreman shadow boxing and the shadow won."
~George Foreman
"Only the Shadow knows." Raspy words whispered in ominous secrecy from various black and white television shows viewed during my childhood. "The Shadow." Dark, relentless, stalking...an unknown entity lurking, watching, waiting. I have given "The Shadow" a name, Stiff Person Syndrome, (SPS), my diagnosis...my shadow.~George Foreman
Life's light brings out this chronic shadow stepping in tandem with me...always there. SPS loves to spar. Daily engaging me, I block and jab with heavy gloves and tired spirit. Shadow boxing with the darkened image of me, my afflicted body, is living in the boxing ring of SPS. A welcome ring of the bell signals the end of round 11,674 as I retreat to my corner for a brief physical rest, prayer to my Coach, and adjustment strategies.
The bell clangs the beginning of another round as I stagger toward the dancing shadow in the ring. Though bruised, tired, and sometimes against the ropes...I remain undefeated for a knockout count of 10. I am still in the ring.
"It's less about the physical training, in the end, than it is about the mental preparation: boxing is a chess game. You have to be skilled enough and have trained hard enough to know how many different ways you can counterattack in any situation, at any moment. " ~Jimmie Smits
Copyright © 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The Love Of A Younger Man
"You may only be one person to the world, but you may also be the world to one person." ~Unknown
His hands gently cup my face as he looks into my eyes, then softly kisses my lips. Complete acceptance of me in spite of my illnesses and my disability, asking nothing of me but to be loved in return. Hugging me in a tight squeeze, he whispers in my ear, "I love you, Grandma."
I spent a magical week with my six-year-old grandson. Broken seashells on the beach, the wonder of seagulls, squeals of laughter at incoming surf, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, a swamp tour, alligators, shared bowls of popcorn, Lego creations, a movie date at McDonalds followed with Alice In Wonderland - 3D.
Wanting to cuddle and sleep with me at night, his sprinting thoughts were voiced in excited chatter and questions...endless questions, fired with machine gun velocity. What does "blink of an eye" mean? What is traffic?
Why do you use a cane? What is insulin? Does it make you better? Does it hurt? I answer his genuine concerns with honesty. Snuggling close, I feel his love for me and express my love for him.
What is a blink of an eye? This special week with you. Does it hurt? Yes.
Copyright © 2010
His hands gently cup my face as he looks into my eyes, then softly kisses my lips. Complete acceptance of me in spite of my illnesses and my disability, asking nothing of me but to be loved in return. Hugging me in a tight squeeze, he whispers in my ear, "I love you, Grandma."
I spent a magical week with my six-year-old grandson. Broken seashells on the beach, the wonder of seagulls, squeals of laughter at incoming surf, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, a swamp tour, alligators, shared bowls of popcorn, Lego creations, a movie date at McDonalds followed with Alice In Wonderland - 3D.
Wanting to cuddle and sleep with me at night, his sprinting thoughts were voiced in excited chatter and questions...endless questions, fired with machine gun velocity. What does "blink of an eye" mean? What is traffic?
Why do you use a cane? What is insulin? Does it make you better? Does it hurt? I answer his genuine concerns with honesty. Snuggling close, I feel his love for me and express my love for him.
What is a blink of an eye? This special week with you. Does it hurt? Yes.
Copyright © 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Valentine Lingerie - Still Traumatized
"Cosmetics is a boon to every woman, but a girl's best friend is still a nearsighted man." ~Yoko Ono
Valentine's Day has passed, but I am considering therapy for PTSD - Post Traumatic Shopping Disorder - buying lingerie for Valentine's Day.
I am not afflicted with Jello jiggles and wiggles, but I sense my body's equater is creeping closer to hipline? Everything is shifting to my southern hemisphere. Factor in my pathetic attempt for an occasional hot flash, (a warm fuzzy for me), and I am headed for catostrophic menopausal global warming, not setting the sheets on fire.
Thinking candle light will be good; I know dark is better. I look at the pink or red silky scraps of black-trimmed lace and inwardly moan. I want to appear as 'to be had', not a 'has been.'
Suddenly, I am engulfed by a glowing epiphany of my middle-aged experience, not to be confused with a warm fuzzy. Making a few ingenous purchases, I smile at the checkout, confidently smug at my cleverness. A thought crosses my mind, though. Considering the impending surge of baby-boomers, Victoria's Secret needs to implement a Cougar line of black support fishnet stockings and lacey, racey flannel.
Copyright © 2010
Valentine's Day has passed, but I am considering therapy for PTSD - Post Traumatic Shopping Disorder - buying lingerie for Valentine's Day.
I am not afflicted with Jello jiggles and wiggles, but I sense my body's equater is creeping closer to hipline? Everything is shifting to my southern hemisphere. Factor in my pathetic attempt for an occasional hot flash, (a warm fuzzy for me), and I am headed for catostrophic menopausal global warming, not setting the sheets on fire.
Thinking candle light will be good; I know dark is better. I look at the pink or red silky scraps of black-trimmed lace and inwardly moan. I want to appear as 'to be had', not a 'has been.'
Suddenly, I am engulfed by a glowing epiphany of my middle-aged experience, not to be confused with a warm fuzzy. Making a few ingenous purchases, I smile at the checkout, confidently smug at my cleverness. A thought crosses my mind, though. Considering the impending surge of baby-boomers, Victoria's Secret needs to implement a Cougar line of black support fishnet stockings and lacey, racey flannel.
Copyright © 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
Middle-aged Tween
"Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next."
~Gilda Radner~
Change. I felt, rather than saw, a hair on my chin. Armed with tweezers and trying to locate the strand in the mirror, I successfully plucked the loner out. Like a weed, I know more will eventually follow. The single chin hair surfaced simultaneously with a gray eyelash which I can coat with mascara.
I am a middle-aged tween. Slathering on my daily face cream, I notice a small blemish. Strident or Olay? Buying my still needed feminine products, an awareness of the next aisle looms with Poise and Depends. Tween?
Perusing the makeup aisle, I go for the fake neutral camouflage look of natural. Gone are my days of vibrant and glittery eyeshadow and I haven't arrived at the stage where eyeshadow screams age instead of softening it. Tween.
I have gray hair, but not enough to go for the beautiful silver fox look yet. Not enough brunette is left to go au naturale. So every four weeks or so, I do my L'Oreal chemistry bit, noxious fumes and all, in the bathroom. I always wonder what I would do in an emergency where I could not rinse when the timer dinged. Tween.
Joking about middle-aged woes with two couples, Steve remarked about his hair loss and hair gains. "I went from head and shoulders to back and butt." Tween.
I felt fortunate. I can pluck my chin hair. I don't think Nair has a product for backs and butts.
"You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough."
~Mae West~
Copyright © 2010
Rare Disease Awareness Day – February 28, 2010
~Gilda Radner~
Change. I felt, rather than saw, a hair on my chin. Armed with tweezers and trying to locate the strand in the mirror, I successfully plucked the loner out. Like a weed, I know more will eventually follow. The single chin hair surfaced simultaneously with a gray eyelash which I can coat with mascara.
I am a middle-aged tween. Slathering on my daily face cream, I notice a small blemish. Strident or Olay? Buying my still needed feminine products, an awareness of the next aisle looms with Poise and Depends. Tween?
Perusing the makeup aisle, I go for the fake neutral camouflage look of natural. Gone are my days of vibrant and glittery eyeshadow and I haven't arrived at the stage where eyeshadow screams age instead of softening it. Tween.
I have gray hair, but not enough to go for the beautiful silver fox look yet. Not enough brunette is left to go au naturale. So every four weeks or so, I do my L'Oreal chemistry bit, noxious fumes and all, in the bathroom. I always wonder what I would do in an emergency where I could not rinse when the timer dinged. Tween.
Joking about middle-aged woes with two couples, Steve remarked about his hair loss and hair gains. "I went from head and shoulders to back and butt." Tween.
I felt fortunate. I can pluck my chin hair. I don't think Nair has a product for backs and butts.
"You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough."
~Mae West~
Copyright © 2010
Rare Disease Awareness Day – February 28, 2010
Axis Of Evil
"It's no longer a question of staying healthy. It's a question of finding a sickness you like." ~Jackie Mason~
President Bush coined the phrase "axis of evil," in naming three countries as a terrorist threat. I can think of the mystery-enshrouded Bermuda Triangle, the folklore, "Death comes in threes," and especially three sisters I babysat in linking the number three with threat and terror.
Threat and terror are now a trio of diagnoses, my own axis of evil. I acquired insulin-dependent diabetes 20 years ago, along with symptom onset of Stiff Person Syndrome, (SPS)...a dreadful duo, bolstered by a recently added third diagnosis of Hashimoto's Thyroiditis.
My underactive thyroid has been the culprit of my recent muscle aches, joint pain, and debilitating fatigue. It is a sad commentary I was relieved at the hypothyroid diagnosis. My SPS wasn't in rapid decline. One month into my lifetime thyroid replacement medication and I should be as good as??
While other women collect shoes, jewelry, and antiques, I collect medical specialists, prescriptions, and diagnoses. Three chronic, autoimmune illnesses and I still have not found one I like.
Copyright © 2010
Rare Disease Awareness Day – February 28, 2010
President Bush coined the phrase "axis of evil," in naming three countries as a terrorist threat. I can think of the mystery-enshrouded Bermuda Triangle, the folklore, "Death comes in threes," and especially three sisters I babysat in linking the number three with threat and terror.
Threat and terror are now a trio of diagnoses, my own axis of evil. I acquired insulin-dependent diabetes 20 years ago, along with symptom onset of Stiff Person Syndrome, (SPS)...a dreadful duo, bolstered by a recently added third diagnosis of Hashimoto's Thyroiditis.
My underactive thyroid has been the culprit of my recent muscle aches, joint pain, and debilitating fatigue. It is a sad commentary I was relieved at the hypothyroid diagnosis. My SPS wasn't in rapid decline. One month into my lifetime thyroid replacement medication and I should be as good as??
While other women collect shoes, jewelry, and antiques, I collect medical specialists, prescriptions, and diagnoses. Three chronic, autoimmune illnesses and I still have not found one I like.
Copyright © 2010
Rare Disease Awareness Day – February 28, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
I Have Ow-brows
"Beauty is skin deep."
My last haircut by the new girl at the salon was great. Taking her time, she was meticulous in making sure my ends were even. I was impressed. I asked for her card. Last Tuesday, I was due for some serious shearing, (more like pruning), so I requested her again.
Starting to sport a handlebar moustache, I asked for a lip wax. Again, taking her time, and with professional precision, my lip was zipped to a baby smooth baldness. I asked to have my eyebrows done. Plucking is tedious and I wanted the perfect arch, which I got.
I think we have all heard:
"Be careful what you ask for."
"She asked for it."
Well, I did ask for it. In her pleasant voice, she warned, this may sting a little. Due to my health issues and having years of experience with various physicians, "This may sting a little," is equivalent to asking, "You are on morphine, right?"
Being middle-aged, "This may sting a little," goes back to my childhood, doctoring bee stings, splinters, and cuts with my mother's cajoling when experience had taught me the wiser course was to run for it.
Well the beautician zipped and I flipped. Putting a stinging lotion on my brows, she nonchalantly said, "This is a sensitive area." Sensitive? What if it had been a bikini wax?
Looking in the mirror when I got home, my eyebrows now have whitewalls under each perfect arch and a matching set of parched red skin under my whitewalls. I guess eyelid dermabrasion is a new freebie with the ow-brow wax.
Six days of daily burn application later, I have scaled twice. The red rage has softened to a pale pink. A thin coat of Vaseline, followed with foundation, gently powdered, and finished with a gray, pinkish hue of eye shadow, it is hardly noticeable.
Words from the king of the overgrown bush brow - Andy Rooney:
"A smile is an inexpensive way to improve your looks."
He must have been traumatized by a brow waxing in his past. I will keep my teeth brushed, smile, but cling to my tweezers. And I left her a nice tip.
Copyright © 2010
Rare Disease Awareness Day - February 28, 2010
My last haircut by the new girl at the salon was great. Taking her time, she was meticulous in making sure my ends were even. I was impressed. I asked for her card. Last Tuesday, I was due for some serious shearing, (more like pruning), so I requested her again.
Starting to sport a handlebar moustache, I asked for a lip wax. Again, taking her time, and with professional precision, my lip was zipped to a baby smooth baldness. I asked to have my eyebrows done. Plucking is tedious and I wanted the perfect arch, which I got.
I think we have all heard:
"Be careful what you ask for."
"She asked for it."
Well, I did ask for it. In her pleasant voice, she warned, this may sting a little. Due to my health issues and having years of experience with various physicians, "This may sting a little," is equivalent to asking, "You are on morphine, right?"
Being middle-aged, "This may sting a little," goes back to my childhood, doctoring bee stings, splinters, and cuts with my mother's cajoling when experience had taught me the wiser course was to run for it.
Well the beautician zipped and I flipped. Putting a stinging lotion on my brows, she nonchalantly said, "This is a sensitive area." Sensitive? What if it had been a bikini wax?
Looking in the mirror when I got home, my eyebrows now have whitewalls under each perfect arch and a matching set of parched red skin under my whitewalls. I guess eyelid dermabrasion is a new freebie with the ow-brow wax.
Six days of daily burn application later, I have scaled twice. The red rage has softened to a pale pink. A thin coat of Vaseline, followed with foundation, gently powdered, and finished with a gray, pinkish hue of eye shadow, it is hardly noticeable.
Words from the king of the overgrown bush brow - Andy Rooney:
"A smile is an inexpensive way to improve your looks."
He must have been traumatized by a brow waxing in his past. I will keep my teeth brushed, smile, but cling to my tweezers. And I left her a nice tip.
Copyright © 2010
Rare Disease Awareness Day - February 28, 2010
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