Happy Birthday?

I love that Facebook tells you about your friends' birthdays. I also love that Facebook tells you when a mutual friend wishes your friend a happy birthday.

There's the moment when you go to your friend's timeline, and see some birthday wishes that make it seem, well, like your friend has passed away.

Then, there's the moment you realize your friend did indeed, pass away.

This happened yesterday.

A lovely woman (I really am on the fence about using the word lovely; it doesn't seem...big enough, but she was a lovely woman, inside and out) who I knew in person recently passed away. Recently passed away, like, last week recently. And yesterday was (would have been?) her birthday.

We weren't exactly friends; I never saw her socially, although I did accidentally run into her at a Sabres game a couple of years ago. But, I did know her, and I did like her. And now she's gone.

So now the maudlin/nostalgic/sentimental me is dwelling on whether I ever told her how much I appreciated her doing a thankless job. I like to believe I did, but I can't be sure. Did she know what a difference she made? Did she care what anyone thought? Why would it matter to her what I thought, anyway? 

I will always remember her smile which she so often wore. Sounds so cliché, doesn't it? We mention a smile when someone passes. But in this case, she was almost always smiling, at least when I saw her. Always cheerful, always trying to be helpful. She was a genuine person, a kind person. And she smiled often. And when she smiled, her whole body smiled.

Writing Writing Writing and Reading Reading Reading

I've always been interested in and confused by poetry. Sure, we studied poetry in school, and wrote poems in school, but I've never truly understood what makes a poem well-written, or why one poem is better than another, unless it's extremely obvious. I'm not sure what would make it extremely obvious, but I'm pretty sure I'd know.

A collection of w o r d s

     written a                                              certain                      way

                                                becomes

            a

                                                                                poem.

When I was younger, my friend and I would build poems. One of us would say a line, then we'd alternate until the poem was finished. We'd go back and forth for a while doing that. After all these years, there's one snippet that we both remember:

Jewelry boxes filled with green and white confetti

It used to be a leprechaun til it hit the machete

(I never said it was good, just that we remember it)

This past school year, my son read a story in class that was about poetry. Or, it was about a kid discovering poetry, figuring out the mechanics of writing poetry, and appreciating poetry. He loved that story, and he even googled some of the poems and poets mentioned in the book.

Sometimes a poem just speaks to you, gets in your soul, and sometimes it speaks to you and says, “NEVER read me again!” One thing I've noticed about poetry is that it's usually thought-provoking. The ones that I've enjoyed the most are thought-provoking, anyway.

Sometimes, I'm ready for something silly and frivolous, not a literary work. Sometimes, I just want to take a mental vacation, not look for allegory or symbolism. Sometimes, I just want to read, and not wonder what the author meant when she chose that name or that word. Which is why I rarely read poetry for a fun escape.

Most poems tell a story in very concise terms, so the author needs to make each word count. I say most, because, of course, there are exceptions. (The Iliad and The Odyssey anyone?) Still, even the shortest poem means something. And the author of a poem is the greatest mystery writer of all, because he wants YOU to figure out what it is he means. Was Poe really afraid of the dark, or was that a metaphor?

These are the things I think about when I read a Literary Work, or a poem. Contrast that with the cupcake murder mystery I read recently, where I wondered if the author decided there just weren't enough cookbooks published under the guise of a mystery novel. When I finished the book, I saw that there's a whole bunch of them, with names of food, then mystery or murder in the title. Sure, it's easy reading, but so is Dr. Seuss.

I'll read nearly anything. My husband prefers nonfiction books, so I've read about Ebola, John Douglas (the FBI profiler), numerous mafia members, the mafia in general, other true crime books, the founder of Blackwater, and a newspaper publisher, to name a few, just because they were handy to pick up. There's always a book laying around that I haven't read. I've revisited many classics, and I discovered authors who I love, but they don't have enough books published (in my opinion).

I've had compulsions with Stephen King, James Patterson, Amistad Maupin, Dean Koontz, Charles Dickens, Agatha Christie, V. C. Andrews (I was like, 12, don't judge), and Scott Turow to name a few. By compulsions, I mean that I had to read everything I could get my hands on that they wrote, including books written under pseudonyms. Then, inevitably, I grew weary of them, and the unread books sat on my shelf, waiting for the day when I wanted to pick them up and read them. When the next new author had lost its flavor like chewing gum invariably does, I'd go to that shelf of unread books. Some are still unread.

Then there are the books I can read over and over again. Tale of Two Cities, The Stand, and an Eva Peron biography are some of them that I'll read when I don't know what to read.

The same friend mentioned in the poem creation paragraph and I would spend lots of time choosing our dream cast for The Stand. When the miniseries was aired, I wouldn't watch it because I thought they had horribly botched the casting. I still haven't seen it. No offense to Laura San Giacomo, but she was not Nadine.

But wait, this post started off about poetry, n'est ce pas?

I guess the tie-in is that although I appreciate poetry, I don't feel a connection to the poem or to the author when reading a poem like I do when I'm reading a book. There's no time or room for character development, story lines, impossible crimes, or for any of it to be resolved. And Heaven knows, there's definitely not room for a Red Velvet Cupcake recipe.

The books within easy reach

PS: A friend posted a poem on her blog yesterday, which happens to be a blog I follow. I want to let you know that I had this post finished before she posted her brilliant poem.

Music Is My TARDIS

I love music. All kinds of music. I love classical and classic rock. I love swing and Motown. I love new rock and new wave. Grunge, rap, country, top 40 (to a lesser degree), bluegrass (to a much lesser degree) or show tunes, opera, I do like it all. Although there are a couple of genres that I would be just as happy if I never heard again.

That new-agey non-music music. Yes, I know it's supposed to help you relax. It does the opposite to me. I get very anxious. I get jittery, jumpy and fidgety. It just does not agree with me.

Yodeling. For obvious reasons. In “Mars Attacks”, I love that they used Slim Whitman records to kill the aliens. Nice touch.*

I'm sure there are other types of music, that I like or dislike, but those are the ones that popped into my head immediately. Oh sure, there are bands or artists I don't care for, but they're within a genre I do like. Many “classic rock” bands I'd be fine never hearing again. Even if I like the band, there are songs that make me want to scream, mostly because they are o v e r p l a y e d to the N^th degree.

I love how music can make you feel, make you remember. Certain songs will play, and that song takes you back to a place you thought you'd long forgotten. Or certain songs instantly put you in a happy mood. Or melancholy mood. Certain songs will remind you of a person.

For me, even though a song has nothing to do with a person, a song may still remind me of that person, and I don't know why. There's one song I'm thinking of, “Downtown Train” by Rod Stewart. That song always makes me think of one specific person. I wasn't with this person when I heard it, we'd never done anything mentioned in the song, and I don't recall even being in a downtown with this person. But every time I hear that song, there's that person in my head.

Then there are the songs that have that power to transport you back to a time and/or place. The power of nostalgia. There are quite a few songs like that. "I Can't Wait" by Nu Shooz, anything by Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam, "Diamond Girl" by Nice N Wild. When I hear those songs, I mentally travel to a place I used to frequent. I mean, I can feel the atmosphere, smell the smells, see blurred faces (with some faces in focus- those of my friends).

I'm reluctant to mention this next tidbit, because after yesterday's post, I may leave you with the impression that I'm a hoarder. Though my husband might tell you differently, while I may be a bit of a pack rat, I'm not a hoarder.

I got my first CD player when I was 19. I'm a few years older now. I have nearly every CD I've ever bought since that day. The only CD's I recall getting rid of were odd free samplers that I never cared for. I also have all of my vinyl LP's. I have a harder time getting rid of music than I do books (or silverware). Obviously.

More than one person has seen my collection of CD's and asked how many people owned them, because they are pretty random in taste. I thank my brother and sister for introducing me to "real" music when I was really little. Not random in the racks, though. They're alphabetized. Otherwise, I'd never find them. Ever see “High Fidelity” with John Cusack? As cool as this would be, I would NEVER know where anything is, because I just can't remember:

Dick: I guess it looks as if you’re reorganizing your records. What is this though? Chronological?
Rob: No…
Dick: Not alphabetical…
Rob: Nope…
Dick: What?
Rob: Autobiographical.
Dick: No f***ing way.

*To fans of yodeling, and/or Slim Whitman, I offer my heartfelt apologies.

A Different Spoon Theory

When we lived in Chicago, my husband got a job interview at a place about 35 miles outside of Philadelphia, in a town called Hatfield. The company paid for a hotel for one night, so we decided to make a mini-vacation out of it, He would go to the interview, and afterward, we'd spend the day in Philly, stay over another night, then go home the next day. We were looking forward to it, because neither of us had ever been to Philadelphia.

I won't easily forget how perfect that day was. I think it was February or March, but the temperature there was about 65, and it was so sunny and clear. While my husband was at the interview, I drove around this town looking at potential apartments, proximity to grocery stores, that kind of thing.

While driving around, I was listening to the radio, and I kept hearing about this monstrosity of a snowstorm that was going to blanket the entirety of I-80, the most direct route back home. Now, in case you've never driven through Pennsylvania, it's fairly mountainous. Not as hilly as say, West Virginia, but there are some pretty good hills there. I didn't relish the thought of driving on that terrain in a snowstorm.*

My husband calls me after his interview, and when I get him, I tell him that we have a change in plans. We need to go check out of the hotel and skedaddle back to Chicago.

As we're driving home, my husband tells me all about the interview, and what the company does. To be honest, I don't remember the name of the company, but I probably wouldn't mention it even if I did. Here's why.

The conversation starts with telling me that he's not taking the job.

My husband works in the field of plastic injection molding. The places he's worked have made things ranging from airplane parts, to medical devices, to car fuses, to radiators, to plastic caps and garbage cans. This particular company where he interviewed made plastic cutlery. You know, the knives, forks, and spoons that you'd buy to throw away after you use them.

Anyway, he starts telling me how great the interview went, how they hired him on the spot, and they were about to negotiate money when they started touring the plant. As of this point, my husband hasn't accepted the position. He wants to see the plant, see the lunchroom and the bathrooms (because when he sees the bathrooms and lunchroom, it tells him what the company thinks of their employees) before he decides.

They start in the clean room. That room is making utensils for Wendy's. It's a sterile and clean environment. The employees wear suits and gloves, it's what you see when a company makes medical equipment. My husband is encouraged, or dare I say, Impressed. Then, they get to the rest of the plant. My husband couldn't believe it was the same company. He said that there was oil leaking from the machines, the utensils were falling on the floor, and the workers were just picking up the fallen plastic ware, and loading into boxes. Oil and all.

Thus began the era of not using plastic utensils in our house.

I saved all of my old flatware. Each time I bought a new set**, I put the old set in storage bags. When we'd have a party, I'd use the flatware, then just put it in the dishwasher afterward. Through the years, I've accumulated quite a bit.

Each Sunday, some friends come over to hang out for the afternoon. We have a few drinks, maybe a swim, we have good food and great laughs. Well, I've been buying plastic cutlery for a while. When I was grocery shopping last week, I went to grab a box of forks, and remembered the copious amounts of flatware I own. For this past Sunday, I grabbed some forks and spoons, washed them, and used them instead of the plastic stuff I usually buy. It was a little extra work washing the utensils because I no longer have a dishwasher, but we didn't have to worry about breaking forks and whatnot.

Yesterday, I went down to the basement, and brought all of it upstairs, including the serving utensils. I washed, dried and sorted all of it. There is a LOT of flatware there. I just gave away a service for 12 to a friend who got a new apartment, and I have a box of flatware in my buffet that came with my china. Those sets are not part of this story. One might say I have an attachment to buying flatware. Anyway, I was able to bring up, wash, dry, and sort all of the flatware in one day!! You might be thinking, “BFD. I do stuff like that all the time.” Trust me, it was a banner day. That task would normally be at least a two-day process. Maybe my normal is getting closer to yours. Maybe the stupid Copaxone is starting to work. Maybe I just had one good day and it was a fluke. Whatever the reason, I'm really, really happy.

If only I could use these spoons to replenish my spoons.

www.butyoudontlooksick.com/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/

*We did run into the snowstorm, but not until we were well into Indiana, about 2-3 hours from home. It was just as bad as they said it was going to be. I was driving into white lasers, because by now it's dark.

**Apparently, I have a thing for flatware. After I own a set for a while, I begin to notice that it fits in my hand oddly, or creates a weird pressure, or I get tired of looking at the pattern.

 

Lazy Summer Day

Today is supposed to be hot. Ungodly hot. It's supposed to be ungodly hot all week, I think. It's still morning, and it's already 82°. Thank goodness my husband puts in the old window air conditioners year after year. I'm not exaggerating when I say I'd be reduced to a twitching lump of sweat without them.

It's not a "dry heat" that we have here. It's loaded with humidity, which makes it feel even hotter. Though I've been to Vegas and Palm Springs in the summer. Hot is still hot to me. The only difference is that my hair didn't flatten from dampness is the air. Hey, it was the early 90's. Hairspray and hot rollers were still in my stable of getting-ready-ness.

We lived in Chicago where the temperature rose above the century mark nearly every year. Compared to THAT, I think we have very nice summers. We've never had an official 100° day here. Chicago never cooled off at night, either. I'd leave the building after work around 7:00, and it would still be 98° with 80% humidity. It was like walking into a wall that took your breath away.

Having MS, I already feel like I'm walking through quicksand with weights strapped to my extremities on any given day. Add heat to that, and it feels more like trying to walk through solid concrete. With the weights still strapped to my extremities. It might sound like I'm complaining, and I'm sorry; I'm not trying to complain, I'm attempting to explain what extra heat does to me.

Thankfully, I don't have much on the agenda outside the house today. I have to get the photos I ordered to put in my son's care package, then take the package to the post office. My son is at camp until Friday, so I want to give the post office more than enough time to deliver the package, I cut it pretty close while my daughter was at camp, but the post office came through and delivered it before she came home.

I'd better get going. My one-hour photos will be ready about 90 minutes from now.

Woodpeckers and Smiles

I've had three injections so far. All given by different people. The first was a nurse at the neurologist's office, but we didn't have time to bring the dose up to room temperature. I already posted about that one. The second was done by a dear friend of mine, because I can't reach my own arms. The third, last night, was done by the one who vowed to NEVER to do that agin, back when she was on Beta Seron.

While I can feel where the injection site was, I wouldn't really say it hurts. I'm encouraged.

I'm still at the point in my journey where it's all side effects without feeling the benefits, but I'm still going through with it. If you ask me months from now if I still feel the same way, I don't know how I will answer. I'm hoping that months from now, it won't be all side effects.

But enough about the stupid shots.

I saw “my” woodpecker this morning. There is a woodpecker who visits each year. He comes for a few days, then goes elsewhere. I don't recall seeing him last year, but this morning, I heard the faint rat a tat tat. I immediately knew it was him. For some reason, I think it's the same guy year after year. I don't know for a fact it's the same one, I just feel it's the same one.

Living in the city, seeing anything beyond robins, crows, seagulls (dump gulls), sparrows, chickadees, wrens and starlings is like an event. I still get twinkly when I see cardinals, blue jays and doves, too, because while not as rare for me to see as the woodpecker, there aren't as many of them as there are of the other birds.

Seeing that woodpecker always makes me happy, like seeing an old friend who you haven't seen in a long time.

I hope you find your happy today!

My Saturday Evening Post

I'm sitting here, arm still burning from last night's shot, and I'm feeling a little grouchy about it. Yeah, okay more than a little grouchy about it. This isn't what I signed up for when I agreed to this stupid clinical trial. Grumble grumble grumble. Oh sure, I knew there was a chance I would be assigned Copaxone, but I had a two out of three chance at the other, more convenient medicine. TWO out of THREE. Grumble grouse gripe grumble. Smart ass me would say to someone else, “That's why they call it gambling.”

Then I realized (yes, like it was some wondrous epiphany), I can wallow in self-pity, or I can move on. I could be appreciative that there is medicine available to me that has been proven to provide relief in year after year of use. I could be grumpy about having to get a shot daily, or recognize that I made a conscious decision that I want to feel better, through nearly any means necessary. There's no getting around it, it really does suck. Not gonna sugar-coat it; it's extremely unpleasant. But, I like being able to walk. Being able to dress myself, bathe myself.

I had another thought, too. This was the first time I made an actual choice about medicine. The other times, it was a doctor saying “We're going to try this. We're going to do this.” I made the choice to do this. I didn't get randomized for the oral drug. Oh well, suck it up, move on, and get over yourself. You say you want to feel better, then DO something.

I usually refrain from comparing myself to other people, but...as much as I hate this medicine, there is someone out there who can't get this medicine and would be elated to take it off my hands. Feeling better by comparison really isn't my style, but keeping things in perspective is important, I think. Especially right here, right now.

I may never know why I didn't get assigned the oral drug.** Because I believe that everything happens for a reason, I like to think I was being protected from something, rather than being flipped off by the Cosmos. Maybe it's to teach me that I'm stronger than I thought, that I'm bigger than a needle (in the literal and metaphoric sense), to appreciate what I have instead of focusing on what I want, or maybe it's a reason I haven't thought of yet.

I remember back to the last new drug I was going to try, Tysabri. I didn't listen to the Universe warning me that time, because I was so steadfast in my “NO self-injection” stance.

I was scheduled to start Tysabri. An infusion once a month. Administered by a nurse. NO self injection. WOOHOO!! The week before my first dose, Tysabri was pulled from the market. Months later, it gets reintroduced to the market with a black box* warning. I go to the office for my first infusion, there was some issue (I don't remember if it was paperwork, or no nurse available- it was something like that). Whatever the reason, I didn't get the infusion that day. I finally start on the medicine. Pffft, fizzle. I didn't feel any different taking it, and my blood work started to go a little wonky. My doctor discontinued Tysabri for me.

So now I'm reminding myself that you can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you get what you need.

*A black box warning is the strictest warning put in the labeling of prescription drugs or drug products by the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) when there is reasonable evidence of an association of a serious hazard with the drug. Source: Google

**For those of you following along at home, you might remember that I really dislike not knowing or understanding the “WHY”.

Things That I Know, but Never Really Wanted to Learn

There is a long list of Things That I Know, but Never Really Wanted to Learn.

Among them are (in no particular order):

How the replace the handle on a toilet. Useful, but I would have felt just as fulfilled without knowing this.

LA's Totally Awesome from Dollar Tree works when you want to clean crayon from a wall. So do baby wipes.

There is no good way to clean a whole bottle of baby powder that decorated your living room like confetti in Times Square on New Year's Eve.

It's nearly impossible to find the Frigidaire corporate phone number to replace a glass shelf for your refrigerator when said shelf exploded all over your house the night before a party.

Anything about Hepatitis E, including the fact that it even exists.

Anything about MS.

Anything about cancer.

How to give myself a shot.

Heck, let's just say illnesses in general, small and large. Again, useful, but I'd rather not need to have any of that knowledge.

Meat tenderizer really does work to reduce the pain and inflammation of a bee sting.

There was an episode of Glee comprised entirely of Beatles songs.

Cranking the heater full blast when your car overheats does help to cool the engine, but you also feel like your legs are on FIRE.

How to clean a three-year-old who can't shower because his arm is in a cast.

You can use the hose attachment on your vacuum to suck in millipedes and spiders.

How to change a broken pool hose while water is gushing out from it.

White vinegar takes that smell out from when you forget you did laundry, go to do laundry, and there's a load that's a few days old already in the washer. OK, that one's pretty useful, because white vinegar is a great laundry deodorizer in general. I guess that one doesn't really belong on this list.

GPS doesn't always work.

When you live in a 100+-year-old house, there is no such thing as an easy project.

Don't give a toddler a toolbox full of real tools and tell her to “fix something”

I know this list is far from complete, but you get the idea. We all have “accidental” knowledge...the things you learn when things go wrong, or at least not how you thought they would go. And you know what? It seems I remember these things more readily than others.

Jelly of the Month This Ain't

Forty-three days ago, I started the process of enrolling on a clinical study. I was told it would be totally randomized, and it was the unspoken knowledge that I would get the oral medicine, or nothing. My mind was made up. I'd done injections before, and I wasn't going back to needles. Nope, not me, not gonna do it.

So today, I go to the office for my randomization. I just knew I'd get Gilenya. I KNEW it. Two out of three, right?

I get randomized for Copaxone. One out of three chance for Copaxone, one out of THREE! The injection. The one with the needles. Not a pill to swallow, but medicine delivered by stinkin' INJECTION! My first answer was NOPE. Not gonna take it. I'm pretty sure there's a mark in the carpet from where I dug in my heels.

Then I asked for a minute to think. I talked with myself. Circumstances are totally different from the first time I tried to do medicine through injection. The first time I tried it, I was newly diagnosed, my husband was working nights, and I had a one-year-old baby. Now, my “baby” is 9, and my daughter is almost 12. My husband is home at night. I've been diagnosed for almost 11 years. Huge differences. Millions of miles different.

I said “Fudge it”. Only I didn't say fudge. I'm gonna try it.

The biggest reason being that all of the hoops I had to jump through, all the hurdles I leaped, all the mishaps, setbacks and weirdness that happened in these forty-three days all seemed to be saying “don't take Gilenya”. I don't know why, because I absolutely despised giving myself a shot. Despised, abhorred, detested, HATED injecting myself. But here I am, starting a medicine that requires injecting. Every. Single. Day.

Now for the nitty gritty of it. I got the first injection at the doctor's office earlier today. You're supposed to let Copaxone warm to room temperature before you give yourself the injection. That is supposed to lessen the sting. The doctor's office didn't do that, and let me tell you, you'd better believe I'll wait in the future. The shot itself felt like nothing; the needle is SO tiny, I think two strands of my hair are thicker. I even said that it was GREAT during the delivery of the medicine. Then came the sting/burn/pain. It literally (not figuratively, literally) made me gasp and took my breath away. My face contorted to the point that my contact said, “Oh, that is NOT a good look for you.” It felt like I had been injected with battery acid or something. I can handle pain. Both of my children were born naturally, and drug-free. But this-this was insanely intense! About 20-40 minutes later, the sting/burn/pain was mostly gone. I'd get twinges for maybe an hour, but mostly, I was fine.

But, tomorrow I get to do it again! Tomorrow I'll wait the 20 minutes. Tomorrow I'll do it at night to minimize feeling the side effects, but I have to admit, I'm feeling okay. I had a headache earlier, but I took some ibuprofen, and now it's gone. Plus, I'm not 100% positive the headache was from the injection.

I'm using a different vehicle to continue my journey to feeling better, but I will feel better. Or I won't, and we'll try a different medicine. Something is going to work for me.

Medication Shell Game

It's today, it's today, it's today!

The day has finally arrived!! Medication randomization day!! I find out if I get one of two doses of the oral medication, or a self-injectable. I cannot tell you how badly I'm hoping for the oral medication. If I get the oral medication, I'm looking at a six-hour office visit. When you receive the first dose, it's usually in an office or clinical setting because your heart rate sometimes drops. I'm hoping for the six-hour visit because that means I got the oral medicine!! If I don't get the oral medication, it will be a very short visit because I already know how to give myself a shot.

All three medicines are FDA-approved, and have been on the market for some time. Well, I say three medicines, but it's really only 2 different medicines. One is a shot, the other is one of two doses of an oral MS drug. 

I'm bringing my laptop, my phone, a book or two, a puzzle book, water and snacks.

I finally worked up the chutzpah to read the user reviews about the drug. Yes, I read the owner's manual before agreeing to start the process of qualifying for the clinical trial, but I wanted to know what real people thought about it. From what I gather, it's either a miracle drug that can change lives, or it's a creation spawned by Beelzebub himself that can ruin lives. There doesn't seem to be a middle ground.

For now, I have to believe that this will change my life for the better. (Pollyanna has to believe. I, myself, am slightly anxious)

One thing I've seen shared in most of the user comments that I read is that even if it eventually becomes a miracle drug for you, you might feel like you're getting worse instead of better. And the only way to know that you're getting better is to keep taking it until you are better, or you're not better. 

So, there's that. :) 

All that tells me is that this drug is worth trying for me.

It's all so real!!

I'm too antsy to write anything else right now...I'll let you all know how it goes...*

After I take my son to camp, I drop off my daughter at home (my bestest wonderful friend is staying with my daughter until my husband comes home from work), and go to the doctor's office.

"...you've gotta ask yourself one question. 'Do I feel lucky?'..."

*I wrote this post for the original day I was supposed to go to the doctor's office, July 8, 2015., but I've tweaked it to reflect changes that have happened since then.

Pollyanna Is HAPPY to Post About Something Negative!!

While working on today's blog post, my phone starts ringing, and it's my doctor's office. I'M NEGATIVE for Hepatitis E, and we can proceed to the last step of the study!!

Tomorrow I'm actually going for my medication randomization!!

My last hurdle to leap will be finding out which medication I get assigned. I'm REALLY hoping for the oral medicine. I cannot stress this enough. I'm REALLY hoping for the oral medicine.

I've been down self-injection road, and it's way too bumpy for me.

I'll let you know tomorrow how it actually goes, because if it goes the way I'm hoping, I'll be at the doctor's office all day.

Toro Toro Toro

Today is a low expectation kind of a day.

It's overcast, rainy, and just generally gray.*

On sunny days, I wake up with a ton of mental energy. I fill my head with ideas of what we can do to take advantage of the great day. I create mental to-do lists. Invariably, the sunshine creates a false sense of optimism and energy.

Days like today are realistic in that I wake up. I don't plan to do much. I was having my second cup of coffee when I remembered the lawnmower.

We bought a new lawnmower last week, a Toro self-propelled, electric start, bagging mower. Here are the specs:

Recycler 22 in. Personal Pace Variable Speed Self-Propelled Electric Start Gas Lawn Mower with Briggs & Stratton Engine. For homeowners seeking a lawn mower with high quality, a user-friendly design and excellent mulching capability. Toro products are known for Smart Features and Proven Dependability. Count On It.

• Recycler cutting system - front throw chamber and atomic blade lift, suspend and re-cut clippings into a fine mulch for a healthy, lush lawn
• 22 in. steel deck with atomic blade
• Briggs & Stratton 7.25 ft. lbs. gross torque 190cc engine with ready start - no need to prime or choke
• Electric start - eliminate the need to pull a recoil cord to start the engine, simply push the button and you're ready to mow
• Personal pace self-propel system senses and smoothly adjusts to your preferred walking pace
• 3-in-1: mulch, side discharge or bag
• Bag-o-demand - quickly switch from mulching to bagging in seconds by flipping the quick-change lever
• Rear wheel drive self propel provides better traction in all cutting conditions - let the mower do the work
• Washout port - attach a hose to the mower deck to easily clean the underside of the deck
• "Quick connect" bagging system
• 9 cutting positions with 1-4 in. cutting height range to manicure the lawn to your specifications
• 3-year guaranteed-to-start and 2-year full warranty, see retailer for details
• Gross torque of this engine was laboratory rated at 2800 rpm per SAE J1940 by the engine manufacturer, as configured to meet safety, emission, and operating requirements, the actual engine torque on this class of mower will be significantly lower

To quote Tim Allen in his old stand-up routine, “Hmow hmow hmow!”

Anyway, last night I noticed something on the bag of the bagging mower, and I said to my husband, “That looks like a hole.”

Upon further inspection, we ascertained that it was, indeed, a hole. In the bag of the lawnmower that was just 5 days old.

I called Toro customer service this morning to see if we had any recourse. The CSR with whom I spoke was the perfect level of courteous and friendly. I had to navigate through push-button menu purgatory for a bit, but once I did (maybe 2 minutes' worth of pushing buttons), I got a real live person. She wasn't distracted, but attentive to my call, she wasn't chewing gum, and I didn't have to repeat myself at all! Not even ONCE!

She asked me for my name and address, and placed an order for a new bag to be delivered to my home, free of charge. While she was entering the order into the system, she placed me on hold, where I was treated to the Muzak version of “That's What Friends Are For”. As if the original wasn't torturous enough, they had to Muzak it up.

So, contacting customer service really can be a mostly positive experience. I've heard of these this, but like a unicorn and a fairy, I've not actually been privy to personal knowledge of their existence. Until today.

*The sun is coming out now

Not the Post I Expected to Write

I started several posts today about several different topics. None of them seemed to gel, except one, which was coming along nicely. But my dear friend and fellow blogger posted almost the same thing I wrote. As I write that, I want to make it clear that I don't begrudge him his post. I find it highly amusing that we both chose today to post about the same topic.

Such is the way that my day has gone. No giant call-the-cavalry catastrophes, only tiny little hindrances scattered throughout the day. More like annoyances, really. Just enough to keep me on my toes.

I left a voicemail for my contact at the neurologist's office about my blood work, and haven't received a callback. I hope my blood is enjoying itself in Scotland while I'm sitting here waiting like a desperate woman who is waiting for the phone to ring from someone important...wait, I am a desperate woman who is waiting for the phone to ring from someone important right now. Never mind that analogy.

I had to stop at the store for milk because yesterday my son opened milk that has a late August expiration date (I'm assuming August 2015, but I'm not positive), and it was so spoiled that it smelled like fish. I've never smelled that smell from a milk carton. We all agreed it was a smell more like fish sticks; or a cafeteria on a Friday. I wanted to return the fish milk to the store, but we needed milk, so I had to buy the milk without returning the fish milk. That's another trip I'll have to make.

While we were at the store, I figured we'd look for inexpensive sneakers for camp, seeing that my son leaves Thursday. Well, apparently the store didn't want anyone to buy shoes today, because the shoe department was all disheveled, aisles blocked with carts full of shoes, and the shoes that were on the shelves had about as much order as a bargain bin a Woolworth's. I couldn't tell girl's shoes from boy's shoes from women's shoes from slippers from sandals. Yes, it really was that disorganized. Coupled with the fact that I didn't sleep anywhere near enough last night, it wasn't a pretty sight for me. We left without shoes.

Not everything has gone wrong today, though.

My daughter came home from camp today!

Kids were in the pool, bickering a little about being splashed or something. I told them to be mindful of their space, and my son, great diplomat that he is, told my daughter they could split the pool. He would take the top half.

 

Michael, the Unlikely Angel

Have you ever seen the movie “Michael” with John Travolta? In case you haven't, here's a brief synopsis (if you've seen it, feel free to skip ahead): John Travolta is purported to be the Archangel Michael, enjoying the heck out of his last visit to Earth while based in a motel in rural Iowa. Some reporters travel from Chicago to Iowa to investigate, and that's when the movie really starts.

John Travolta's Michael is about as un-angelic as you can get if you're thinking of the stereotypical angels of books, movies, and paintings. He swears, he smokes, he philanders, and he wears a suit visually reminiscent of the suit John Travolta wore in “Pulp Fiction”, with a “Matrix” trenchcoat...pretty un-angelic traits, right? More like human traits, right?

Recently I, too, have met an unlikely angel named Michael.

Oh, he didn't have wings or a visible halo, but he was an angel to me.

One extremely blustery and rainy day (no, it wasn't a dark and stormy night) at a local medical facility, he appeared, giant umbrella in hand. He had one of those umbrellas made for 3 golfers and their clubs. We were walking to the car, in this driving rain coming down in sheets. It was the kind of rain that makes it seem like you're looking through curtains. We had my cute little Totes automatic umbrella, the one that opens with a push of a button, then collapses down to the size of a pen (Okay, slightly larger than a pen. We'll say a Sharpie.). Anyway, as you can imagine, my umbrella wasn't affording much protection from the buckets of water dropping from the skies.

Then, I heard the theme from “Superman” (the old animated series, not the movie) play, and my Michael appeared.

“Is this a little better?”

He was holding the umbrella over us.

“Yes, thank you very much!”

I assumed in those nanoseconds that he was an employee or volunteer with the medical facility.

Turns out, he was just an angel. We started to chat. His wife was inside, where he was moments before, and he saw us getting soaked and decided to come help.

He lost his mother a year and a half ago, he severely injured his back and required surgery, which left him mostly disabled, his wife is sick, and here he was, being kind to strangers. Not just kind, but over-the-top wonderful.

He was a big guy, maybe 6'3” or 6'4”, an FDNY ball cap on, and had the kind of physique that hearkened back to a fitness guy at one time. Seeming to read my thoughts, he explained that since he hurt his back, he had to stop working out.

All this kindness, from a stranger, from another land.

To add another element of doubt to this story, he was originally from New York City. While I've been there and personally found it to be untrue, New Yorkers have a reputation for being uncaring and rude.

So there he was, a stealth knight wielding an umbrella as a sword, protecting us from the evil water gushing forth from the sky. My towering angel of Harlem*. My umbrella ninja.

After he helped us to the car, again I thanked him profusely. We exchanged a little more small talk, and just before he left, I said, “God bless you, and God bless your family.”

Unless I'm around someone who is sneezing, that just isn't something I readily say. I just don't. It's not about believing or not believing in God, I just don't say it. And it was out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. So, you tell me, now do you believe in angels?

*I don't in fact know if he was from Harlem, but I don't know of a song called “Angel of Manhattan” or “Angel of One of the Five Boroughs”

Shania Twain and Normalcy

A dear friend of mine has a blog called “Normal Is Just a Setting on My Clothes Dryer”. http://normalisjustasettingonmyclothesdryer.blogspot.com/ The journey traveled in that blog is different from mine, except when it's not. That blog covers a different condition, but our symptoms have crossovers everywhere, much like Shania Twain's third album.

I feel the need to mention that blog because I'm still talking about laundry and normalcy.

I titled my blog “Trying to Find My Normal” because my normal changes rapidly. What I could do yesterday, I can't do today. What I could do earlier in the day is now an impossibility. Yet tomorrow, I might be able to do it. The thing is, sometimes I'm not too swift sometimes when it comes to listening to my body.

Yesterday is a great example of my (stubbornness? stupidity?) inability to read clues. I did laundry. I did many loads of laundry. Looking back, one might even say that I did too many loads of laundry. Be that as it may, I did laundry. I smugly thought that I was being smart about it. I folded all the things as I took them out of the dryer, separated the items by the owner, then left the full baskets downstairs for someone else to carry up the fourteen stairs. Smart, right?

I did a couple of minor things, too, like dishes, sweeping, putting stuff away. When I felt like I wanted to sit for a spell, I made myself do something else. I figured if I could push through, I'd be fine. Hahahahahaha!

Last week when I did laundry, I was able to do all of that, and carry the baskets up the fourteen stairs. Yesterday, we ordered pizza for dinner and I went to be early.

When I say that I went to bed early, I mean early, like while the sun was still up early. Like a little after 7:00 early. Excepting for the brief wake up call from heartburn around midnight, I slept clear through until 7:00 this morning.

That's not normal. Only it is. Or it was my normal yesterday.

Today is a new day, and there's one thing I want/need to get accomplished; grocery shopping. I wanted to go yesterday, but I knew there was no way I was going to conquer grocery shopping and Mount Washmore in the same day (that was smart, right?).

On the bright side, Mount Washmore is now a foothill! Perhaps I'll go do some laundry...