Metaphoric Closure

Illness has a way of stripping away all the excess fat from your mind. Even if you find yourself trapped there- inside your mind, that is- and have difficulty relaying that information.

I've found this to be true with Dad. Since he's no longer being drugged to "keep him from being agitated", he's much more communicative. My sisters and I have been able to discern that he is cognizant most of the time. He's aware of what's happened to him. Sometimes he's able to relay information very clearly. Mere moments later, he's talking about gunpowder and making bullets and such. He's also full of little factoids- as he always has been- and often they are correct. Sometimes they get jumbled in that area of his mind that makes communication difficult, and at times impossible.

We talked a lot yesterday afternoon and night. A lot. Most of the time we spoke pretty clearly, but as often as not, we spoke in metaphors. See, I get that. A couple of years ago, I had a similar brain dysfunction due to a combination of circumstances which have yet to be explained to me. I was trapped inside my mind. I knew what I wanted to say, but the words were beyond me. I had to try to relay information in metaphors. That awful period in my life prepared me for this. As hard as it has been seeing him in the hospital and rehab and a rehab/nursing home, for the first time in our lives we are able to communicate with each other. The language of metaphors has turned out to be the language we needed all along to communicate.

We spoke of illness in terms of battle. Of all the men in the valley getting killed, trapped there. I asked him what the name of the valley was. He said that was the thing- the valley had no name, and not a man there knew what he was fighting for or where. Then he told me I had a campaign to prepare for, and that I was well prepared. I was a "valiant soldier", and I would win. None of that was gibberish to me. He was referring to my MS, and various other physical problems. He was telling me to stay strong, and that I had been strong. And that he was proud of me. It was a long talk, but a good one. He was very very pleased that I understood him. He rubbed his hand up and down my arm, stroking it in much the same way I have been doing to sooth him when he was agitated. When his mind hit on the right words, he told me what a good talk we had had. I had teared up during much of the talk- especially when he called me a valiant soldier.

All this time I never felt as if I had his respect. He's never been able to deal with someone else's illnesses. It makes him extremely uncomfortable. But the problems I've had with Multiple Sclerosis prepared me to understand the ones he's had with diabetes and his heart condition. I've dealt with near blindness, being unable to walk, being unable to communicate. I understand how difficult it is to have to ask for a ride from others over and over. To have the people who so generously offered to haul you around gradually fade into the woodwork. To have your independence ripped from you. To have your psyche at once stripped bare and yet buried beneath medicine and tests and the fears of family and friends who think you're not really there- that you somehow don't understand what is going on. You get talked about in the third person when you are sitting right there.

We talked about less heavy things too. About how the well water at our home tasted so good in the summer when it bubbled up out of the hose. It was probably unsanitary as heck, but who cared? It was ice cold and good. Natural, with no chlorine smell.

We talked about many things. Grave things. Silly things. Things that have too long gone unsaid. He said he didn't want this to ruin our lives. That he knew we loved him and we didn't have to be there all the time. In the heart of him he truly wants us there, and sort of loves the attention even under these awful circumstances, but he wants us to have lives too. That he said very clearly.

I kinda love this language of metaphors. It drops away senseless verbiage and gets down to the root of the idea. This could be the last such talk we ever have, or the first in a long line of talks- in his condition we simply don't know.

For now though, we have our special way of communicating , and that sorta works for me.

Love you daddy. Keep fighting in that unknown valley. You can win.

Lost in the Aether

I had originally posted this long and perhaps fractured ramble on FB, but as it so often does, FB becomes snarky and evil, and vomits it back into the aether. Erego, I shall go back to either my trusty notepad (the physical one with paper and stuff), or Word (provided I am electronically permitted to use it. Last I heard, my permissions were a little iffy...) which is moody and at times a bit of a shit.

But there it is. I've also been encouraged to simply scan my longhand notes as they would lend an air of artistic fair. Mkay, you asked for it. Be forewarned- I constantly change the shape of my letters (for example- [well, that doesn't translate with a keyboard], so you'll just have to hang on and figure that out. It also changes by mood and by writing utensil. And also by how close I am to the bottom of the page. Fortunately the size seldom changes, so there are no worries of it becoming microscopic (as my southpaw daughter's does.) Additionally, I dislike erasing and instead do the old editing/nursing standby and simply scratch through it one time, thereby negating the error but not completely eradicating it.

Well then...here we go. Again. Once more- into the breach dear friends!

'Kayso, I was considering doing a blog again but couldn't remember where any of my blogs were, so I figured at some point I would get to it. Then I had to sign into Google to post a comment to my daughter's blog, and there was mine! It's a miracle! I can't believe this thing has been here since 2005. Caity barely had breasts. I might have just moved into my studio at Old Alabama Town. I was 3 years into the Tysabri study. I was 44 years old. Clinton was president and may or may not have had sex with that woman. And he was sleeping on the couch either way.

At any rate, here I still am, and it's 2012, my child graduated from LAMP a year ago, my husband has eked a bit closer to a retirement he will refuse to take even though he needs it, and that aforementioned pain from many years ago is still present in various part of my body. But we shall speak of it no more! Ptui! (Any Buffy fan will get that line. For all the luzers who never watched Buffy- I pity you.)

Since it's been about a year since I posted that hideous picture of Andrew (it was probably taken in 2005- coincidence? I think not...), and since I'm ever so much older and life is changing at an alarming and challenging pace, maybe I'll get back to doing this. Who knows. Who cares.

Laterz!

Eli

He was angry and balled up in a knot when he came into class. I'm not a teacher, but I've seen this anger before. I don't know where the anger comes from- maybe because his mother is white and his father is black. He shouldn't be too angry at them though, because they gave him his angelic looks. At any rate, he was pissed at the world. I decided that he would be my special project, of course. So after I handed out assignments, I made a special point to compliment him, using his name each time. At first I got grunts and mostly ignored, but eventually, he met my eyes. Then he smiled at one of my lame jokes. By the end, he was just as excited as the rest of the students at being there. I got to talk to his grandmother. I told her how talented he was, and how much he belonged in Baldwin, the middle school for the arts here. She was so excited. She wanted to know if I had any pull with them. Of course I don't, but if I did Eli would be on my short list of kids. He has talent. Big talent. I've seen a few of them come through this class, but he has the most potential of all of them. He's smart, he's able to control his hands. He's just not able to control his temper. But if he had art- Oh if he had art all the time, he would be a different kid. I can see it. Goodbye Eli. I hope I see you again.

Short hairs

So I got my hair cut last night. A lot. It's in a sort of pixie style, very short. I think it's sort of cute, but Tom and Caity loathe it. THey say it's too short. What they don't understand is that I don't want to mess with longer hair. I want to wash it and be done with it. They don't understand not being able to lift your arms up from MS fatigue. Well, who does except for other MSers?

I will get a picture made and post it if it's not utterly heinous. It might just be as bad as they say it is.

I forgot...

I forgot to post anything here in a while. Sorry. TOo much to do.

The perfect (raw) turkey

It was perfect. Yes it was. It was gorgeously browned, skin crisp, meat moist and flavorful. Just perfect. Except for the raw part. So we cut off the perfect breast meat and threw the rest of the carcass back in the oven to cook. The dressing is cooking at the same time, thus assuring that nothing will be finished on time. Oh well. At least it LOOKED good.

Luddites and other fearful creatures

My daughter's teacher is a Luddite. Of course, I had to explain the meaning of the word "luddite'' to HER, because, well, she is a 15 year old girl and not privy to all words in the dictionary. Unlike myself, who has been privy but has forgotten all of them now. Except for "luddite", of course. I told her to call her teacher a luddite and see how he took it, but she's afraid of him killing her (something about a pistola), so she is going to tell her friend Jacki who will then call him Luddite and ostensibly be killed by the pistola. Good times.

So. There is the smallest of possibilities that I could have leukemia. Now ain't that a pip? I would dismiss it out of hand if it weren't for the fact that I have several other rare conditions. It just seems very unlikely that ONE person could have so many different diseases that are so rare. But there you have it.

What would I do if I actually DO have it? Well, die I suppose. I don't know what else would happen. Tom is freaking a bit on me, although he seems to have calmed down some now. Tom's mother died of leukemia. I don't know if he could handle it at all. I don't know how much I could expect him to handle. Truly.

Sunday Memories

A song on the radio brought back a very vivid memory this morning. I was suddenly sitting in the old country church my grandparents attended, listening to a tinny piano bang out an ancient hymn, and I was wearing a frothy confection of a Sunday dress with a binding bodice and puffy sleeves. There was a white hat and gloves and pinchy patent leather Sunday shoes. It was probably in the summer because all the windows were open. Industrious wasps and dirt daubers buzzed in the corners building nests that were destined to be broken down eventually. Somehow they weren't quite fooled by the blue ceiling paint that lore said ensured their absence.

I gazed out the window to the tiny cemetery beyond. That cemetery always fascinated me as a child, with its population of ancient tombstones covered in small trinkets. For some reason we never tried to pry those small treasures from their places among the dead. Somehow they seemed right- they were home.

This, of course, never stopped us from playing hide and seek amongst the graves and in the small woods beyond the church. My cousins and sisters and I were a sort of girl's club. It was unofficial of course. We were an impenetrable sisterhood of secrets and giggles, mysterious and raucous at the same time. The six of us were bound back then by our pouffy dresses and how fast we could get out of them after church.

AHA! AHA I say!

I KNEW IT! The doc said I *might* have a small meniscus tear, but he felt that most of my pain was coming from my OLD KNEES. As if. He said that the exploratory arthroscopy would remove the damaged tissue and such, but he doubted that it would stop my pain. Well. TOday when they did the scope, he found a substantial meniscus tear. HA I SAY! HA! I KNEW IT. Freaking tell me I don't know my own body.

At any rate, he repaired the tear and removed some of the damaged tissue, and I should be good to go in a few weeks. I start physical therapy on Monday, which should be tons of fun. But I am so relieved. A real solution to a real problem. God is good.

Like a shark through shalllow water...

I am fidgety and a perpetual motion machine right now. I am a shark slicing through the water, but without the appetite for sea lions. Oh, I'm sure to a shark a sea lion is mighty tasty, but sentient barking blubber does not appeal. Oh no it does not. I like my fried critters dumb and dumber.

It's that time of day where I either whip up a fabulous meal, or I succumb to the whinging of my spouse and make hot dogs. I'd as soon have fish (sea lion alert!), but I had that last night, and well, eating fish makes one smell fishy at times. I don't really care to have chicken. Beef might be all right. Veggies would be better. Okay okay, time to break out the cook book. TTFN.

Pain, the Less than Great Motivator

I would love to say that pain is a great motivator, that it drives you to do great things and incredible feats of daring-do and brainpower. But the truth is, pain seldom does those things. Mostly pain eats away at you. It saps your strength, your energy, your intellect, and your will to live. When every step brings pain, all you can do is sit. When sitting brings pain, all you can do is lay down. Few of us rise to the occasion when forced to lie still in a bed and contemplate the ceiling and its cobwebs.

I don't know how people like Stephen Hawking manage it. I certainly have not come close to anything like the Grand Unification Theory. At best, I concluded that Douglas Adams was right when he said the answer to everything was 42. Maybe Adams was in pain too. Then again, he managed to be funny and intelligent when writing, while all I can manage these days is to not spell words improperly when my spell checker points them out.

I get the results of my MRI on Thursday. That is, if I come up with my copay and make my appointment. If not, well, I will just limp onward without knowing precisely what it is that is causing so much pain. Most likely it is simply the fact of being overweight with slightly arthritic knees that is doing the trick. And the average doctor to this will brilliantly and enthusiastically say, You MUST lose weight! Oy. I wish *I* had thought of that. Really I do. Because hauling this enormous ass around has been so simple for me, it never occurred to me to lose weight. All fat people enjoy their fatitude. Really they do. It's a picnic, it is.

Which brings us back to pain. Having been in some form of pain for the past 15 years or so, I can honestly and enthusiastically say, it sucks. I am tired of it, and I wish it would stop. Occasionally I try to come up with a reason for it, like, it's making me a better person, or it is giving me a different perspective on life, or that it's somehow purifying my body. It's not, to all three of those things. Pain just hurts. It is a powerful distraction.

But if I feel myself getting purer, I'll let you know.

So verrrry bored...

Okay, not so much bored as tired. I worked down at OAT today, threw a couple of pots, chatted up a BUNCH of people, sold one teensy magnet, and that was about it. Dr. Who is on right now, but it's one I've seen several times so I'll pass. Top Gear was brillant, as usual. Now there's a concept for a show that Americans need to latch onto.

The kiddo is off with one of her friends, so it's quiet here. If I were ambitious I'd marinate the chicken, but I'm not terribly ambitious it seems.

Gah.

Or, what to do when you're out of sorts.

I'm having bank issues, as usual. Mostly, I have inability to add issues. I need a keeper. Seriously. I'm also having a mild anxiety attack this morning. Either that, or the coffee was just too strong. Yeah, I'll go with that one. Strong coffee = anxiety attack.

Caity is sick today. Rather, Caity didn't do her work as she should have, and is freaking out about it not being done on time, and that is what is upsetting her stomach. But shhhhh! Don't tell her that.

Off to the studio in a minute. I've got things to do, plants to plant, pots to throw, mice to make. And snails. Peeps love the snails. Basically, any small critter. I've got a bunch of stuff to glaze and fire, some things to refire, that sort of thing. And Fred needs to come get his fish. No, that's not code for anything. He has fish at my studio, and must come get them. Hee! They're coasters that I fired for him, that's all. Nothing fun and scandalous.
Later taters.

Well alrighty then.

Toally forgot about this blog. Honestly, I've toally forgotten about pretty much all of them. But lately I've been encouraged to blog again, so I suppose I shall. Since more people have access to this one that I actually know, I guess I'll keep it (relatively) clean. I wouldn't be me if I got overly anal about what I posted, now would I?

I've got a website of my pottery and artwork going up very soon. I'm quite excited about it and darned proud. Me! On the Intarwebz! W00t!

Went shopping with my younger sister today for furniture. It's amazing just how anal retentive about fabric one person can be, until exactly the opposite of what she's been looking for appears at the right price. Hee! Well, she made a good deal, got a festive sofa, it's comfy and sturdy and cheap enough without being cheesy. I may drag the Tomster back there to look at this loverly green sofa. I wants it. And it's the right price too. And I am ready to set fire to our sofa with its broken leg and sproinging springs and its bleeding piping. The sofa and loveseat are 11 years old and it's so time to get a new one. I want two chairs as opposed to a sofa and loveseat. Hate loveseats now. They take up a lot of space and can only sit two people. Mostly they are meant for one person to slouch all over. At least, that's what We do. We shall see how things go.

Fitness Pro Hell

That damned FitnessPro1500, or whateverthefrick it was called advertised by Chuck Norris and Christy Brinkley is GONE. We are $100 richer, or $85 plus tax poorer, however one chooses to look at it. Gosh, how I hated that thing. Why my spouse thought it was a good idea to purchase, I know not. Of course, this is the man that bought a $1000 metal detector. $1000. ONE THOUSAND dollars. Metal detector. You can get them at Kmart for $99. But HE had to have the Porche of metal detectors. It was going to pay for itself within MONTHS. WEEKS even. Care to hazard a guess as to how many times he has actually detected metal? I think we have aquired about $1.05 in change.

But this is about the exercise machine. For whatever reason, he decided to sell it. Or rather, he decided that *I* should sell it via the local Bulletin Board for $100. Apparently, this was the perfect price, because we (I) were besieged by interested parties wanting to write us checks for $100. I told them only cash would do, and that cut the field by 80%. Interesting how many folks were willing to write us a bad check for a cheesy exercise machine. Floyd from the Wetumpka Old Folks Home got to take it home with him for the asking price. Nice guy. He used to take care of the old man across the street, Mr. Wright. A damned character he was. Sat on the porch in his jock strap at the age of 98. Pissed off the porch quite often. You don’t find characters like that anymore. Well, not unless you count guys that buy $1000 metal detectors and $250 exercise machines that they use 3 times over the course of 2 years. Oh yeah. That’s the ticket.

At any rate, I am drinking [root beer] by the pitcher full this weekend, pondering the meaning of life in general, and trying to refine a nude drawing that I started Thursday but never quite got the hang of. Anyone care to join me?