Freaking Flu… May 23, 2008

I never get sick.

Honestly, I am smug with the people who “always” have something wrong with them, heartless ass that I am.

And then, Wednesday night, I lay in my bed whimpering like an injured kitty. The sweats, followed by the chills, intermingled with the kind of body aches to my legs and back that were reminiscent of the “growing pains” I had as a kid. The nagging headache for three days - I never get headaches!

Of course I worked Thursday anyway. I can’t afford to take time off unpaid (and no, we don’t get paid sick leave until the second day of illness) and it’s damn near impossible to find my own replacement. Another policy - hazard of the industry. Nurses dare not get sick themselves.

And I was pissy.

I was mainly pissy about my house. This is the first time in my life when I have actually had the time and emotional space to feel creative stirrings about my space.

Up until this point, raising kids, it’s always been just “Do you have a bed? A dresser? Cool. C’mon - we’re late for practice!” Or work, or whatever.

But now I haunt the sites about small space stylish living. For me to even use the term “stylish living” is a new luxury for me.

To have the time to flesh out my thoughts about why small space living is important to me from a philosophical point of view, low impact, leaving a small footprint, anti-McMansion thinking. To develop my ideas about why reclaimed furniture and building materials matter to me. Not just because they’re cheaper.

And I can’t really do anything with all my cool ideas except file them away somewhere in that disorganized mess we’ll call Nanna’s brain.

Because right now, all I can do is focus on the structural necessitites. Shoring up the floors. And a lightweight remedy for the bare insulation in some of my walls. Thw windows that still need to be replaced.

One non-rock-star paycheck at a time. With what’s left after the regular bills are paid. And trying to avoid the paid professionals like the plague, God love ‘em.

But I got some very very good advice yesterday from my beautiful and wise friend Joyce, who told me, when the feelings are swirling about like a little dust storm, to just sit. Wait it out. Don’t act on them, don’t speak based on them. Just wait. Wait until that feeling of calm and peace comes again. As it will.

And inasmuch as it is possible in the middle of said storm, to do what I can to get back to that feeling of peace. Whether that means actually forcing myself to walk and talk and move more slowly - which is actually a very good tool to use at work when I can’t just jump in the car, grab my puppies, and head off to the lake in the middle of my shift.

The older I get, the more vital to me that feeling of “peace” is - whatever that means to anyone else. Not accomplishment and achievement, not the feeling of being “loved” (because I already know I’m loved). Peace - the lack of chaos and drama. Serenity. A deep breath and a cup of coffee.

Those are the feelings I value most right now in my life.

That and sleeping off this damn bug, whatever it is.

I really don’t have time for that crap.

Letter to My Body - Hello, Gorgeous! February 25, 2008

I’m in love with BlogHer’s Body Image initiative called A Letter To My Body and the different perspectives I’ve read from different women. So I thought I’d add my own take.

Dear Body,

Hello, Gorgeous!

Even though we spend every minute together, I think it’s been awhile since we sat down and chatted.

I think I haven’t told you in a while how much I truly adore you.

I treasure your rosy fair skin and your curly red hair - all clearly identifying me as a Daughter of the Isles. I love your fierce musculature, and the way it mixes with those soft spots - the mushy ones - the ones my grandbabies snuggle into when we’re together.

We’ve spent 47 years together - far far longer than any other relationship in my life - and what a rocket ride it’s been, eh?

Remember the dark night my first child was born? When the doctors and nurses told us she wouldn’t be born until late the next day at the very earliest? Heh. Guess we know who knew better, don’t we? Thanks for pulling me into that mystery in your own time and rhythm - for knowing on your own what to do and how to do it when my 19 year old brain was too fuzzy to remember the lessons from Lamaze class.

I’ll never forget the sensation of raw power - of connected-ness with every woman around the globe for eons who had lain in that position before me - almost as if they were all there, mopping our brow, holding our hand.

You were magnificent. And, I must say, with your help, I didn’t do too bad either.

And then feeding that little girl - and her two brothers after her? How smart you are, my lovely body! Like a chemist - like an alchemist - providing warm, liquid gold, fit for princes and princesses. I remember thinking at the time how self contained we were - that together you and I and they could be dropped down in the middle of a dessert somewhere - that we didn’t need anybody or anything - we could still feed these lovely little miracle babies all on our own.

I think about the times we have made love, you and I - the total synchronization between you and me when love was absolutely right, and I could feel every single cell of you singing out, full throated and jubilant.

And hey - we’ve had our disagreements too, right?

The night of my 26th birthday, when I decided maybe I should smoke pot to “fit in”.

Heh. You said no to that shit and puked my guts out for hours.

Oh well. That’s how I learned I can have a dope smoker’s personality without the dope. Thanks for that. That alone has probably saved me tons of money over the years.

Remember when the boys were little and into wrestling? And together you and I would hie ourselves down onto the mats and wrestle with them at tournaments, warming them up? Ha ha ha ha ha - the looks we got. Just goes to show we can learn take downs and - eh - whatever else we did then.

And you willingly trooped outside to play ball with Creed. Poor Creed - he didn’t mean to thwack you in the knee cap with that pitch. And we survived, right?

Together, you and I have been in some amazing places, both warm and cold.

And the thing I’m most sorry about are the times I’ve shared you with those who didn’t adore you. Oh - sure. They enjoyed your curves and your capacity to love. But they didn’t really get you, and the treasure you house. I’m sorry about that. Pearls before swine, and all that.

Listen, my lovely - neither of us knows how long we’ll be together. I’d say, as a guess, that we’re only about half way through the trip so far, and I promise you one thing, it’s you and me, baby, for as long as we have.

I promise you long tramps through wooded places, sucking in fresh air to the accompaniment of bird song.

I promise you naps - your favorite thing and mine - cocooned in warm blankets or swaying in mesh hammocks.

I promise you adornments and embellishments fit for your accomplishments and beauty.

I promise you yummy fresh food - and a little cake now and then just because it tastes so damn good. And we’ve earned it, you and I.

Thanks, my lovely body. Thanks for always being there - for having the wisdom encoded into you from my mother and hers before her. I’ve needed that wisdom lots of times in my life - and I promise to try to listen to it more, now that we’re a little older.

Thanks for the amazing children you gave me. Thanks for getting out of bed and standing when sometimes that was the most empowered thing I could do - to stand.

Thanks for giving voice and expression to the symphonies within me.

Thanks for looking like my own mother so that she’s never far away from me.

And later? When you’re much older, and more feeble?

I promise - I’ll be OK with that. Surely there’ll be some handome muscular nurse aide on whose arm we can lean as we shuffle off to Bingo or whatever diversion they’ve devised by then. And together we’ll smile - and reminisce.

Love,
Me

You Thought I was Kidding, Didn’t You? February 13, 2008

You thought it was an exaggeration that the Chantix had screwed me up to the point of laying comatose unless I actually absolutely had to be up, didn’t you?

It wasn’t.

And all I have to do to realize that is to note the contrast. Like…yesterday I got up cheerfully when my daughter called at 7 something - and then I also did laundry, unloaded and re-loaded the dishwasher, shovelled off the part of the deck that interests me (where my dogs go), got dressed, got in my car and drove to the accountant’s to pick up my taxes and my darling’s very unromantic but very practical Valentine’s present, came home, and made hummus!!!! Fat free hummus, at that!

And all of that before showering and going to work!!! (I work second shift.)

Those activities right there constitute about an entire week’s worth of activity while I was taking that evil drug.

But I’m past that. I did three things that I’m very proud of yesterday.

One, I made hummus. See, the thing is that I have lived my life basically going along eating what I’ve eaten all my life. A new recipe here and there like once a year if I got a wild hair. No, wait. Maybe about once every ten years.

My daughter, as everyone knows, makes all kinds of new stuff, smart thing, that she never learned from me. Like guacamole and spaghetti squash. I just really didn’t, and I don’t know why. I love to cook - I just love to cook stuff I know.

But in this whole changing my diet thingie, I’ve been exposed to a lot of stuff that I hear people literally rave about. Like hummus. Which I had to look up so I knew the correct pronunciation for, so I didn’t look like some Iowa gauche hick. “hum-us” I give you - my version of Fat Free Hummus:

Fat Free Hummus
1 can chickpeas, drained and rinsed
3 T lemon juice (hmmm, I had to use lime)
2 cloves garlic (I used minced)
a little salt to taste
a little parsley to taste (or cilantro)
1-2 T water - enough to make a smooth paste

Put all in food processor - unless you can’t figure out how yours goes together, let alone works. Then you can use your blender. Just be sure to wash it before anyone sees it and makes fun of you.

Oh - and I threw in some of my homemade salsa. Because I love salsa. And I didn’t have any chips or anything like that but I ate the hell out of it with cut up celery and carrot. Yummmmmm!!

Secondly, I walked on a treadmill yesterday on my lunch hour. See, I always thought people who spent money on treadmills were dumb because, well, I’m a hippie, and you can walk for free.

Until I hit the down slide of my 40’s and too damn many days of below zero hell (and ice and snow).

So, we have a whole excercise area in the basement of my workplace. And I went down there last weekend and tried to make the treadmill go. And it wouldn’t. I’m pushing buttons and trying to walk to make it go - nada.

So I sucked it up and asked my boss and friend to show me. Ooooooh, there is a dummy key. Like, it has to be plugged in before anything will turn on - it clips to you so that if you fall off, it will stop.

Hmmmmm. Smart. OK, so she showed me how. And on my 20 min lunch hour, I trotted along on the damn thing (my boss’ legs come up to my chest - probably can’t go as fast as she did) for ten minutes - and ate supper for ten minutes.

Hooray for me! Another “new thing”.

And for the life of me I can’t remember what the third thing is for which I was proud of myself. Hmmmmm…..

No More Waiting to Exhale - I’m a Smoker! February 11, 2008

OK OK OK, I know.

But that Chantix was seriously killing me. As in, not a good thng for someone with depression issues. As depressed as I have been at different times in my life, there is only one other time when I literally just laid in bed unable to move - until Chantix.

And seriously, I know it doesn’t effect everyone that way, but apparently it’s not at all uncommon. In fact, my son called me Saturday night in a panic because he had seen something on TV about lawsuits regarding Chantix and depression, suicidal thoughts, etc.

So, I was going off the Chantix, and thought everything was fine. And then, I think it was Friday night, I was so stressed out at work that I started smoking.

And in the three days since then I can honestly tell you that I feel like myself again. As in, happy, funny, clear headed. I have compassion again for the people I work for, and with. I can focus. I get up at a decent hour and accomplish stuff.

So…sorry. As of today, I’m an unrepentant smoker. Aside from the fact that my beloved can’t smoke, and I am very careful not to smoke anywhere around him, cuz that would just be mean…

I just can’t.

Maybe another day with Nicoderm CQ or something like that but not today.

On a brighter note, I think I’m on to something with this PMS stuff.

I was talking to my daughter today (who forever after will be referred to as “my lifeline” - thanks, baby) and discussing it with her and the fact that, for me anyway, the kind of PMS symptoms Ihave been living with are not of the “bitchy-eat some chocolate-wow that sucked didn’t it” variety.

Like - seriously. Very very very painful, interrupting and interfering with my life stuff. Stuff I could not live with anymore and stuff - as always - that I reject the whole idea of taking some drugs for.

I mean, c’mon, it’s my body, right?

So, this no-animal-products thing, turns out I was on the right track BUT the two keys to that are…1) low fat, and 2) lots of fiber. No - really - I’ve been reading a lot and if you’re interested, this might help.

So I am feeling much better, I’m feeling more like me again - and being me is my favorite thing to be - especially when I haven’t been able to be me for even a short time.

Failed PMS Experiment…So Far February 7, 2008

OK - so eschewing (as opposed to actually chewing) meat and dairy apparently has had no effect on my PMS symptoms. Exhibit A, I can’t sleep on my stomach without excruciating pain, if you get my drift. Exhibit B, I am horrendously irritated. Just generically. Sick of everything and everybody, which has all the earmarks of the same old PMS that I’ve been dealing with. And moaning about.

See, here’s the thing. I get that it’s natural to have cyclical changes in my body. “Cyclical changes” are one of the things I think are cool about being a woman.

I’m not convinced, however, that my body was designed to turn me into a cyborg on a monthly basis, capable of levelling small cities. That doesn’t seem natural, ergo, it seems like something that can be remedied. And not remedied by more freaking pills, which are decidedly not natural.

PMS honestly hurts for me. And being the “giver” that I am, I could stand wanting to kill other people if I weren’t in pain myself.

sigh.

If anyone has any more ideas, let me know. But don’t say avoid the caffeine, ‘cuz I’ve already decaffeinated myself. I also haven’t been eating refined carbs - all whole grain shit.

And please don’t lay any weapons down within arm’s reach, OK? Thanks.

Whooooaaaaa - Chantix is NOT for me! February 6, 2008

Holy fall-aparts, Batman! You know how I said that “Chantix gets a thumbs up from me” a few weeks ago?

Scratch that. Forget that. Recant that. Because this shit will kill me!

A week ago, or two - I can’t even remember now - I talked to my doctor and said, wow, I need to stop taking this shit because a) I’m having crazed dreams like the Cirque du Soleil on crack; b) this stuff makes me feel like morning sickness and, at 47, I never want to revisit that feeling again. But more importantly, c) I thought it was “interfering with my antidepressant”.

Yeah - like Tom Cruise is “a little quirky”. Like Britney is “going through a bad time”. Like my daughter is “interesting”.

More like this: I would go to bed at 11:30 pm (which is like normal people going to bed at 7 pm) and sleep till noon the next day, getting out of bed tearfully only because I had to go to work.

I had absolutely no patience for the patients I work with, which happens sometimes, but I mean like none. Like, I hated my job - and for no good reason, other than hating everyone I worked with.

Like, I have been in the most frightening “brain fog”. I couldn’t talk to my daughter on the phone - partly because the phone on the nightstand a foot away from my head wouldn’t wake me - and partly because I couldn’t uphold my end of a conversation.

No - seriously - couldn’t hold a conversation with any coherence and flow. And I knew it and was embarrassed about it.

My doctor, at the time, said, no, don’t stop taking the Chantix - you’ll start smoking again.

No, I won’t.

Yes, you will.

So, we compromised, and I cut down to one pill per day, instead of two - one morning and one night. And it still sucks.

So I did a little research online, found that there has been a lot of documentation of cases of exacerbated depression and anxiety, and stopped taking the damn stuff.

And I’m a little nervous about rebound effects, but there we are.

I’m not worried about not smoking at this point. I have quit before just the old-fashioned way, and at this point, two or three weeks into it, whatever it’s been, it’s pretty much controlling the habitual parts. I don’t want to smoke again. I freaking can’t afford to smoke again.

But I sure as hell can’t afford to lose my marbles either.

Honest to God? This post would have in no way been possible for me while taking that shit. No freaking way.

Alright…I’m sick of myself…. January 31, 2008

What do you suppose I have been doing that I haven’t posted anything in the last week?

Talking to my daughter on the phone or webcam? Noooooooo…..

Catching up on favorite and new-favorite blogs? Nooooooooo…….

I have been one of those annoying, ridiculous self-absorbed asses navigating my way through the whole non-smoking and changing my (our) diet jungle as if nothing else matters.

As in - eeeewwwwwwweeeee I have this nasty side effect from the Chantix - let me do hours of online research to see if others have experienced it (although surely not as badly as me) and how they managed it. And then let’s talk about it and think about it and whine about it for hours and hours and days and days….

As in, when work gets tense (which is why they call it “work” and have to pay me to come there), how I get all tense and in my defensive stance, checking every 30 seconds to see - do I have a cigarette craving? How about a jam every morsel of junk food in the building into my face craving? No? Not yet? Roger. We’ll check back in 30 seconds.

And scanning the Internet - trolling the Internet - mining the Internet for good receipes for whole grains and fruits and vegetables and coming across all of these things like “raw foodists” and people who yell and scream at each other about animals’ rights and the varying degrees thereof. Nice to animals - mean to people. Someone tell me what’s wrong with this picture.

Blllllllllllaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh

Last night I caved and had myself a big old plate of spaghetti and meatballs at aforementioned tense workplace - and yes, it was freaking tense.

Note to self. When you haven’t eaten stuff like that in almost a month, not so wise. I was up at 2 am yakking my guts out - perfectly non-digested spaghetti and meatballs that had been sitting like an anvil in my stomach for about 6 hours. Yuck. Yuck yuck yuck.

So - I’m repenting of all this ridiculous navel gazing.

Yes, my darling and I are both smoke free. No way I want to go through this quit-shit again, so I’m not starting. Plus, it’s been record low temperatures here, by a weird quirk of fate, so I have been smugly not going outside to smoke. Plus, after the two sons let go of my wallet, I wouldn’t spend the money on smokes if I had it left.

And yes, I still don’t like meat, eggs, or dairy. Although apparently, in some circles you can go to hell - slaughterhouse hell at that - if you don’t know that “they” secretly sneak eggs and/or dairy into stuff no reasonable person would suspect of containing eggs or dairy. I just really don’t like that stuff right now - my taste buds are all about fruit and veggies mostly - and I kinda get a jones on for some tortillas sometimes too.

And honestly, I do feel so so so so so so so much better. Aside from the pukiness from the Chantix, which is no small thing, believe me.

So, time to pull head out of belly button (or wherever it was) and rejoin the world.

If spring ever comes, that is. Or at least it gets and stays around 30 or some temperature that a normal human being could be expected to survive for the small amount of time it would take for me to get from my car to somewhere and back…………

The Stirrings of Renewed Passions….no, not that kind lol January 24, 2008

So…I’ve been thinking. Not having a lot of ambition to post lately, between work and quitting smoking, etc. And, being me, wondering why that was.

For most of my life, writing was my life. As natural to me as breathing, and as necessary for the self expression as well as for just the stretching and using of my intellectual muscles, I suppose.

My beloved daughter is exactly the same way.

I remember reading Avi’s advice to people who wanted to do that “Blogging 365 Days a Year” thing, to write what you care about, are passionate about.

And I have frankly not been passionate about anything for a long time.

Which is very - veeeerrrrrrrrryyyyyy - not like me.

But since the first of the year, a lot of events have conspired to kick me in the head and I have felt the stirrings - not much more than goldfish tails actually - but some real energy here.

First, my darling having that “cardiac event” on January 6 - resulting in a cardiac cath and a stent placement and all the attendant drama.

As he left the hospital, he was admonished to quit smoking cigarettes (duh) and given a 20 minute lecture by a dietician, which the average person would have thrown up their hands at in confusion.

Good thing I’m a registered nurse.

Huh! Good thing I’m a registered nurse and someone who’s been a freak over the years reading about more natural health therapies.

(Ask my daughter about the time her boyfriend asked if I was a witch because I made him drink some herbal thing when he came over sick. Still and all, my kids hardly ever, ever used antibiotics - and neither do my grandkids.)

Anyway, we come home, we start on the Chantix - which makes me nauseous but it’s Day 5 without smoking and no one has died yet!

And I go grocery shopping. Sweetheart has a sweet tooth, so I load up on all this sugar free pudding and jell-o and ice cream for him for desserts. And fruits, and vegetables, which I then sit down and make him try (most have been a hit, thankyouverymuch). And low fat milk (almost had a mutiny in the house over that one), and whole grain breads.

Oh - and no more Mountain Dew. The nectar of life for this man. And bless his little heart, he’s done awesome without it and developed a new fondness for Diet Rite - no caffeine, no nasty ass aspartame. No sodium. He likes it.

So, he’s doing good. The cardiac rehab chick is impressed, he’s had like two headaches in three weeks, as opposed to his previously daily bad bad bad ones. He’s exhausted - he’s worked for almost two weeks straight since they released him to go back to work - but heart wise, etc., he’s doing good.

Check.

And then there’s me.

I, of course, am on the Internet doing research like crazy. Looking for more ways to serve fruits and vegetables, which leads me to some vegetarian sites, which lead me to sites about the effects of our present meat and dairy supply, as per umpteen studies. And one catches me eye.

See, as a background, I have terrible PMS, physically and emotionally. It’s gotten worse since I was about 35, and it’s gotten to Frankensteinian proporitions - to the point that the day my period arrives is practically heralded here with champagne and foghorns. I can’t even begin to tell you how horrible I feel - me, who never ever used to feel horrible ever. It’s to the point that for about two weeks out of the month, I absolutely do not trust my own feelings, decisions and judgments.

And that, my dears, is a very scary and shitty place in which to find yourself. Half of your life, afraid of your own self.

As we all know, in the US presently, our meat and dairy animals are fed all kinds of hormones and antibiotics to make them grow faster and bigger for production.

That crap is stored in their flesh, etc., and passed on to us, the consumers, which is why we are developing, for instance, a lot of “super infections” that are resistant to antibiotics, because our bodies have already had so much of that stuff, the little germies are mutating. Trust me - I work with that part every day.

The stuff I read then pointed out that those hormones screw with our hormones. And it is our hormones that regulate every single activity in our body.

And it is my hormones, specifically, that are making my life a whirlwind.

So I quit eating meat. About a week before I stopped smoking. I was also thinking that the healthier I could eat and drink in the time leading up to quitting smoking, the easier it would be - and I was right. I’m drinking a shit ton of water.

I dropped it all - meat, poultry, dairy, eggs, cheese. Which, for those of you in the know, does not make me a “vegan” because I still wear wool and leather and, uh, I don’t know what else. Go to zoos.

And the thing is, I feel a ton better. A ton. I’ve lost three or four pounds, I sleep better, my skin looks better and, as mentioned before, the quitting smoking thing is going along swimmingly.

I just “came out” to my kids earlier this week about it. We’ve always been a big meat eating family - and I still cook it for my darling and family.

So that’s part of it. The renewed passion. Learning about this - arming myself with information.

The second thing can only be called a renewed urgency for compassion and peace.

Especially after hearing about - and reading firsthand - the attacks by someone neither of us has ever met on one of the most important people in my life. Someone I know better than anyone else in the world knows to be good and loyal and hard working and compassionate and faithful and honest and wonderful.

It perplexes me. It makes me so damn sad. That this, as people, is what we come to.

And believe me, boys and girls, what makes me the most sad is knowing that, at my core, I am no better. I can rip heads off better than almost anyone I know, make a person feel two inches tall, totally cast doubt about them and within them.

I can’t stand it anymore. I don’t want to be so angry anymore, and so violent. I don’t want to support it, collaborate with it, feed it.

I don’t want to demonize people, put them down to ensure my own place in the pecking order, make nasty jokes about people. Hey - listen - I do it.

So that’s my new passion. Working toward compassion and peace - first of all within myself and compassion for myself, and then in ever widening arcs into the world.

How? Uh…I’ll hafta get back to you on that one.

Smokeless Day 1 - a Recap January 20, 2008

I guess since technically I haven’t gone to bed yet, the jury is still out, but all in all, the day wasn’t as bad as I had feared. All last week, with the official Quit Date looming ahead, I had been really nervous about what a witch I would be.

And oddly enough, I laughed more than I did anything else today. My darling seemed to be a little more tense than usual, but he was also working, which always has him on “high alert” mode. Which is not to say him being tense makes me laugh - per se - but he does funny stuff when he’s edgy. Like spill milk all over himself, his plate, and the floor. And yell at the dogs.

The hardest time was when I drove in the car to see my oldest son. Driving in the car was my most go-to time to smoke. But with it below zero here, it was nice not having to “crack a window”.

And I realized today how damn much time I must have spent putting on my coat and schlepping out to the garage to smoke and let the dogs out. Today I did a lot of wandering around and sort of wondering what to do. Which I don’t think I’ve ever done in my life.

So far, I guess Chantix gets a big thumbs up from me. Tomorrow I go back to work - we’ll see how that goes.