Fuck You, Cancer...

Almost four years ago, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. I wrote about what an ass her surgeon was here and about my own fears of medical procedures here. I didn't write much about cancer but I did know two things: it sucks, and the treatments are hard to get through.

Because of this experience, I've innocently and ignorantly thought that this was what cancer was like: It is really, really sucky, and then it ends and you can go back to your regularly scheduled life.

I haven't written very much about my childhood best friend on this blog. I did write this post four years ago as I was expecting her to visit my appartment in the big city all those years ago.

In that post, I mentioned her mother. Her mother was a wonderful figure in my childhood, one who I admired and who I thought was very, very cool.

A year ago, my childhood best friend's mother was diagnosed with cancer. I did my best to support my friend T, and the cancer treatments ended. Hurray! Life could go on as normal!

Two months ago, her mother was again diagnosed with cancer. T (Which is what I call her in real life... My T) told me about her mother's state and level of care and I was nothing but confused. When you get cancer, you get treatment, right? And then you go on to live your regularly scheduled life.

Right?

A little over a week ago, I was at my first horse show with Sargeant and my phone kept ringing. I didn't recognize the number, so I didn't answer. The number kept calling and after the show I was left alone with a beer, my thoughts, and my ribbons and the phone rang again. I answered it and it was a voice I didn't recognize saying "Amanda?"

I didn't know who it was so I answered as though I knew who it was and the voice continued to say "I'm sorry to bother you when you're riding, your dad said you were at a show. I'm sorry to bother you..."

And I recognized the voice as my T. The girl who was my main person from the age of four through twenty two. And I knew it was her but it didn't sound like her and she continued to speak

"But my mother died this morning and I didn't want you to find out from the papers. You can keep riding, I know it's important to you..."

And I froze. I just kept saying "What? What!" into the phone.

I said I needed to be with her and to sit with her so my mother and I immediately left the barn and my mother dropped me off at her appartment. We sat in silence, numb and scared, together, drinking diet pop and smoking cigarettes, tears rolling down our cheeks in a state of terrified wordlessness that I cannot describe.

My best friend lost her mother. The girl I grew up with no longer has a best friend, a confidante, someone to shop with and someone to tell all her thoughts and fears to. Her mother was someone you could have beers with, someone you could tell about the guy you're dating, someone you could joke with, someone who made you feel like you were the smartest person in the world.

She always laughed at my poorly placed jokes, she always told me I was the smartest person she knew. She was always on my side, always in my corner and I could tell her just about anything and it wouldn't stun her. And no matter what I said, she supported every word of it. But this is not about me.

The girl I spend my childhood and teenage years with has lost the most significant player in her life.

I have no idea how to support my friend through this, how to say anything that would mean anything of value. I don't know what to do except to sit beside her in stunned silence because this is not what was supposed to happen. This wonderful, exhuberant, intelligent, caring, hilarious woman is gone from this Earth and my friend will never talk to her again.

I've deliberated over posting this since I heard of her death. Since I've known that she is gone I can honestly say that there has been an emptiness inside me, thinking of the horror my dear friend is going through.

On My Love of Food...

I post often about my love of food. Because I enjoy food and all that comes with it.

I have what could be considered the unhealthiest diet in the world. I live to eat cheeseburgers and poutine, eggs benedict and home fries, hot dogs, shawarma with garlic potatoes... the list goes on.

As a result of this, I have hired a nutritionist. She's registered. She believes in avoiding red meats and Yoga. I'm not sure yet how she feels about four wheel drive and deer season, but I guess I'll soon find out.

My body feels the effects of what I eat. When I am working hard all day and I eat some really good proteins, whole grains and vegetables, I actually feel better although not full. I feel fully satisfied after I eat the greasiest, unhealthiest meal in the world (Poutine and pogos with diet pop)(with seconds) but I feel very lethargic after I eat like this.

I tried creating for myself healthy lunches while awaiting my appointment with the nutritionist. And today, when I handed in my questionnaire to the her, I proudly displayed to her my 'healthy lunch and supper'.

This consisted of:
- an apple
- a peach
- a can of low sodium V8 vegetable cocktail
-Potato soup (Only 90 calories and it is delicious!)
- 2 cups of Greek salad with a serving of light feta and low calorie Greek dressing

I was so proud! I bought these foods with the intention of eating them and patting myself on the back for being so damn healthy.

And then the nutritionist laughed at me and told me I was just so cute.

Sigh.

I am meeting with her tomorrow in hopes that she can make some reccomendations, come up with a meal plan, look into some kind of cleanse to get the toxins out of my body, and create a regime of supplements for me.

I don't want to become one of those die-hard crazy nutrition people but I am interested in seeing what this kind of dietary refinement can do for my physical and mental well-being.

I'm really wondering if I have the willpower to pass up fry trucks for the rest of the summer. I'm going to give her program a month and see how I feel at that point.

Pray for me. And also, eat some eggs benedict for breakfast and a poutine for supper because if I'm not eating these delightful creations? Somebody should be.

And Then Boredom Struck

I've worked out on my excercise bike now twice.

OH MY WORD IT IS BORING.

I love walking in the country for a variety of reasons: I'm out in the open air, there are things to see, my mind can wander.

While I'm cycling in my living room while watching CMT, there isn't much to do.

I must, must, must keep this up as not walking for three weeks has packed on a whopping seven pounds and I just gave away all my fat pants.

But the boredom. Oh, the boredom.

On the job front, I am very excited. However, there is paperwork that needs to be completed before I can begin to apply to jobs. Essentially, I've been accepted to work for this company, and once my paperwork is through, I will be doing casual/part time work. This means that I will be working on top of my current job for a number of months.

Insane, yes. However, I have a host of newfound debts that need to be paid: Alfonso, who I'm typing on right now; my next school course, which is officially in the mail and on its way; my horse debts over the summer; and of course, my trusty JEEP.

(And I have to go on an aside right now and say that since April, I have paid off over HALF of Da JEEP! My goal was to have it paid off in a year and this means that I am bang on, so this is pretty exciting for me.)

So, I'll be doing more than double work for a few months. This casual job means that I will be able to apply for full time jobs within the company once I've got my employee number. Once I have full time work (Which I am well aware could take up to six months) I will continue with my current company part time.

WHY would I do this to myself?

Many reasons. Mostly, I'd like to own a house of my own at some point and be able to live luxuriously should I so choose. In order to do this, I need some fundage.

So those are the two most pertinent updates in my life right now. The Moose Hunter saga continues, and I have no idea what is going on, although I assure you that my copy of He's Just Not That Into You is at my bedside because I have grave fears that this may be the case. This makes me sad because not only does he own six or eight or however many pairs of cowboy boots and drive a spectacular car, he has TWENTY TWO INCH TIRES on that car.

I aspire to that sort of status, let me tell you.

Adventures in Private Excercise

I haven't been walking these last few weeks.

And my body knows it.

Damn this body of mine, always knowing what I'm up to.

Today I bit the bullet and did not buy a gym membership. Instead, I went on the shopping trip of a lifetime and ended up purchasing an excercise bike.

I would really prefer a treadmill, but the space they take up is too much for the house here at The Ranch.

So, a bicycle it is.

It is small, it is dainty, it is uncomplicated, and with a little help from the motivation I don't typically have, hopefully it will make me svelt once more.

Biting The Bullet

I continue to worry about my size. I know that I am not a large person, but the size of me weighs on my mind. (No pun intended. Really.)

Last year I dated a person through the winter and this person joyed in taking me to breakfast, where I joyed in eating an awful lot of Eggs Benedict. Oh My Word, how I love Eggs Benedict. I also enjoy beer, and Cheetos, and potato chips (Barbeque) and coffee with lots and lots of cream and sugar. I've recently acquired an addiction to Booster Juice, Pita Pit, and Starbucks. But I only love Starbucks for their frappuccinos. Potatoes with gravy (And quite frankly, anything in the world doused in a healthy serving of gravy) makes my heart smile.

I dieted this spring and managed to knock of the poundage I had gained but I've come to a realization:

I have no desire to quit eating large quantities of foods that are very, very bad for me.

As I've previously mentioned, I've been walking. To the chagrin of all my neighbors, I've been walking.

It is now cold here in the depths of Ontario and I did walk today, in three quarter length pants, a long sleeved shirt, gloves, and a coat. It was a splendid walk with my trusty deer hound and I'm glad I got up the energy to go as I missed walking yesterday.

But I know that it will only get colder as days go by and I don't know how long I can continue to get excercise outdoors under these conditions.

And so I'm contemplating a gym membership.

Such a city thing to do, I know.

I need to keep moving and I've given away all my fat pants (Which is quite the selling point in pants, let me tell you.) and I simply can't go back to my old larger size.

I'm working at getting a discount at a gym from my cousin who works at one. Then I have to factor in the time and gas money to get there every day, and then once I get there I have to work at not stopping at Starbucks to get a Venti Caramel Frappuccino on my way back every day.

I've not made up my mind completely, but it is whirling around and I think it might be the only option to prevent the largeness that occurred early in 2009.

I think I may be on my way to being a city person living in the country. Next thing you know, I'll be driving a Mazda and eating tofu on a regular basis.

And Then All The Farmers Laughed

I've created a bit of a stir in CowTown over the summer. I know, I live in a small town and that when people do things, other people talk. I just didn't think that this one little thing I've been doing would create this sort of... talk.

I've been walking.

I've been walking the gravel roads of CowTown all summer long in an attempt to rein in the size of my ever expanding bottom. My bottom remains the same size and my riding boots still do not comfortably fit, but the talk of the crazy girl who just keeps walking remains.

At first the farmers(no cute and single ones, don't worry, I checked) would stop in their pickup trucks and chat with me. I've been chatted with by people in 4 X 4 trucks, by people on four wheelers, by people in tractors, even. One farmer (Cute, but not single) stopped and asked me if I was ok. Like, you look to be going at quite the pace, are you alright? Are you freakin' out about something?

Nope, nope, not going anywhere. Just trying to get some excercise.

*Blink* This led to a thirty minute conversation on Communism and the direction that Obama wants to take the U.S in. (I tried to follow. I really did. But I haven't watched the news or studied a political platform since... Well, now, I don't know. At least he was interesting, but he did cut into my walking time.)

Another farmer (Distantly related to me) stopped at the beginning of the summer and asked if I needed a ride.

No, just trying to get some excercise.

*Blink*

Another farmer (old enough to be my father, distantly related to me) stopped and asked where I was going.

Just up the road and back.

And then he said, What, you're excercising?

And I thought, YES! Someone who would finally understand my plight!

And then he laughed at me and said "Well why in hell don't you get yourself over to my place and put these twenty five hundred bales of hay in my mow. You'd kill two birds with one stone!"

He drove away when I asked how much he'd pay.

Sigh.

Yet another farmer in yet another truck stopped and offered me some candy he had sitting on his front seat.

Thanks for the support, neighbors.

We were at a dinner for all the local farmers, (Not surprisingly, none of them single and cute) at a table full of farmers and the talk of my walking came up. Along with guffaws of laughter. GUFFAWS. These people were GUFFAWING at me.

They then pointed out that perhaps my time in the city had worn off on me.

Ouch.

At any rate, I'm thinking of investing in a home gym of sorts, only my gym would have to be stored in the barn because of our lack of space in the house.

And then I could excercise to my heart's content and not have to face GUFFAWS of laughter at the next farmer's dinner.

I am a woman full of hope, if nothing else.

Let The Rain Wash it all Away...

As the title indicates, it has been raining here in CowTown, much to my delight. The puddles of blood around my yard are now gone, replaced with puddles of mud.

The vet was here today and upon seeing Zydeco standing outside the barn said "Wow. I never expected thos stitches to hold through till now." That's a quote. The infection has been kept at bay for now, although the injury is disgusting beyond belief. I went out to take pictures of it this morning, expecting to see a nice line of pretty stitches. Instead I found a green, oozing, gaping wound that almost made me cry. Needless to say, I need not expose the Internet to such photographs.

The vet has said that he fully expects the stitches to blow; that is, the stitches will rip apart because of all the debris that he was not able to get out of the wound. Zydo's pasture is a mud pit and an awful lot of mud, manure, and gravel ended up in his gaping wound before he was brought in and the vet was called. This could easily erupt in Proud Flesh, which Zydeco and I dealt with last year. If not Proud Flesh, any number of infectious issues are possible.

For now, the only thing we can continue to do is keep the wound clean and dry, as well as provide support for his hind legs so that he doesn't begin to limp on one more than the other. This has been accomplished through the fine art of bandaging, which I am beginning to learn today.



Bandaging is indeed an art as it involves angles and pressure and a whole bunch of other things. Zydeco is the best teacher in the world as he stands beautifully for me to pester at his legs while screwing up and needing to re-roll the bandages again and again. You'll see above me practicing my polo bandages. He doesn't need any on the front, but I figured that while he was standing with nothing better to do, I may as well hone some form of equestrian skill.




If nothing else, Zydeco's mood is much better, such that he looks at me in complete and utter confusion when I leave his stall without first handing him apples soaked in painkillers. I'm sure that if he had opposable thumbs, he would be writing a strongly worded letter to the barn manager regarding this issue.

The hard part here is that we don't know if he has sliced through one of the major nerves going to his foot right now, or how his future athletic performance will be affected. At this point I am just thrilled to have my boy still with me. He is to be in his stall, not moving, for the next seven days and the vet will determine his fitness to move after that.

The relief washing over me as well as the nervousness for what the future holds is an odd combination of elation and dread. My trusty boy and I will surely figure something out.

Horse Ownership is Not for The Faint of Heart

I returned from an outing to the movies last night to find my barn looking like a scene from a horror movie. It was like Zydeco said "There are two hundred acres on this farm, and I intend to spew arterial blood over every single one of them." There was blood on the floors, on the walls, and dripping from the bedding beneath him.

There was some sort of incident in the pasture while I was gone and when my father brought him in from the barn he was shooting blood across the stall and so the vet was called. A shot of sedatives (for the horse, not for me), some freezing and twenty stitches later, my horse is still with us. I got this information over the phone and the horse was patched up by the time I got here. That still doesn't mean that I was prepared for what I saw when I arrived.

I did what any rational horse owner would do and began weeping uncontrollably while trying to get the bedding that was thickly coated in blood out of the stall because I couldn't look at it. That was when I noticed it dripping from the deep bedding on the bottom of the stall, as it seems that gravity did its job and pulled it all to the floor.

Zydeco was moaning and pawing while I did this, still dozy from sedation. I stayed up all night going back and forth from the house to the barn for fear that it would start bleeding again. At around one a.m. he began stamping his foot in pain and I was scared he would open up the stitches again, but he managed to pull through.

When I went out to the barn at six this morning, I got an eyefull of what really happened last night and was mortified once more. There was a towel, several gauze pads. some bandages, and puddles of blood around the entrance to the barn.

Zydeco made it through his first night with success. I've medicated him for pain to get through this night and hopefully he won't be bothered by the leg and commence stamping it again. There is nothing worse than a horse who won't quit stamping his foot on the ground.

I spent the day in the pasture trying to track his trail and find out what could be there that would cut him in such a fashion, but to no avail. I found a trail at one point and it just disappears. Perhaps I am just a really bad tracker and I need to call in some backup to find this terrible thing that hurt my horse.

I used to think that it was the environment that was causing these troubles for my horse. Now that there are two other horses living here, however, I realize that my horse must just be a special kind of idiot.

I haven't slept, my hair is greasy and I smell like horse and medical supplies.

I am going to bed.

Taking A Risk

The vet is coming next Monday.

The enormous bill that this is likely to create is the furthest thing from my mind.

When I fell in love with Zydo upon first seeing him on a webpage almost two years ago, I knew that he had soundness issues. I had my parents carefully examine him from tooth to toe before I allowed myself to go near him because they wanted to make sure that he wasn't about to drop dead the day after we brought him home. His previous owner hid nothing from us when we went to look at him and then again when I went back to ride him for the first time. I will always cherish her honesty, because often times when you buy a horse (or anything, really) people try to hide the flaws.

Zydeco has arthritis and takes pain medication for it. We've also tried a number of treatments, such as having his knees injected with sonovial fluid and other herbal remedies.

Zydo takes a painkiller commonly known as bute. It is cheap, it is easy to administer. Some of the side effects include liver or kidney damage when it is used long term. I suppose it is the human equivalent of taking acetomenophen regularly.

Even though I haven't been riding much of late, we've noticed the times that I have been on him that he is a little more sore than usual. We consulted the vet the last time he was here, told him the amount of bute he is taking, and, upon his recommendation, upped the amount.

I would like to know the full extent of the damage done to Zydo's knees by this arthritis. I'd like to know if it has eaten away the tissues and ligaments, or if it is just something that is present and not really creating a huge hazard.

The best case scenario here would be for the vet to examine the X-rays and tell me that the damage is minimal, that we can inject him with something that will support the soft tissues and that he can quit taking his painkillers altogether.

My mother has asked me several times now if I am sure that this is what I want. Do I really want to know? Her most pressing question to me was "What if the vet tells you that you can't ride him any more? What are you going to do with a horse you can't ride?"

Often times horses in this situation are sent for meat. I realize that this may create ethical questions in the minds of thousands (including my own); however, I also realize that keeping something as costly and time consuming as a horse for pet purposes is usually not feasible for most people.

That question alone makes my heart stop cold. I shudder to think of my life without Zydeco. I visit him at night after work, I tell him about my day. I scratch him behind the ears and let him lick my palm. He nuzzles into me and chews on the zipper of my jacket.

Regardless of whether I can ride him or not, Zydeco will remain here at The Ranch as a pasture mate for Tia and Summer. Thankfully, there is enough hay in the barn to support him for years to come, and I am in such a situation to keep him until the end.

This vet call is on my mind quite a bit and I won't be at rest until after the X-rays are complete and the information is all there in front of me. I'm trying not to get my hopes up, and trying not to fear the worst.

Woes in Horse Ownership...

This morning the telephone rang and when I saw that it was the Berry Queen on call display (Good Lord, how I love me some call display), I decided to be funny. So I put on my most professional voice and said "Good morning. You have reached the Injured Horse Capital of Ontario, how can I help you?"

And then the Berry Queen was silent. And then I said "Hello?"

And then the Berry Queen said: "Did you just say the Intercourse Capital of Ontario?"

And that isn't even how I started my morning. I started my morning out in the barn rubbing Polysporin on my horse much before the Berry Queen ever deigned to pick up her phone and dial the lovely people who reside here at The Ranch.

Zydeco (that wonderful, marvelous horse who I love to death) has yet another injury. It seems that he has kicked one of his hind legs with his oh-so-sturdy winter shoes. The ones with the metal spikes sticking out of them so he won't slip and fall on the ice. (You know, the ones that are supposed to PREVENT INJURY??!?!)

And really, the injury itself is nothing. I think I have a bit of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Or perhaps a touch of Post Traumatic Horse Injury Disorder.

You see, the last time Zydo had a minor wound to his leg, I simply washed it, applied antiseptic, and moved on. I planned to have our first big show over fences, and I told him all about it.

And then, he began to kick himself until his left front leg practically fell off, and our show season was kind of a bust.

So last Tuesday, I walked Zydeco out of the barn and we had a few brief minutes to chat before my trusty Ground Crew was able to get to the ring. I told him, with great excitement, about our plans to show competitively this summer. How I loved the feeling of getting ribbons last year, how we would surely woo the judges of many fine horse shows come the summer of 2009.

And then I rode him, and something seemed off. So I walked him a bit more, and still, something seemed off. So I asked him gently for a trot, and he said "Uhm, No. But how about this lovely slow-motion canter?" and I promptly decided that he should have a day off.

He went out into the field, frolicked and played like a yearling, and kicked himself in the left hind with all his might.

Seriously. Show season is months away. And still, simply because I mentioned the word SHOW near the horse, he has come up with another injury.

I am scared of this injury. The last time seemd like a big ol' nothing cut on a leg, and it turned into a nightmare in which my horse almost lost his life. I've been looking at it, examining it, staring at it, willing it with the force of my glare to not swell up...

And tonight I came home from work to find the leg swollen. And I would love to bandage it to provide some relief and support, but I own a horse who lives to eat bandages. If I were to bandage his swollen leg, he would either A) wrap it up around his leg in an attempt to eat it and cause the swelling to multiply or B) choke to death on the bandage while attempting to eat it.

Neither seem like good options.

And so, I am simply writing about it on the Internet in hopes that it doesn't turn into the disaster that occurred last summer. I'm hoping that in the morning, I will go once more to my horse's stall, find him in perfect condition, feed him an unGodly amount of grain, and move on with my day.

Here's hoping.

When All Else Fails: Have A Baby!

My grandmother has been tremendously ill these last couple weeks. I have been very worried for her, as we all have. She has pneumonia and congestive heart failure. Only forty-eight hours ago, the doctors were talking about putting her on a ventilator.

It seems that the medications and care she's recieved in the Intensive Care Unit have done her well, and today when I arrived at her hospital room she was sitting up in bed looking like her old self again.(A skinny, frailer version of her old self, but her old self nonetheless). I must admit that I gasped when I saw her and said "Grandma, you're back to being you!" To this she responded that she didn't have time for a funeral, and that she had too much left to do before she went. Truer words have never been spoken.

My grandmother and I were just talking about nothing, shooting the shit, so to speak, when I mentioned the pets in my life. I was simply stating that, once my current dog leaves me, I won't be looking for another as dogs are quite the hassle. Grandma then said: "You should get something smaller, that you could hold here." And she motioned to her shoulder.

So I said: "Oh, Grandma. I've tried having cats. They hate me and go insane before trying to eat me while I sleep."

And Grandma said: "Oh, for God's sake. I wasn't talking about a damn cat. I was talking about a baby."

I must say that I was stopped completely in my tracks. Here I was, talking about my dog with a woman I love dearly, when she dropped this complete bomb on me.

I NEED TO HAVE A BABY??!?!?!!???

A Baby?

My grandmother was full of her old self today. She was precocious and vivacious, just the way I've always known her, and for this I am very, very glad. I'm not entirely sure that I'm going to run out and have a baby in the fit of glee I'm feeling this moment, but I have to say that almost anything is worth having my Grandma back to the way she was only a couple weeks ago.

On The Topic We No Longer Speak Of...

I haven't written about my emotional state in quite some time. I'm not really sure why: perhaps it is that I no longer feel entirely comfortable telling The Internet what's up with me.

I quit taking my CrazyMeds sometime in April. Maybe it was March. I'm not sure. But it's been a while, and you know what? I'VE BEEN JUST FINE.

I have to say that the first phenomenon in no longer being medicated is crying. I've started crying again, and I don't look at that as a bad thing. At first crying for me was almost euphoric. I spent some time seeing an individual this winter, and after I had determined that we could no longer spend time together, I did not cry. Weeks later, off my meds, I could cry about everything.

I weep in happiness, in frustration, in agony, in complete and utter joy. One time this spring, a Bad Thing happened to my dearest friend, and I wept for three days consecutively.

I have to say that I was so overcome with joy every time I cried because I WAS ACTUALLY ABLE TO CRY, that my tears would occasionally be short lived and I would be happy again. Three minutes of crying equals forty five minutes of joy.

For a period of weeks, that's how it went. Weeping, glee, weeping, glee, weeping, glee, sleep.

The night that I spent three hours crying because the farrier hadn't arrived in time for me to ride my horse kind of spoke to me, though. And after that night I stopped crying, because sometimes weeping inconsolably because someone is late for an appointment is a little over the top. (But only sometimes. The rest of the time? Entirely appropriate.)

I've started trying to be a grownup and face what makes me feel the way I feel. It is hard to take responsibility for what you've done in your life; it is equally hard to accept the things that have been beyond your control.

The hardest part for me is to not think catastrophically. Apparently, that's what I do. I won't be able to find something to wear to work in the morning, and then I'll be thinking of how my coworkers view me, and then all of a sudden I'll be hyperventilating and picturing myself homeless under a bridge. And I'll lay down on my bed and cry, thinking that I'm destined to end up a toothless, homeless, smelly person who hasn't conditioned her hair in weeks because I can't find a pair of pants to put on.

Part of staying sane has involved me putting myself on a regular laundry-doing regime, because otherwise I would start every day in the fashion described above.

I'm not sure any more where The Crazy fits into my life. I'm sure it will pop up again; I believe that a time will come when I'll need the assistance of my trusty CrazyMeds once more. But for now I'm just me being me, unmedicated and in my glory.

Five more days....

I currently have five more days of doing my work placement for college AND working at the group home. Then I'm going to be working AT ONE PLACE, and one place only.

I have three weeks until I go to Berry Season, and I'm already feeling a little mopey that I can't do the whole thing. I love Berry Season. I get to hang out with the Berry Babies, play my guitar with the Berry Queen and SuperNan, drink beer at the end of the day, and occasionally break out in hives after being yelled at by crazed fruit buyers.

Joomy mentioned something to me the other day that has my mind whirling.

You see, she recently ran a race (THE WHOLE FREAKIN THING) to raise money for a cure for Diabetes. Diabetes is Joomy's pet cause because her family has been affected by it.

Well, she mentioned to me that she is considering running a race for Breast Cancer as well. And, seeing as I have been directly affected by breast cancer, I'm thinking of joining her.

I admit, I have ulterior motives. For example, I could use to do some running to work off those excess beer pounds. If I worked a little harder on my physique, my riding would improve. I'd like to be a little more fit and shapely for the summer, and of course, being fit and healthy improves one's life span. (Of course, so would eating a vegetable now and then and not smoking, but really, who's paying attention to these things....)

I'm also thinking of actually being able to SEE Joomy in person. Words can not describe how much I absolutely love her, her sense of humor and her insights into my life and her never ending supportiveness. If we were training together, perhaps we could meet to jog every other week. Running AND companionship! What could be better?

At any rate, I can't commit completely right now, because I don't know what my work schedule will bring, or if I even have the energy to get off my butt or if I'll be free the weekend of the race or if or if or if....

But, the thought of doing something like this is definately on my mind.

Its a Cold and its a Broken Hallelujah....

So now comes the time to discuss my mental health status on the Internet once more.

For the last several weeks, or even months... who knows? Its hard to keep track of deadlines when one is struggling to roll their lazy ass out of bed in the morning. But regardless, for the last random period of time that has passed, I've been struggling within myself to keep going.

I have a desperate need to pinpoint the things that could be wrong with me, as though if I could put my finger on that one magic thing, I could make it disappear and go away for good. But the fact is, I don't know why I feel the way I do, but I feel that way, and I can't make it go away.

That's not to say that I haven't been managing. I've been managing quite well, thank you very much. I've been going to work, going to school, showering, brushing my teeth, and generally doing my best to be a hygenic, functioning, upright and sober member of this society.

I feel like I deserve applause here. I smell GOOD, DAMMIT, and that's a large statement considering how I've smelt in the past, what with my laying in bed for days and the not showering and the chain smoking and all that.

I wake up every day, and I force myself to roll out of bed. I then force myself to shower and put on clean clothing. Then its time to force my way downstairs, force myself to put on a pot of coffee, force myself to be pleasant at school or at work, force myself to do my school work...

Quite frankly, I'm tired of all the damn forcing. I'd like nothing more than to do what I did last year, to curl up into a ball and never move or switch positions unless it was time to pee or my back hurt. I'd like to pull the curtains down so my room is dark, and lay in my bed until a time comes when I feel like getting out of it again.

And then, when I think about it, I just feel angry. Like, why do I feel this desperate need to close myself off from every other sentient being and just lay-- for a long and quiet length of time? Why ME? What is so wrong with my life that I SHOULDN'T want to get out of bed in the morning?

I've done everything I can think of to help me get through this: I've taken up journaling; I've taken up finding time for me and only me; I've been reading trashy novels in an attempt to escape; I've been allowing myself special treats -- generally in the form of coffee-- because I 'deserve' those special treats; I've purchased name brand shampoo and body wash so that I smell pretty when I make my weary way into the world.

In short, I've done all the things those handy little self-help books have told me to do in order to maintain balance in my life, and the balance is just not there.

I am a firm believer in the chemical imbalance that plays a role in anxiety and depression. So, of course, my first thought is that I need a med switch, I need to change up the doses of Seratonin in my brain to make me balanced again. But the last time I did that, it nearly killed me, quite literally, and I'm not sure that I'm ready to go through that again.

In all honesty, I'd like to try a life of being medication-free. I'd like to slowly drop down in the massive amounts of anti-depressants I take in a day, so that there are no more foreign chemicals flowing through my bloodstream. Then, after six weeks or so of being med-free, I'd like to re-evaluate.

I have an appointment with the ever-wonderful Dr. Chuck this coming Wednesday, and I'd like to propose my idea to him. When I first started taking meds, he said it was a short-term thing. But with my ongoing issues, he slowly approached me with the idea of being on meds indefintely. I'm 23 frickin' years old, and dammit, I'm sick of depending on meds to make me normal. I'd like to learn what my issues are, specifically, and deal with them as best I can without pharmaceutical interference.

And that's what I'm going to tell him. Six years on meds, and I've done nothing but go in circles from fine to very, very not-fine.

The circles stop this Wednesday.

I'm apprehensive, but at the same time, I look forward to meeting a me without meds, to meeting a me who can perhaps cope with life the same way everyone else gets to. The normal way.

I need all the luck in the world.

Happy Five Hundredth Post, Blog!

Five hundred entries on this blog later, and here we are.
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Life has been throwing some punches at me lately which is why I haven't exactly been profficient with the blogging. Oh, sure, part of it is due to the fact that I can't get off my lazy butt long enough to type out a word here or there... But other parts have to do with the rest of my life.
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I fully intended to post something long and interesting today, for example, but because my bedroom resembles a landfill after a natural disaster, I spent a large portion of my day gazing at it wistfully. After that, I enlisted the help of my mother to deal with the hideousness that is the filth that I live in.

It was a little bit fun, though, after my mother reamed me out for creating a fire hazard in her house. Once that was over, it was kind of like playing a harmless game of '99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall', except that the beer bottles were strewn about the floor, intermingled with dirty blue jeans and no less than sixty five pairs of socks. Because I love socks.
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Some nights I come home with the intention of posting, but instead I sit on the couch watching television reruns that my mother and I have purchased on DVD. My sister in law gave me the first to seasons of Road to Avonlea, a show I loved as a six and seven year old child, for Christmas. And it was funny, when I opened it, I was thrilled, and the first thought that entered my head was that these seasons would get me through my latest breakup. I automatically knew that I would rely on them to get me through this tough time.

Unfortunately, they didn't work completely, and we've had to turn to the Eighth season of ER. I'm hoping that by the time the sixth disc is completed, I'll be back to my chipper self.

If nothing else, Dixie makes a wonderfully cuddly companion to sit on the couch with, and she is always willing to lick the orange stuff that Cheezies leave behind off my fingers. If that's not true love, then I don't know what is.
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SuperDad has been having some health concerns of late as well. Its odd, but the man has never had a problem until now. He landed himself in the emergency room twice and was told not to drink a single drop of alcohol until the problem was fixed. And you know what that means? Yep, I got a free case of beer out of the deal.

The problem he's dealing with now has to do with his pancreas, and we're awaiting a consultation with a surgeon and a battery of tests until we know exactly what the problem is. The good news is that this is not the same surgeon that my mother had for her last bout of medical issues, which means that I'm not going to have to don another bellaclava to do any more gas tank sugaring. Praise God.
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College is making me want to stab myself in the eye with a pitch fork. Everything about the classes I'm taking make me want to SCREAM, loud and long, until I have no oxygen left in my body, so that I simply crumple to the floor and lay in an unconscious stupor until the school day ends. I already have a frickin degree in most of the stuff I'm taking, and the process of getting exempt from courses is long and arduous, so I'm just going through them as best I can.

If only I didn't have such an aversion to paperwork, my life would be that much easier. As it stands now, I DO have an aversion to writing my name on pieces of paper beside course codes and handing them to official-looking people in the office. So I suppose the only thing I have to be angry at is myself. Sigh.

Other than that, life is grand, as usual.

When Life Leaves You With No Words...

I've been in a bit of a funk lately, not that its anyone's fault or that there is anything anyone can do about it. I just feel as though I've been overwhelmed at work and at school; I just finished working and I was stuck at my place of employment for twenty seven hours straight due to inclement weather. By the time my boss got there and had shovelled his way to the house, I was hysterical and unable to communicate anything of value. He asked me to begin calling people who could come in, and as tears rolled down my cheeks and rage caused me to shake in my seat, he simply took the phone away from me and called people himself.

I wasn't sure if I was going to post this or not, and I've been thinking about it for weeks, but the beginning of December marked a one year anniversary for me. I'm not sure if it marks a year of Sanity, or just a year since I actually purposely sought out Sanity. Regardless, it was twelve months ago that I was in a very rough place, and while I don't feel that my mood is sending me back to that very rough place, I do feel as though I've been contemplative lately, cautiously wondering what it was, exactly, that sent me there to begin with.

I've been hating my medication more and more lately, and I'd like nothing more than to stop taking it altogether. Its been a year since I started on this new wonder drug, and about sixteen months since that awful city doctor fed me near-lethal doses of another drug that quite literally drove me to the brink of insanity. Every now and then I get this urge to live medication free, and I'm not sure why, but the idea seems appealing, as though somehow being without meds would make me a member of that oh-so-exclusive club that the Sane people belong to, and just for a little while, I could play with the cool kids.

On the other hand, I've tried living drug free before and, well, it just never goes well. I think that's all I need to tell the Internet at this point.

More About the Hair... And Dixie...

I styled my hair ALL BY MY SELF this morning, a feat I am quite proud of. I think it would have turned out better if I had some shine spray, and if I had used the straightener instead of the curling iron, but you have to work at these things over time. I can't simply go from a girl who ties her hair up on top of her head to someone who knows what she's doing with a blow dryer IN ONE SINGLE DAY. OK? Are we clear? I am not a master of the hair-fixing appliances. NOW STOP LAUGHING AT ME.

Dixie is home and well from the vet's office. When I came home tonight, she was laying in her kennel, all pathetic and beagle-like, looking up at me as if to say "Please. Please make that visiting Basset Hound puppy GO AWAY because it keeps smelling me and if I could muster the strength to growl, I would, BUT MY ABDOMEN WAS JUST SLICED OPEN and I'm not quite a hundred percent yet."

I'm glad that my dog and I have this kind of mind reading relationship. Its called non-verbal communication and I've spent the last FIVE YEARS learning about it in accredited post-secondary institutions. So don't fuck with me on the non-verbal stuff, OK?

I don't yet have a pic of her wearing her ridiculous lampshade, or the bag of gravel that was removed from her bladder. I'm not sure how well those pics will turn out, because I don't really want to take them out of their baggie. Like, I'm all for checking out cool and interesting things, but the rocks the size of my thumb that came from inside my dog's urine storage unit?

Yeah, not so hot on digging through those.

Regardless, the stones are very fascinating to look at because they are, quite literally, stones. The gravel-y bits, you could place about thirty bazillion of them under your child's swing set. No joke.

Hopefully I'll have pics of the terrifying nastiness to put up tomorrow.

Until then, I need to end my time as an upright and conscious person because I'm frickin' tired.

Dixie on the Mend...

My parents took Dixie to the vet today. They brought her in without me and discussed treatment without me which tends to drive me batty because I need to know everything, and I need to know it now. I NEED DETAILS and without details, the exact, explicit words or actions from the vet himself, I feel like less of a human being, incapable of making a decision because I can't picture the expression on his face or the way he held his hands, or did he adjust his glasses ever? Because that could totally mean something.

Dixie, as we suspected, has bladder stones. I think they are like kidney stones or gall stones, only they have actually grown such that they take up the entire volume of her bladder and there is no room for pee in there.

The men I've talked to seem less than concerned about this condition, and I think that's mostly because men very rarely suffer from urinary tract infections. Imagine, if you will, wandering around all day with razor blades stuck in the place you pee from, wherever that may be. Then, imagine that every time you need to pee, someone pours a salty solution of vinegar and lemon juice onto that very surface. Occasionally, the feeling clumbs up into your abdomen and lower back, making it nearly impossible to walk, thing, sit, stand, lay, or otherwise do anything that requires your body to touch the surface of anything else.

Damn this whole gravity thing. It makes living with a UTI so much more difficult.

Dixie will be having surgery tomorrow. They are actually going to cut her bladder right open, remove it, take out all the stones and stone gravel (Gravel. My frickin' dog has GRAVEL in her bladder. Those are the vet's actual words.) and then place it back in.

I'll be sure to post pictures of her in her lampshade thingie, because Lord knows there is nothing like making fun of a ridiculous looking beagle on the Internet.

Not that I need to get out more, or anything.

What's That? Total lack of Interest, You Say?

I've been neglecting my blog terribly over the last week. I think I've gone longer than I've ever gone before without posting some sort of update.

Well, here it is: I've fallen into a hideous funk since my appointment last Wednesday. I don't know how I made it through my best friend's wedding. I do recall plastering a smile on my face and walking tall; I recall lots of talking myself through every moment that made me want to stab myself in the face with a John Deere dinner fork so that I could complete my mission as Maid of Honor.

Bear in mind that the bride and groom did nothing to deserve a member of their wedding party in such a mood. The wedding itself went off without a hitch. Unfortunately, I've been generally feeling as though I've been run over by a tractor (A John Deere one, of course) that has a massive plough attached to it. It is as though my body is in little bits and pieces spread out around the land, all of them in their own separate piles of misery and achiness.

I feel like I have a constant case of whiplash in my neck; my head is aching and it hurts to move, ride in a car, walk down an aisle on high heels, or do anything else that requires motion on my part.

I feel terrible because I feel like crawling into a hole for the next fifteen years and coming out when the swelling in my neck goes down. I feel bad for feeling this way over my best friend's wedding weekend. I feel guilty because we were supposed to have a fire party and guitar playing on the night of the rehearsal dinner and I was so out of it that I left before nine. I feel bad that the day before the wedding I didn't go to help prepare until after three because until then I was wrapped up on the couch and physically could not get up. I feel bad that I had the most painful hairdo I've ever had in my life and I actually did complain about my headache a number of times on the wedding day.

In all, I feel like a giant pile of ass. I feel like I was a jerk over the weekend; I feel like my head hurts and my neck aches.

I could quite happily curl up into a ball on my couch and watch Grey's Anatomy for the next five days without moving once.

I also have not a morsel of doubt in my being with regards to whether or not I will take part in this activity.

Radiologists? We are not...

Last Spring, my dear friend The Berry Queen spent some time in the hospital. With the wonders of modern technology, I brought my laptop to the hospital and looked at a CD of her MRI. It was fascinating to see the insides of my friend's body on the screen of my laptop; unfortunately, no one knew what we were looking at.

At one point, we were looking at what appeared to be her head, and I swear, there was a small squirrel staring back at us. Berry Queen was quite disturbed because, well, HOW THE HELL WOULD A SQUIRREL GET INTO YOUR HEAD? (Turns out it was just a nasty sinus infection.)

Today I had my lymph nodes ultrasounded (Can you make that word a past tense?) and I was watching the screen with interest. The people doing them were a little miffed when I asked for a printout picture of my nodes. Hell, pregnant people ask for printouts all the time. They're lumpy. I'm lumpy. I really don't see the problem here. (They refused to give me a picture of my lymph nodes. Bastards.)

So, I was watching the screen and every now and then the woman would press a button and Chk, Chk, Chk would ring out in the deathly silent room. And at one point, and I am NOT making this up, I saw a little mouse appear ont he screen. She was small and looked like she was sleeping, but she was definitely there. Her nose, her head, her boddy and butt, and of course, a creepy little tail.

And now I'm thinking, what the hell is up with radiology and rodents? Like, seriously? A mouse?

I think I'm going to name her Louella. Louella the Lymph Node Rodent.

Has a nice ring to it.