Friday, July 30, 2010

Too Soon To Tell

May 14, 2010 - The day after my birthday I underwent my failed LIBERATION.
July 28, 2010 - The day after my sister's birthday I began taking LDN.
So Jason asks what I'm planning on doing the day after his birthday . . .
August 13, 2010 - The day after my hubby's birthday, wellll, it's too soon to tell.
I hope, using words of my Dad's, that by then, I'm "kickin' ass and takin' names!"

Enuff with the intros already. I got news. GOOD NEWS. First on the LDN front, I think it may be workin'. The first night I took it Jason and I were a bundle of nerves. Each of the 8 times I was up going to the bathroom Jason asked me if I was okay. Bless his soul, poor guy didn't rest worth a darn. Having grown used to my frequent potty trips the only difference this night was Jason's participation. Usually my comings and goings don't warrant anything besides the occasional sleepy grunt of recognition that perhaps I'd been too noisy.

I did have a bizarro dream but nothing scary. I dreamt I was at a huge CCSVI summit. Nothing weird about that as Dr. Sclafani's symposium was happily fresh in my mind. The weird part was I was there along with all the big names and everybody knew everybody except for me. All the Denises and Judys were there. And Jeanine, Yvonne, Carol, Tessa, Diana, Alice, Brenda, Irishbear, Paul, Tina, Kathleen, Marsha, Ken, Sheilah, Lee, Gina, Kevane, Lori, Patricia, Tim, Janet, Dawn, Anna, Chris and all of TEAM HUBBARD.

I don't mean to leave anybody out, 'cause EVERYBODY was there. Even the docs were there in droves. Zamboni, Sclafani, Bonn, and others. Big names. Little names. And even some with no names . . . hopefully representing those yet to join the fight. There sure was a crowd. If you're still reading, then you were there too!

There, of course, being a huge 'ol concrete walled, dirt floored, arena I used to show horses in in Bowling Green, Kentucky. Weirder still I spent the entire dream walking around feeling sorry for myself. Did you catch that? I said WALKING!!! That oddity aside everyone knew everyone but it was like I wasn't there. Like I was some sort of newbie. Then it dawned on me. I walked to the head of a long, long table of us all and screamed for all to hear, "You must not recognize me 'cause I'm not wearing my knee socks!" Then I woke up. I hope I wasn't really screaming.

So bizzare for sure but nothing out of the ordinary for me. Just last week I dreamt I was walking from volleyball practice in the main boys' basketball gym at my high school out to the parking lot. Once there I didn't know which of my many cars to look for. I reasoned it should be my 1987 Cavalier as that's what I drove in high school. But it wasn't there. Had I parked somewhere else? Nah. I always parked in that lot. Maybe my '94 Camaro I'd bought while in college. Nope.

As I continued to WALK the football field sized lot back and forth I searched for all the other cars I at one time or another owned. The Blazer, the Jeep? Nope. My current car then, of course. It had to be my inferno red 300M. Quite the head turner, I can't have overlooked that beauty. And then stereo blaring and top down (I don't even think they make a convertible version yet) comes my Mom and Dad in a brand new yellow Camaro with black stripes.

Hold on to your hats dear readers! Dad hops outta the car jigs over to the passenger side to get in behind Mom, shrugs his shoulders and says, "You lookin' for this?" Ahhhhh, yeh! I guess so. And DAMNIT, I WAKE UP. As much as I am a fan of Camaros and would've loved to drive it -- my Dad passed away in April '05 and I sooooo would've ran, YES RAN (it's my dream damnit), to give him a hug. I miss him still - everyday. And apparently a couple of old cars of mine and high school sports. But I digress. Point is, vivid, bizzaro dreams - nothing new.

Thursday, July 29, 2010. My first day after having taken LDN. Side effects - 0. Improvements - 0. Another fail? Not hardly. Perhaps I was gonna be one of those that it would take awhile to effect. Plus I prolly still had roids floatin' about my system somewhere or another. And I heard they may work against each other or cancel each other out.

Leg still dead to the world. Can't lift my drop foot at all. A better name for drop foot -- dead foot. Even resting with my feet up - can't get foot to straighten or lift back towards me. Anyways, I wasn't givin' up. I just hoped Jason would rest better on LDN night #2, let's call it. And he did. And guess who else did? Me me me me me! You sittin' down?

I pottied at 10:30. Same 'ol, same 'ol. Neurogenic bladder not wanting to empty. Blah, bla, bla. I sit awhile as always and try my best. Then I return to bed to work on my farm in Farmville, knowing that within 10 -20 minutes I'd need to return for my follow-up visit. Hehehe. To empty the ummm, 'residual' I think is what my urologist calls it. No biggie. Simply routine by this point. Time flies. Before I knew it I expanded and rearranged my entire farm, played scrabble and caught up on an entire days worth of posts. It was nearing midnight.

Huh? Jason sleepily asks, "You gonna turn your light out?" Well, yeh! No urges. No accidents. I go once more to try and force the residual. No dice. 11:45. Still in disbelief I switch out my lap top for my DS and begin playing solitaire. Still nothing. Oh well, I'll be up again soon enuff, I thought. WHAT'S THIS??? 5:00. WHAT'S THIS? I get the urge. I wake. I go pee. I pull up dry undies. And return to a dry bed. Wooooooooo hooooooo! This is huge for me. HUGE!

I had a little trouble gettin' back to sleep as I lay there smiling ear to ear. I must say my face is a little sore this morning, but I don't mind. I might have even cried a couple tears of joy. THANK YOU GOD! THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU! Please, please, please don't let this be a fluke. Praise the Lord! Hallelujah! Amen. I almost woke Jason up so he could celebrate with me, but another miracle occurred before I could. I fell back asleep. Yay, me!

And guess what else? Whilst sitting on the potty, astonished I'd slept uninterrupted for 5 hours, I also discovered I could ever so slightly lift and flex my drop foot. My dead foot. It's coming back to life people. A resurrection, if you will. A bonafide miracle . . . PRAISE THE LORD! Thank Him and praise Him. Amen. No where near 100%, but even the tiniest recovery at this point. Wow! A sign of life.

So it's 11 am this gorgeous Friday morning that the Lord has made. Still cripping along, BUT haven't had to go to the potty 'til now. Can I get another Woooooo hooooooo? C'mon now. Ya know ya wanna! Just sayin' it out loud you're guaranteed to crack a smile. Maybe even brighten your day and feel a bit better. Say it with me now. "Wooooooo hoooooo!" And again. "Woooooo hoooooo!"

And one more for Dr. Sclafani's symposium on treating CCSVI. Ready? "Woooooo hooooo!" Thanks for all you're doing Dr. S! Getting all those involved talking and working towards standardizing diagnostic testing and treatment and follow-up care. YAY! YOU TRULY ROCK!

As for my next attempt at LIBERATION . . . I am anxiously awaiting this super docs return. Superman returned and so shall Sclafani!!! In the meantime I'll continue with prayer and LDN. In that order. And of course, as many Woooooo hooooos as are needed. How's about a big'n for the road? "WOOOOOOO HOOOOOOO!"

Monday, July 26, 2010

Manic (Productive) Monday

Loooooooong time - no blog. Sorry. I been a bit down. Still am, but soooo much has gone on today I've gotta tell somebody about it. Catch you up first? Where'd I leave ya? Face down on the floor, . . . right? Awww, yes, it's coming back to me now.

The pool. The fall. The crawl. And more falls. Yay, me! Why weren't the steroids workin' their magic? They were makin' me hungry. They were makin' me thirsty. They were makin' me agitated. And swell, swell, swell, but still not well. I got one word for ya - b A s T a R d S ! ! !

Eventually I find myself in good 'ol Doc Lee's infamous waiting room. "What on Earth for?" I can almost hear you shouting. And I'm glad you asked. I may have mentioned in earlier posts that my feet were turning purple and that I had altogether misplaced my left ankle - well, "Dr. Lee," I explain, "I'm here 'cause I have no feeling in this here huge purple lump formerly known as my left leg."

And just to paint you a more vivid picture of the situation, the purple I speak of is more of a morbid bluish toned violet than a stunning royal plum color my dearly beloved Prince sported on his motorcycle. Still today the swelling has gone down a bit but the eery color remains. It is quite unsettling to look down and see a leg you cannot feel. A leg you do not recognize. Bizarro!

Back to the story. I went to see Lee for Jason. He's been worried about there being a blood clot. After researching clots on the internet, yippeee! I too began to worry. I've got a slew of the pre-cursors. Add that to my Ma and my Pa. Then throw in my being damn near completely sedentary and what do you have? A recipe for disaster, I tell ya. For real.

So we're hospital bound to get a doppler of my leg. I joke with Jason that we should write in that I need one of the neck too. He chuckles. He raises an eyebrow. Yeh, maybe I hadn't been joking. So what? Of all days to wind up getting an ultrasound, this was supposed to be the day I was to get one done in Atlanta. A real legit "we trained in Italy with Zamboni" scan. I wish I was there. We'd talked about taking the boys and going to the aquarium and . . .

So MS happened. Then roids. Then rescheduling. Then roids fail. I give up. Depression reigns. What good would a positive ultrasound do me anyways? Whoopity Dooooo!? Back on the table at the old local hospital, aka back to reality. The girls that took care of me were nice enuff, BUT the scan of my entire left leg took less than 5 minutes. From the groin to just behind the knee. And the discoloration and loss of feeling doesn't start until just below the knee. I'm not claiming to know more than these girls, BUT REALLY?! C'mon, really??

"You're fine. You can go home," they said. Well I was far from fine, but home sounded delightful. "Thanks," I replied. "I think I will." And that's just what we did. I hope at least Jason slept better that night. As for me - not so much. And hardly at all the next few nights. Anticipating Jason leaving for work is never fun. Really scary being damn near immobile. I considered sending the boys to Granny and Papaw's and going down to my Momma's, but alas decided to ruff it out with only a pitbull for protection. Ha! Pun intended.

I had a heart to heart with my 9 year old who promised he'd take care of me. And he did. Quite the man, I tell ya. I was sooooo proud of him. Still am. Thank you, Goose! So Daddy gets back. Steroids are done. And all is again right with the world, . . . NOT! I'm still noooo better. BUT, what's this? Football sign-up deadline is announced. Quite the wake-up smack in the face. Huh?

How many weeks had it been now that I've drug myself from bed each morning only to park my sad ass on the end of the couch downstairs? Once, maybe twice a day I risk venturing to the bathroom with the walker. The rest of the time unmoved. Attention bouncing from the lap top to Netflix and back again. Physically unmoved 'til bedtime. Then crawl and hobble and bed again. What the hell kinda existence is this? One word? p A t H e T i C ! ! !

Most important of allllll in my pea brain . . . HOW THE SAM HELL WAS I GONNA SEE ASA KICK FOOTBALL ASS??? And sports aside, school was approaching. My boys would need school supplies. Clothes. And shoes. Shoes have always been ooober important to me. Ever since my red and white Nike high-top tennis shoes I got for grade school basketball. A side note: I was gonna play for Bobby Knight in them shoes. No joke!

I needed action. Friday I called the neuro myself. I was fully prepared to dump his ass. I reported I was done with the meds, but still no better. The receptionist reported the doc was gone but that she was sure the meds hadn't been in my system long enuff. WTF? How long is long enuff? Grrrrrr. Lucky for me I didn't tell her off right then and there. Nope. I swallowed hard and thanked her for her advice about waiting 'til Monday to give the roids more time.

Then I called Jason, and I can't really remember, but I'm sure he got an ear full. During our convo I made the executive decision that come Monday all HELL was gonna break loose for somebody. I needed something done! And if he wasn't gonna be the one to do it, I'd be right back at Doc Lee's door beatin' it down for a neuro willing to treat my MS. And you know what else? One with a receptionist who doesn't act as a firewall. Good one, heh? Jason came up with that jewel!

Screw this couch trip. I needed a chair. And not just one that Jason or the boys has to push. I need an all-terrain motorized jobby. Like Coach Browning's. "They won't give you one of those," says the husband. Wellllll. The hell you say. If that's what I gotta have to see football, then that's what I gotta have. My upper arm strength is too weak for me to be expected to wheel myself. And our house has plush carpet, linoleum, tile, etc. And I'm a heavy girl . . . just sayin' . . . b A s T a R d S !!! Some body is damn sure gonna do somethin'. If this shit is gonna be permanent, whatever, but I can't spend the rest of my life on this couch. PERIOD.

Saturday. A little calmer thanks to a decent night's sleep having come to realize I needed off the couch - we set out to find a rollator walker. Probably a lofty goal the plan was to purchase said assistive device in order to accompany the kiddos to Shoe Carnival for a back to school shopping extravaganza. Still it would take me forever with a rollator, BUT for the time being it would let me get so far and sit to rest. And so on and so forth over and over again. Plus Jason found one in pink. I was sooo stoked. Strike one, two, three. You're out!

Oh well. We don't know how to bill your insurance. Closed and closed. No walker. No shoes. At least we'll get lunch. Look out, Wendy's. Here we come. What's that noise? SHIT! Flat tire. And get this . . . neither of us had our cell phones on us. Yikes! That'll never happen again. I can tell you that much. So the boys and I stay in the truck and finish our lunch as Jason changes the tire alongside the busy highway, where no one, not one in nearly an hours time stopped to help us.

As Jason was finishing up his Mom and Dad pulled over behind us. They had been headed to Evansville and saw us with our flashers flashing. And the kicker, Jason had left his phone at their house and was supposed to go get it that morning. And homeward bound again. Poor guy. I felt soooo helpless. And had it happened to just me . . ., guess I'd still be sittin' roadside.

Sunday. Calmer still. We slept in exhausted from the previous days outing. Jason worked on the lawn. And I worked on a game plan. What was it exactly that I wanted from my neurologist? What must he do in order to stay my neurologist? First, I want to walk damnit! I may have had this for 10 years now, but especially with the latest findings on a fix -- I was not ready to throw in the proverbial towel.

What then? Steroids via IV like I frickin'asked for in the first place. When I ask, I mean it. Damn! And I wanted to try LDN (low dose naltrexone). Been researching quite a bit of stuff and it sounds waaaaay better than the expensive ass shots that aren't doing a damn thing but bruising me. Just sayin'. Why suppress my immune system when clearly the problem has been proven to be venous in nature.

Wake up world! It's no coincidence I've been better overall since starting my high blood pressure meds and sleeping with my bed inclined. WAKE UP, I SAID! Damn! So my demands are roids and LDN. And should those fail I plan to crawl up his ass 'til I get a power chair 'cause I WILL NOT MISS FOOTBALL!!! Wish me luck, won't you? Alas, thanks, but I'm good -- for now.

Jason sets out early to work on this saultry Monday morning and . . . by lunch he had news. Good news. He says the receptionists were very nice and I'm all set for IV steroids at the hospital tomorrow. Well, that was easy for it not being their policy and all. And . . . my LDN has been called in and will be ready on Wednesday. No sweat. WHAT? Huh? That simple, heh? Maybe we should've went ahead and asked for the chair too? While we was on a roll, ya know?

Prayer works people! No joke. Now I sit here on the couch listening to my three men splash about the pool. And I'm not tearing up. I'm not angry. Not disappointed. 'Cause right now . . . there's hope I might join them again before summer's end.

Thank God for football! And answered prayers. Amen.

simple enuff, right?

From Dr. Sclafani himself . . . here's what I need first:

1. transverse doppler of the IJV in J1, J2 and J3 during inspiration in the supine and sitting positions. Measure color and waveform at each site in both positions. Look for reflux and looking for no flow.
2. Longitudinal doppler imaging of the vertebral veins during inspiration in supine and sitting positions looking for reflux by color and waveform
3. B-mode ultrasound to look for abnormal valves, septae, webs
4. Transcranial color doppler and waveforms to look at the deep cerebral veins for reflux
5. measure cross sectional area of jugular vein in the spot where it is largest in supine and measure same cross sectional area in the same location while sitting up. Subtract sitting csa from supine CSA.


Saturday, July 17, 2010


Stunt double for hire!!!  How's this for regular?  Two blog posts in one day.  Must be your lucky day.  As it sure as shit ain't mine.  So I just tucked the last post in via Facebook update and set off for a potty break.  Nothin' too crazy.  No boot scootin' or grapevining or whatever.  Hell, I didn't even it go it on my own, which yes, for like a nano second actually crossed my mind.  Buzzzzzzz!  Wrongo!  I cripped along via tiny baby steps.  First the right.  Stop.  Then drag the lefty along the carpet 'til it can stand to hold a little weight.  Just past the celebrated half way point.  Whamo!  Slamo!  And she's down again, sports fans!  Had she been a horse we'd have had her put down years before now.   Poor dear!
What I'd hated most of all was scaring my kiddos.  By now you'd think they'd have grown bored with it all.  And in some ways they had, but, "With the walker, MOM?"  Huh?  As I struggled to remove my heep of me from atop the crumbling apparatus I wondered what about this fall had shook 'em up any more than th growing number of others.  As I cursed the walker somehow trying to cuss it out from under me I realized this had been my first fall with a supposed assistive device in hand.  So in conclusion, falling sux.  Falling even with the assistance of an assistive device - sux worse.  And further . . . you sittin' down for this one?
Falling atop the assistive device into the basement door thus causing it to slam shut and trapping your husband downstairs whilst you writhe in pain atop your walker desperately struggling to remove yourself from your current location in order to allow your nearly panicked hubby up to the main floor to offer you some real assistance  **(BREATH)**  That, my friends, really, really sux.  And the phone starts ringing meanwhile back at the ranch.  The boys cowering at my barking orders with my face in the carpet answer it just in time to hang it up per their emerging Dad's new order.  Guess his position of standing out ranked my position of carpet colonel.  Anyways, sorry we hung up on ya Amelia.  Just bad timing.  Had you been calling in about the position of stunt double?
It only pays room and board and is hardly worth it considering what bad bruisers I know we are.  I hadn't realized how bad mine were blacked and blued until gettin all up close and personal with 'em beneath the glow of the hall light.  Nasty!  I'm so sick of this shit!  Laugh with me, won't ya?  It's all I can do.  And way better than cryin'!  So any takers on the stunt double?  You got my number right?  Don't give up if we hang up on ya.  We're prolly busy fallin' . . .


Scared?  Well, you should be.  Terrified even.  Or not.  I mean, it should be safe enuff as I didn't name it irregularity.   So offending bodily fluids aside this should be among the lighter, more family friendly posts.  Promise.  Pinky swear even, OK?
Let's even call it "E" for Everyone like the games are categorized these days.  Funny side story here:  My hubby gets the boys some new games the other night.  The check-out clerk (flirty I'm sure as they always are with him) says, "You realize these are rated MATURE?" and raises an eyebrow.  Like that would stop him.  So he gets all tickled telling me this story as if he'd been carded or something.  He clears his manly voice and says he told the clerk, "These are for me."   That's my gamer, hubby!  I love you, baby!
So no "E" then I guess with all this manly voice stuff.  How's about a Rated-G like Disney then?  Bippety, Boppety, Boo!  Nah!  Even I can't slather on enuff sugar-coating to earn that rating.   And let me tell you I can spread it thick dearies.  THICK.  Now back to the title.  Regularity vs.  irregularity.   Who am I but an English major to get so hung up on words?  I've never been one to go with the flow.  I worked so hard to go against it - before different was cool.
Anyways, my mom called me today and asked me to write.  She claimed she didn't have anything to read.  Yeh, right!  This I know to be a complete and utter falsity as I am constantly buying her Dean Koontz and Stephen King books.  What an honor to be among such authors.
So I immediately try and think of what it was I last wrote about.  I'm admittedly sick of the play by play, but even worse would be to re-hash the already pre-hashed hash.  And though I do like my fried taters burnt and my hash browns blackened I much prefer fresh writing material to any overdone.  Soooo, enuff of that tangent.  I say to my Mom, "I'm not too regular, am I?"
And alas, my latest entry has a title.  Now what to do for a subject . . .  anyone?  Ideas?  Awww, hell.  Where'd I leave ya?  On steroids, right?  Check.  Still on the little boogers.  Hate 'em!  Did any of y'all catch my Incredible Hulk analogy?  Imagine him hulking out and not being able to walk.  Sux.  Well that's kinda where I am.  And yes, it sux.
Time passed as I begrudgingly took the oral version prescribed to me since "it's no longer our policy to admit for administering of IV steroids" says the prissy little one behind the counter.  Remember that jewel?  What do they do for MSers suffering an exacerbation.  I'm not a roid fiend.  I don't call and beg for them with every little symptom. 
In fact I'm quite the opposite trying to avoid them at all costs and in any form.  And furthermore when I request that I would like to be admitted to the hospital then NEWSFLASH:  I'm prolly pretty bad off and scared to boot.  The feet have gone eerily purple.  Normal?  Loss of feeling from the knees down.  Normal?  Frozen to the touch.  Normal?  Can't tell cold water from scalding hot water in the shower.  Normal?  Loss of feeling becomes loss of motion.  Normal?
What's this?  Drop foot gets worse?  I didn't even think this was possible.  But I keep on.  I don't give up - not completely.  Not yet.  Sunday I struggle to church.  The boys had been to Bible School all week and were to perform some songs they'd learned.  And they did.  As hard as it was to make it in, I'm so glad I did.  Two days of high dose roids plus a sermon geared right at me about not giving up.  What more could a girl need?  Red Sonja, that's who!  Let me explain . . .
To celebrate my niece's performance in front of the church she was gonna come by and swim with us a bit.  Yay!  I prolly, maybe shouldn't have participated but it's hard to sit and watch the water slosh around the pool all day only to not get in it.  So when the sis and her kiddos showed up, guess who was already in the pool waiting on their arrival?  Me, me, me, me! 
I told Jason I would just try and see how things was going before they got there.  Slowly I inched up the small rickedy ladder and jokingly proclaimed, "Screw it!  I'm going in!" before flopping forward into the water.  Screw the steps to the bottom.  Screw 'em.  Those, my friends, were my exact thoughts at that exact time.  We'd figure out getting out when the time came.  Yippee!  I was goin' swimmin'!  And if hangin out in the water counts - that's just what I did.
An hour passed.  Maybe.  Maybe not even that long.  Heck, prolly not even that long.  It was me and my kiddos.  My sister and her kiddos.  And Jason.  I can only speak for myself, of course, but I had a blast however long we were in there.  I enjoyed my boys getting along.  I enjoyed her two getting braver.  Amelia, I enjoyed catching up with.  And Jason, I enjoyed Jason, well, just cause I usually always do.  But y'all know that already.
On with the story.  All swam out the youngest of the crowd are ready to get out.  Of course their momma follows.  And my youngest whose lips are beginning to turn blue.  Brrrrrrr!  So then Jason looks to me and says, "You ready?"  So was I?  Not so much, but boy am I glad I went ahead with a, "Sure thang, Baby!"  Begin the end.  Per my direction of how I forsaw the very near future going, Jason got out first.  I figured if I should find myself teetering atop the ladder I'd rather him be on the outside to catch me vs. the concrete patio.  A very wise choice indeed.  Who knew?
So here's the lament of the ladder: a not so tall tale.  Based on actual events, blah, blah, blah!Until just the previous week my right leg had been my bad one.  Not so anymore.  At least not right now.  At least not until these blasted steroids start working their magic.  Anyways, weak right foot first followed by a newly even weaker left foot.  First step, done.  Yay me!  Three to go.  Ya with me?
Second rung, same as the first.  Repeat, right?  Yes.  Right first and then left.  Barely, but done.  Third?  Third's a charm, right?!  Right up first - very shaky.  Beginning to spasm.  Damn!  Better hurry.  What's this?  Left ain't goin' no where.  Jason to the rescue.  From outside the pool Jason reaches in to grab my left leg and help lift/guide it to the next rung.  Shew!  Thankfully once there the spasming subsided in the ever weakening right leg. 
If legs could talk I imagine my right one would have been screaming at this point, "Bitch, pleeeeeaaaaaase!  You baby my gimp ass for years and now outta no where are expecting me to lug your 200lb. ass around town?  What the hell with all these steps?  Didn't we used to live in a 1-story?  Daaaaammmmnnn!  Know what?  I'm quittin' too!  This is a bunch of shit!" 
And just as I managed to swing her over to straddle the ladder and pool ---- the mouthy bitch quit me!  Jerking, thrusting, and kicking like she was having a massive seizure all her own she fell completely limp upon the ball of my right foot meeting with the top rung on the dry side of the ladder. 
And where then did that leave my useless lefty?  Flailing in the water that's where!  I wouldn't even say flailing had it not been for my upper body's protest to the whole ordeal.  My hubby grants me permission to sit on the pool wall, (Thanks, Jason!), whilst I take a rung in each hand and attempt to lift my lard ass just enuff to set my bitch right leg free of the perdicament she'd gotten herself in. 
Some how or another in all the commotion my leg had become lodged between the outside rungs of the ladder and the outside wall of the pool.  Quite a mystery how my sizely thigh (we'll politely call it) actually fit there.  And perhaps an even larger mystery was how I was able to be resting on my ass whilst my calve and the underside of my thigh were completely mashed together. 
A contortionist friends, I am not.  Or at least I thought I wasn't.  Didn't know I could cup my right ass cheek with the bottom of my right foot.  Guess what?  I could.  If my hair had been any longer I might could have braided my hair with my toes.  Seriously!  Maybe even a french braid.  Let me just add, "SHIT OUCH!!!"
Then my 6'2" husband, after threatening to call an ambulance, decides he's gonna jump in to get me out.  I'm yelling, "No!  No!  No!  No!"  And he's carrying on a discussion with my sister perched a ways away from us in the bench swing.  She'd just changed her youngest ones diapey and was by this time pretty well nice and dry. 
I try to calmly reason all this out and explain why I'd had Asa remain in the pool with me.  "Goose," I say, "Can you help push Mommy up enuff that Daddy can reach her better?"  Poor guy!  He looked damn near traumatized.  To keep myself from tearing up at this I began to mock Jason and his high jumping skills.  This was not maliciously done, but rather to get Asa and myself laughing. 
This mockery, including asking him if he'd been any good at high jumping even 15 years ago, may have even soothed Amelia some.  That or she became overly worried that the complete and utter lack of blood flow to my brain might be beginning to harm my senses.  Well harm them worse than they'd already been harmed I suppose.  Up and over she comes leaving her 1 yr. old and 4 yr. old to handle things themselves.
Bless her soul she does give instructions to watch out for them before she grabs a lawn chair and flops in muddy feet and all to the rescue.  THANK YOU GOD FOR MY LITTLE SISTER!  But who were these instructions for?  Asa was trapped like a rat in the pool with no ladder.  Jason was manning me manning the ladder.  Awww, yes.  That leaves 6 yr. old blue-lipped Abe.  He could wrangle the kiddos.  Surely.  Maybe.  Or not. 
At this point I have sort of an out of body experience . . . I look up into the sky and ask God to please keep my niece and nephew safe.  I even tell Jason in the chaos, "Watch Bubby!"  Screw me, right?  I'd be o.k, right?  Or not?  Seeing the look in Amelia's eyes now a little closer to mine than they had been pre-contortion, I may have started to worry a little.  Just a little.
Nah.  It's all good.  But now that she's in, I thought, how are her and Asa ever gonna get out?  Another mystery, I tell ya!  All the raukas and I can hear Bubby saying, "Ma ma.  Ma ma."  But it's all good 'cause I can see him and he's all calm.  He may have been the only one calm at this point.  So whilst Jason and Amelia formulated a gameplan I focused on the baby.  Has it been a week since this fiasco and I still haven't written about it?  I really must be under the weather.  Onward then . . .
So I suggest I get back in the water and rest up.  Or not?  Whether or not I actually spoke the words -- this is the plan of action that had my vote.  But alas, this was no democracy.  And who ever gave invalid's the right to vote?  So I listened intently as to my sister's and husband's plans.  Still my mind wondered.  If Asa hadn't been trapped and Amelia had not returned to the pool, welllllll, they could have all loaded up and went out for supper.  Or rode off into the sunset.  Lived happily ever after, Disney fans!  You get the picture, right?  Nope!  What's this?  They'd come to a concensus.  They were going to use brute force to heave my ass outta there.  "Come Hell or high water," I remember thinking to myself.  And silently praying niether would come!
I'm instructed I'm gonna have to help 'em.  Yeh, right?  Wasn't my just being there enuff?  Amelia braces herself as if she is readying to squat thrust a barn.  My mind rushes back to all our days of volleyball conditioning and weight training and I fight back the intense urge to strike up a conversation involving Coach Tucker.  Ha!  If only she'd have been there.  She'd have known what to do.  Hehehehe.  I made myself laugh.  In all seriousness, I was laughing at the situation though not the Coach.  Two hands on my hip.  She pushed.  I pulled.  And Jason made sure the ladder stayed on the ground.  Seems a frivolous task now that I mention it, but with all the strength my sis was using to get me outta the pool she damn near could have sent me, ladder attached, thru the 8 ft. glass doors on the opposite side of the patio.
Now just an aside about my sis.  Toe to toe I think she might could kick Red Sonja's ass.  I'm not biased, really.  Yes the same She-Ra that lifted and carried me down a blue million church steps after I'd fallen at our dear friends wedding.  Sorry, Shelley!  But did the matron of honor break a sweat in her lovely gown?  Of course not!  Did she steal the show in all the pics after the ceremony?  Of course so!  She's an Orth too, ya know!  Tuff as nails . . . I'm so blessed to have her.  LOVE YA!
OK, enuff's enuff.  Back to the pool pest removal.  Once high enuff Jason leaned over and attempted to scoop me up.  Attempt failed.  The ladder was refusing to relinquish it's embrace.  Amelia to the rescue again, this time as the handy dandy ladder pryer offer.  Ha!  I should have t-shirts made.  Finally I was no longer a damsel in distress but only a damsel resting in the arms of her prince.  Resting, that is, if resting is shivering cold with one leg dead and the other beginning to jerk with throngs of sharp pain jolting about.  Awww, yes.  Resting.
Both my arms, though they'd grown weak and heavy with all the excitement were clutching Jason's neck.  My rear rested atop his chest, with both legs dangling over his vey upper right arm - almost nearly shoulder blade.  Awkward I'm sure as he turned to maneuvar the landscaping and attempt to delicately reunite me with the earth.  At this delicate transition point I can't help but think the ladder perch had not been nearly as high off the ground as the man perch I had now found myself on.  Picky, bitch, aren't I?  Not so much really.  More of a scared bitch than anything.
Once on solid level concrete patio he leans forward to place me down.  More trouble.  Can you believe it?  My arms fail to unlock the death grip 'round his neck.  Laughable, right?  We're in love.  Rent a room.  Right?  And my danglers?  Won't straighten.  Spaghetti, I tell ya.  Worthless.  Soon I find myself balancing on the jigglers and reaching out for . . . can you guess it?  The blasted ladder to steady myself whilst Jason scurries for a chair.  Enter chair.  Enter ass.  And scene.  The end.
Well, at least the end of that fiasco.  Then we get in.  Dry off.  Have some icecream.  Celebrate the church program.  Celebrate my freedom from the pool.  And as our guests depart I qwander how the hell I'm ever gonna make it up to my precious bed.  And fast forward thru the week.  Worsening.  Swelling.  Throbbing to pain.  Have I mentioned steroids suck?  Why aren't they working?  Please God.  Help them to do their job!  Amen.
Monday.  Sore day of recovery.  Tuesday we keep my friend Wendy's son for the day.  I say we, but truly as I sat on the couch the three guys entertained themselves. Thank you 3 Amigos!  And Wednesday, thank you, God!  I may actually be comin' out of this funk.  Too soon to brag though, right?  And two steps forward - one step waaaaay back.  Thursday morning.  Trash day, yay!  Jason let's me sleep in, just incase we get Wendy's little man back today.  Great.  The boys get up.  I don't.  The boys go downstairs.  I don't.  The boys return upstairs whining, "Mom.  You haven't moved."  And wellllll, I couldn't.
Enter my super mature, super caring, super sensitive, super kind 9 year old, might as well be thirty something, kiddo.  Asa to the rescue!  He calmly calls his daddy to report the news of the day and assure his dad he had it all under control 'til he could get home.  Such the big man, my Goose!  He then helps his little bro get dressed and ready for the day all whilst staying near me should I need anything.   And for more on my Thursday . . . close your eyes and enjoy hours of complete silence.
The boys went off to Granny and Pawpaw's for the day and after a horrifically difficult trip to the potty I chugged a couple (or more) Advil and was out.  2:30 or 3 ish Jason returned to check on me.  And again immovable 'til 6 or 7 ish when the entire fam returned with supper.  And not of the store bought variety mind you.  Granny lavished us with delicious roast, taters and carrots and homemade mac and cheese.  Dang it was good.  Got any more leftovers?
Thankfully I felt better Friday.  And what's this?  My ankle!  I knew I'd left it somewhere.  Up we go and down them stairs.  Is this a comeback I'm making?  One can only hope.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

4 and counting . . .

Fret not followers, tonite I shall spare you my rants.  As a reward for your still following me I will give you a link for your viewing pleasure.  Alas, it is not of what I'd hoped it to be but it will have to do for now.  SNL's dynamic steroidal duo of Hanz and Franz, remember?  Dana Carvey and Kevin Nealon?   Sadly, welllll, they were no where to be found in their original pumped glory.  I scavaged the net but turned up only parodies of parodies.  All of them tragedies.  Any who - keeping to my steroid theme, please enjoy the following:
I'm feelin' it.  Grrrrrrrrr!  You feelin' it?  You wanna get in line to have your ass kicked?

Friday, July 9, 2010


**clears throat**  Gimme a beat DJ Jazzy Jeff . . .  "OK.  Here's the situation.  My parents went away on a weeks vacation.  And they left the keys to the brand new Porsche.  Will they mind?  MMmmm.  Wellll, of course not!"  Ha!  I only wish that was my situation.   How 'bout another Fresh Prince blast from the past?  "Summertime."  Anyone?  Anyone?
Allright, already!  Enuff with the music.  Enuff with the movies.  And analogies, be damned.  Be warned, as today, I'm sick of all the sugar coating.  MS sux!  So although I'm stuck on my couch - a blue mile away from the nearest shitter - I'm off on a good old-fashined bitch session. 
Won't you join me?  "Won't you be?  Please won't you be?  Won't you be my neighbor?"  Anyone?  C'mon.  I know I swore off songs, but I just can't help myself sometimes.  I promise though, dear readers, get thru this entry with me and they'll be no singing required.  Pinky swear. 
And while we're on the subject of swearing - you can call this a fore-warning.  I cuss.  Don't even pretend you didn't know.  And I'm real bad about it when I'm mad.  I've said many times before - I am an Orth.  So consider your tender sinless eyes blessed I'm using anything but explitives at this point.  Hit the Escape key if you can't hack it.  Forgive me Jesus!  Please!  And give me strength to get thru this . . . AMEN!
LAST CHANCE to back out people.  I ain't kiddin'!  Here it goes:  Steroids are the devil!  My Aunt June agrees with me.  Ever had 'em?  If not, avoid the chalky little bastards at all costs.  I gotta kick awful sick before I even consider 'em.  And even then they're hard to swallow.  I've always had trouble taking pills. 
I forced down nasty liquids years beyond when I should have been enjoying meds pill form.  Remember that pink stuff?  Grainy sludge would stick in my teeth like sand.  And that thick banana flavored mess - I'll spare you the graphic details on this bad boy.  Skip to my Momma.  A mastermind, I tell ya, she used to stick pills in grilled cheese sandwiches and my all-time favorite 3-Musketeer bars.  Genius. 
Other tricks up her sleeve were having us hold our noses.  She'd say, "If you can't smell it you can't taste it."  Wellllll, don't know as if I agree with this one, Mom, but you get an 'A' for effort.  Then there was the crushing of the pills.  Did we mix that with other meds liquid form or Mt. Dew, our drink of choice at the time?  I forget.  Prolly best that way.  And did you used to blow in our faces?  Somewhere or another along the way I picked up that little jewel.  And, at least on my two yay-whos it works! 
Only Mom and God knows what else she'd hidden meds in.  You know what, Mom?  Let's keep it that way 'cause I need to try and keep these steroids down.  To this day I check my grilled cheese out.  Anyways, thank you!  Thank you for your creativity and patience.  You poor, poor dear.  Has there ever been a time in your life you haven't been caring for someone sickly?  I hate that for you.  And I hate that I was such a big contributor. 
I pray you take all you know from caring for me and Dad and start taking better care of yourself.  Although we are both of us somewhat stranded in our own little worlds -- I still need my Mommy!  Somedays more than others, but always, always - everyday!  I love you!  Now, enuff of this sappy shit!  Back to the bitchin' . . .
StErOiDs!  So I'm in the bog, right LABYRINTH fans?  Well, I am.  For the cinema lacking of you out there I'm pretty frickin' miserable right now.  So no!  I ain't wearin' no cardigan sweater.  Ever!  So no matter how many times I recite the opening theme to 'Mr. Rodger's Neighborhood' do not under any circumstances agree to be my neighbor.  I'm way too near the depths of Hell to sport a cardigan.  Really?!  Bare with me whilst I try and explain.
So we all know about the failed LIBERATION, right?  I was down after that but quickly lifted as I enjoyed improvements.  Yep, improvements even that others besides me and Jason noticed.  And my fave Doc from the block contacted me personally via email assuring me I was still on his list and that he remained quite confident upon his testing me he'd find stenosis.  He told me he worried many 1st time docs would come up empty handed.  And that he hoped it wouldn't discourage the brave patients involved.  Alas, Dr. S, I'm still waitin' on ya Baby!
In the mean time a not-for-profit clinic opens it's doors in Atlanta.  A 6 hour drive from here.  Way closer than NY, San Diego, or ummmm, Poland, Bulgaria, India, etc.  And a real bonus was no doctor referral needed.  Yippee!  Only $550 for a doppler using the Zamboni protocol.  Alas, something to tide me over whilst I wait Dr. S's return.  No harm in being out $500.  And this way I could know with a little more confidence that a costly trip abroad wouldn't be a total waste.  A win-win, I'd thought.
Enter the skeptics.  They warn of this place not being able to produce a not-for-profit tax exemption blah, blah, blah.  And no medical facility licensing?  Hmmm . . .  It's at this point I begin thinking of walking into some lean-to shanty.  I struggle to climb into a greasy old barber's chair.  It used to be a glossy kitchen green.  Now tattered and torn with bright oranged foam portruding from it, it glowed a more morbid tinge than one could allow themselves to rest upon. 
The lighting - dim.  And flickering.  How would they ever find a vein?  Untrained, would they even be able to in a well-lit, stringently sanitized atmosphere?  My very healthy imagination does me more harm than good sometimes, ya know?  So remember the toothless Fares Avenue car salesman I once wrote of?  No?  Well ok then enjoy this fresh exacerbated rendition:
Imagine this 50 something balding dude, right?  Over weight, but not to the point of it slowing his slithering gait.  As a matter of fact, he wears a girdle to mask the gain.  You can see every last little stave and seem of it beneath his light brown polyester pants.  Pants, I might add that are thinning from wear and about two sizes too small.  The lining from the pockets bulge from either hip. 
And although both pant legs are short enough to go wading high and dry, one is blatantly longer than the other.  One offers a glimpse of his hairless pearly white leg, sans sock.  The other, with a frayed hem, thankfully reaches his elasticless khaki sock.  And the scuffed penny-loafers he'd squeezed into, wellll, they had seen better days and were in fact missing their pennies.
Let's travel north of the tarnished gold Chevy emblem belt buckle, shall we?  His short sleeved button up dress shirt, besides the wrinkles and pit stains hadn't actually been all that sleazy.  Sure the collar could have used some straightening.  And sure he had completed his look a button, maybe two, off.  But, anything fighting to cover the greasy twirled forest beneath - welll, kudos to that shirt, I say.  The locks of chest once raven were now graying.  And not a lavish, distinguished silver but a dirty yellowed metal.  Still with me?
Whatever color consensus we would eventually force ourselves to come to in order to just stop gazing at thiks poor soul,  one thing is for sure.  His chest hair in no way shape or form even favored the thinning coal black fringe on top.  Underneath the two to three long flowing sprigs of black lay his bright red, freckled, sweaty scalp, a rogue white hair scattered here and there.  His mishapen ears sported more hair than his head.  Poor cuss.
Hairless, toothless face.  Huge brown, yellowed bug eyes.  The right staring deep into me whilst the others hops and fidgets about elsewhere, possibly tracking the hairy spider setting up shop in the corner.  Perhaps he'd been jealous of that blood hungry arachnid.  After all, he did have more hair.  And way less grease.  Have I painted a scary enuff picture yet?  Hope so, cause I'm growing bored of it.  And I'm nearing tears for this poor sad completely fictional character.
Anyways, he fumbles thru a drawer to pull out an eye patch.  Huh?  His hands shaking worse than mine he struggles to get the patch in place over his wondering eye.  At this, I sighed with relief.  Maybe this would be all right.  Maybe he'd be all business.  Just to be sure, wellll, I still found my self tensing in that chair.  With that I began praying.  There was no time more than right now that I'd needed things to be not quite like they seemed.
Back to the drawer he dove.  This time shoulder deep with both arms.  It seemed he wrestled with something in there for hours.  Tension grew to despair.  Despair to stone-cold fear.  I found myself unable to swallow, when alas he arose from his perch with the contents of the dungeon drawer he'd fought so gallantly to obtain.  A doppler ultrasound wand?  No?  With old mis-matched gardening gloves on each hand he presented as if for my approval - a tatoo gun!
And although both apparent antique gun and gloves had been festively colored with earth and blood . . . I sighed in relief.  No medical license needed.  $500 was way more than I'd paid for my first tatoo, but what the heck?  I'd come all this way.  "Make it a butterfly, Mister," I'd said.  And with a sly smile he replied, "Turquoise one be ok?"  Damn.  I know, right?  Vivid imagination I got there.  Maybe I oughtta write a book.  Somethin' with car salesmans, tatoo parlors and Oompa Loompas on the run from Freddy Krueger.  Book, hell?!  That's got the guts of a straight to DVD release.  Any renters?  Anyone?  No?  Me either.  No worries.
So back to my situation.  My bitch fest.  Remember?  Anyways, Atlanta frowned upon, I had in fact decided to go ahead and give 'er a try.  Worst case scenario, I'd come home with a new tat.  Now that wouldn't be so bad, would it?  Seriously though, before being out over $15,000 or more dollars elsewhere I thought spending $500 to see rather or not my blood flow was jacked up would be worth every penny.  So what if the guy was using the pennies to fill his loafers!
And we hadn't had a vacation in a while besides tagging along with Jason to Indy, so we thought we could drag the kiddos with us and find something wheel chair accessible to do.  The aqarium perhaps?  Heck, a hotel with a pool usually does the trick all by itself.  'Despicable Me' is coming out soon.  Maybe we could hold off long enuff on it to see it down south.  Perhaps do some geo-caching on the way.  Who knows?  The sky was the limit.
Or not.  Perhaps I was the limit.  Ha!  What had made me think any other way?  I had single-handedly been the limit for quite some time now.  Sux.  Sux.  Sux.  We'd like to do this or go here or . . . whatever . . . BUT how?  My favorite children's book of all time comes to mind here.  Read to me soooo much it literally disintegrated in to a dusty oblivion before puberty even.  Then comes marriage and guess who's preggers?  Jason goes on a world wide hunt for my fave book so I can read it to my baby.  What a jewel, that Jason!
With my Mom's help via reciting of the text from memory and the use of the long arm of the world-wide web, he found it.  Hello, Mr. Fed-Ex man!  And the rest as they say is history.  It begins, "How do we get to the zoo?  They've invited us all and you too.  It's the zookeeper's party.  We mustn't be tardy.  But how can we get to the zoo?"  (Also recited from memory.)
Anyways, my being very limiting made me think of that precious book.  The entire story the kiddos are trying to find the best most suitable, accomodating way to get themselves and their pets to the zoo in time.  Any time we set out for somewhere we must talk logistics.  The devil's in the details I tell ya.  Will she need a cane?  A chair?  Will she be able to make it inside even if dropped at the door?  Are the bathrooms nearby?  Etc.  etc.  and so on . . .
So where was I?  Excited about Atlanta.  Well, so much for that.  My worsening symptoms had something else to say about my becoming a Georgia Peach.  Those sleeping bastards had awoke with a vengeance.  Grrrrr!  My once frosty limbs had gone frigid.  Blocks of ice, I tell ya.  It's a wonder they don't fail beneath the 200 lbs. I hoist upon them.  I envision myself standing from my knees up feasting on a cherry sno-cone I made with the crushed ice that once were my calves, ankles and sexy little nubbin toes.  They'd be delicious I tell ya!  Wanna taste?
Stomachs churning yet?  Mine is.  Damn steroids.  I'm queasy yet starving.  Not a very pleasing combo.  And my once zit ridden face with only six of my 'fix-it' pills gone is already beginning to redden.  With color yeh, and chubby cheeks and yes more zits ladies and gents.  I was blessed thru out puberty with a clear, fair complexion, but boy am I ever payin' for it now.  Geesh!  Where'd I stash the zit cream?
So from the knees down I present colder and colder.  Bizarro, heh?  Nurse friends out there:  Is that neurological in origin?  Must be right?  'Cause I got MS and all.  So with the new drop foot on the left . . . yep, you guessed it . . . another cinematic sensation comes to mind.  You may not know this but I'm a sucker for inspirational sports movies.  And ever since this contrary toe pointing phenomenon reared its ugly head (or should I say toe?) I've had this particular line from this particular flick resonate within me.
"TOE PICK!  Toe pick!  tOe PiCk!"  Any guesses movie-goers?  Cinema buffs?  Anyone?  Amelia?   It was 1992's "The Cutting Edge" starring D.B. Sweeney and Moira Kelly.  Loved it!  Notice I get side tracked easy?  Me too.  The first step in overcoming it is admitting there's a problem.  Huh?  I know.  I know.  There I go again.  So back to "the King of the Rink and America's Ice Queen" not to be confused with the even more beloved Ice Queen of Narnia.  Anyways, poor Sweeney's character struggles with his skates "toe pick" causing innumerable fall scenes.  Much like you'd find if visiting my house these days.
So, boys and girls, I'm a hot mess.  And things is gettin' hotter.  I tried to take it easy post 4th of July celebrations.  I prayed I'd snap out of it.  Snap back.  Snap - at all.  I desperately scoured for even the teensy tiniest of improvements.  "Not now," I begged.  "Pleeeaaaase not now!"  It's such shitty timing for an exacerbation.  I've not only went against my doctors as of late and even turned braggart touting improvements - I'd set my appointment for Atlanta.  July 22.  Surely I could make it 'til then.  Surely.
Surely not.  Wednesday of this week I found myself nearly immovable.  I'd made it to the couch but when the time called for assisting the kiddos with this or that, or even venturing to the potty.  Welllll, I'll spare you the details.  After Jason made it home for lunch and assisted yours truly (again, I'll spare you the faint at heart readers) I decided to remain couch bound.  To hell with the kitchen, the bathroom, or beyond -- all of them highly ovverated destinations I tell ya.
"Can we swim, Mommy?  Mommy?  Mommy, can we swim?" was the afternoon's mantra.  Well, they could have, but God forbid something go awry and I be unable to intervene.  Talk about unforgivable.  I call in to my Momma.  She too worries she'd be unable to help them.  And Amelia?  She was elbow deep in diapers and eyeball deep in babysitting duties as it was.  She offers to help all the time, but my two on top of her paying customers may drive her straight to Coocoo Cove.  Ever been there?  It's not far.  And they only serve cocoa puffs. 
So we give the other Granny and Pawpaw a try.  Duh, duh, duuuhhh!  Pawpaw to the rescue!  Thank you dear sir!  Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you.  And thank you Granny for lending him to us.  He came.  He saw.  He stayed about 30 minutes.  And that was all she wrote.  Pool visits usually average that.  I knew it wouldn't be a two hour ordeal as Granny had feared.  Again, thanks!  And again, I'm sorry to always be asking so much of everyone.  There's a light at the end of this dark, dank tunnel.  There just has to be!  God says.  So there!
So the miraculous feat of my reaching the top of the stairs was celebrated that evening with talk of blasted steroids.  I suffered sooo, with them the last time that I had sworn them off completely.  Well, so much for that whilst staring complete immobility in the face.  So much so I could smell his rancid breath.  Horrific, I tell ya.  Toe curling even.  No, wait!  I can't get my newly bluish, purpling digits to curl or twitch or nothin' damnit!  Dead!
So taking pity on me we decide to give me a day of real true rest and see if some sort of tinge of an improvement can't be drudged up.  Awake at 7:30 and the boys are off to Granny and Pawpaw's for the day.  Again, thank you!  You truly must be the best in-laws anyone could ask for.  I'm so blessed to have you.  So thanks to a gracious Mary and Kenny I spend my Thursday in bed.  I blog.  I farm.  I catch up on 'Hell's Kitchen' and 'Persons Unknown' among other various boob tube addictions of mine. 
Anyways, I stay in bed.  Up only occasionally for potty breaks.  Awfully long drawn out trips to and fro with said shitter only being located maybe 4 or 5 feet from my bed.  I'm not bitching about this endeavor however as I can proudly boast all parties involved stayed clean and dry.  Yay, me!  An Ms victory!  Only wish I had the energy to celebrate. 
No such luck as I knew I needed to save up for the next bathroom visit.  With each venture out of the bed it took longer and longer to reach my goal destination.  Alah, zee SHIT tar!  Remember.  Stay with me now.  Getting there in time was not the problem.  At least not Thursday.  Where the problem came in this dreary day was with my returning to bed unscathed.  Had I been having to fight thru rabbid alligators seething angry from their 2nd story bedroom moat?  No.  Of course not.  How absurd.  We hadn't had a chance to have that installed yet.  Damn contractors and their unimaginative BS.  Again, I digress?! 
To put it quite simply with each return to my inviting king-sized pillow-top mattress I found it more and more difficult to, ummmm, mount up let's call it.  My varsity basketball program read 5'10".  I entered modeling school at 5'9 1/2".  Truth be told, I'm prolly only 5'8" or shorter now thanks to a not so nice Mr. Gravity.  My point?  My point is I've always been considered fairly tall.  By far the tallest in kindergarten classmates began gaining on me in Jr. High.  Whatever! 
Fine.  5'8" then, but get this.  I had a horse.  Dusty was his name.  Beautiful leopard gelding standing at 16.2 hands.  That my equine challenged friends is one tall animal.  Guess what long legged trollip could saddle, mount and ride him, no problem?  Yeh, me.  Of course me!  Smoothest going horse I've ever had the privilege of riding.  Sure do miss that 'elephant.'  He favored more of a giraffe, but who am I to judge.  Trophy after trophy can't be wrong!  Right?
So, yes, the bed is fixed at an incline.  Not long after my Dad passed away I looked at Jason and said, "You know, I used to sleep so good taking naps in Dad's bed.  Wonder if it'd help to jack ours up to?"  Ask and ye shall receive.  And so shall it be.  Time passes and we find ourselves adding more blocks.  We're both breathing better.  Resting better.  You oughtta give it a try.  Start small of course as we don't want the bed to lose ya. 
Oh, no!  Another movie just came to mind.  Amelia, ya with me?  "Blind Date!"  Bruce Willis.  Kim Basinger.  John Larrochette from 'Night Court,' remember him?  Aside, of course from all of the late great Richard Pryor's movies, "Blind Date" may well be one of the funniest movies of all time.  Put it in your Netflix queue!  I won't tell you again!  So anyways the hungover, broken bed, silk sheets scene comes to mind here.  See it, damnit!  You haven't lived until you do.
Another worth queing up is Dudley Moore's best comedic performance ever.  Not "Arthur" you bunch of lushes.  It's easy to play drunk, drunk.  Besides I'm not a huge fan of Dorothy's daughter Lizza.  Except maybe her bit part in 'Arrested Development.'  A shame that's off the air.  Network bastards!  Any who, the comedy I speak of is titled, "Micki & Maude."  Hilarious!  But again with the digression.  Not to be confused with aggression.  Yet!
Let's let them steroids kick in, shall we?  So back to bed, right?  That was becoming a problem.  Each time I returned to bed it became more and more daunting a task to get back atop the sheets.  I'd given up climbing in via my usual route.  I'd adjusted my approach beginning much more near the foot of the bed than seemed natural. 
Fine, you got me.  One time I did come from the foot.  Stupid though realizing all too soon I'd now have a mountain to brave before reaching my pillow.  When it rains, it pours I tell ya!  What a purrrrdicament.  "Get the hell outta my way, Cat!  Don't make me sick my pitbull on ya!"  And scene . . .  That's quite enuff of that miserable tale.  (equally as miserable pun intended!)
Suffice it to say, I begrudgingly agreed to the steroids.  I knew they'd cause me pain.  Possibly excruciating.  I knew I'd gain all the weight back I worked so hard to lose.  "Hello again Club 200.  I haven't been away too long.  Will I have to renew my membership?"  Zits a sure thing.  Hunger for sure.  Bad taste in mouth.  Figuratively and literally.  And now comes the sarcasm:  wait for it.  Wait for it.  YIIIPPPPPEEEEE!!! 
Guess Atlanta would be a no go for launch now.  Bummer.  I'd so wanted to get out and 'blow the stink off' as the saying goes.  And even having someone claiming to be versed in anything Zamboni to take a look see at my blood flow, wellll, that would've been sweet!  So what if they didn't 'know their ass from a hole in the ground' as the other saying goes.  At least their lying to me about some astoundingly positive CCSVI results would have helped catapult me on to parts unkown.  Bulgaria, more than likely.  I dunno. 
Out all that money then I could hunt down these lying Georgia blow-hards and exact my revenge.  All whilst in a wheel chair with little to know upper arm strength.  Yay, me!  I had sooo much to look forward to in that dark scenario.  Now, well, I have even less to dream about.  Yummy, yummy.  Steroids in my tummy.  They'd surely skew my test results should they indeed be truly legit in the first place.  Perhaps, this calls for a re-scheduling.  Optimistic, much?!  I know, right?
Next up, Friday.  All roided up I opt to keep the kiddos.  Positioned on the couch (the end nearest the powder room) with lap top in lap and Coke in hand, I kiss the hubby bye!  "Love you, Baby!  We'll be ok," I call to him as he exits.  Famous last words, I tell ya.  Or should I say infamous?  Hadn't realized it at the time, but I had just all but sealed my catastrophe warrant.  Once one of the brightest crayons in the box, MS was beginning to dull my vibrance.  Saddistic Shit!  But name calling doesn't do anyone any good.  Well I do enjoy coming up with them sometimes, but . . . moving on!
My maiden voyage to the far away lands of anywhere off the couch, wellll, I can honestly report.  It was quite a trip!  Ha!  Get it?  Well, I sure did.  Carpet ravaged knees and bent up toes and all.  "And a good morning to you living room floor!"  Gooch not far behind me to check on me and inquire as to whether or not he could be of any assistance, my two yay-whos, flesh of my own womb - they were quite a different story remaining completely unmoved. 
True devoted, wholly invested gamers.  Just like their Daddy.  What had I expected?  Nothing.  My falling had become old hat to them.  And just a sidenote:  (a bit of bragging included) I pride myself on falling gracefully.  It's possible I preferred to crawl.  Not likely, but possibly, sure.  We'll skip from here to my yelling at the kiddos to bring me the phone.  Enter my night in shining armor, again.  And fast forward to my reunion with the couch.  I love reunions.  Especially ones with comfy furniture.
So the afternoon begins.  And so does this blog entry whilst humming me some DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince.  And what's this?  News back from my neuro already?  News back regarding my 11 AM request to go to the hospital.  It's not often one actually requests to be admitted.  Please understand faithful followers, that my worsening was even beginning to worsen.  This bout with the dreaded MonSter may well be worth getting the show on the road.  i.e. how about a mega offensive maneuver via some stellar potent intravenous steroid action.  But I'm no doctor.  If I were, I'd done be LIBERATED y'all.  And you would too.  C'mon over!  Git 'er done!
So here's the juice (yes, of course, pun was absolutely again very much intended!) . . .  The neuro's receptionist informs my husband it's no longer policy to admit patients for steroid treatment.  Hide your eyes now whilst I abbreviate my initial reaction.  WTF?  You've got to be kidding me, right?  Riddle me this dear receptionist - do you no longer treat patients suffering from MS?  Allow me a little rambling, won't you?  I think I've earned it.
DJ Jazzy?  You still there?  **clears throat**  "Just checkin' on ya Jazz.  Thanks!  No beat needed, man!"  I'd only hoped to set a sarcastic tone.  And quite bluntly put, if I have attained it yet.  To hell with it.  Here it goes, Ms. Receptionist.  This is for you dear:  MS.  ** clears throat again**  It stands for Multiple Sclerosis.  Ever heard of it?  It's one sneaky, cruel bastard.  It's debilitating.  Crippling.  Well, you know.  Right?  Right. 
Surely she does.  I must think she does.  She's worked at that particular neuro's office every bit as long as I've been his patient.  And that my friends has been every bit as long as needed to pick up on the no doubt sorry saps hobbling thru the doors.  I know 'cause I've see 'em.  I don't even have to make this shit up.  These are cold hard facts.  No ellaborations here.  No grease added.  
Truly, even if it'd been Helen Keller manning the desk all alone, she'd have known the dear ole doc was treating a miserable bunch.   Hehehe.  I inadvertently made a funny.  Can you tell which word does not belong.  Hehehehe.  Now I've even made myself laugh out loud.  A comedianne, I tell ya.  Blossoming right before your very eyes.  Guess it yet?  It's TREATING.  Ha!  The doc actually TREATING his MS stricken patients.  Now that's a hoot!  Can I get an Amen?  Now go in and take that bitch out with a scalpel.  Yeh!  Now that's treatment!
So wow!  What a revelation that little exchange had been.  I only wish I had been on top of my game.  Now that I've had time to let it absorb and fester . . . I so badly want to retort, "WOW!  THAT'S GREAT NEWS.  I'M SO GLAD YOU FINALLY CAUGHT ON THAT STEROIDS AREN'T THE ANSWER!"  I'll need a breath here to maintain my composure.  And then before the dear girl threatens to break the silence . . .
Sooooo, how ya think that would have been received?  A hang up?  Sure.  Refusal to treat.  Prolly.  Restraining order even?  Hell, yeh!  Why not?  Bring it on.  I'm up for it.  As long as it doesn't require any walking.  Ha!  I joke, 'cause I can.  I mean, what the hell else can I do at this point?  Really?!  
Is it bed time yet?  Should be, but guess what?  My steroid riddled body ain't tired.  No sir!  Just my eyes are weary.  Poor baby blues.  Will she or won't she make it upstairs, folks?  Place your bets, folks!  I'm bettin' on yes.  Crawl, claw or saddle up my trusty pit bull steed and ride -- my ass is elevated king-sized pillow top bed bound.  It's so comfy and location is everything, these days, only four feet from the thrown.
What more could a girl ask for?  Welllll, besides the death of a MonSter!?  Night all!  Sweet dreams!  I pray my steroid fueled soap box sermon did not offend . . . welllll, too much anyways!

Thursday, July 8, 2010

3 in a row?

Can I make it? 3 entries 3 days in a row? Surely not. Surely, dear readers, you must be dreaming. No? Stuck in a nightmare then maybe? A nightmare on, ummmm, I dunno, . . . Elm Street perhaps? 'Ol Freddy Krueger could get me now with no problem. Creepy bastard! They just don't make scary movies like they used to.

WARNING: Sick of my MS at this point in time. Sicker even than usual, if that's even possible . . . the following entry will contain little to nothing at all pertaining to my disability. And even less than that about my journey towards LIBERATION. Which by the way did you hear we're all supposed to stop referring to it as that? I'm sickening of this Underground Railroad bullshit, I tell ya! SICK! But I digress. Back to the movies, shall we?

So they just don't make 'em like they used to. And, you know what? That's not such a bad thing. As a matter of fact, that having been said, I'll spare you from the originally planned path this entry was bound for. I'll spare you a vivid recount of the nightmares I had as a kiddo. Of Freddy himself chasing me thru my own house. Sicko never got me. And he's only in my dreams afterall so I can make of them whatever I want. So there, Fred! Take that!

I can go all G.I. Jane on ya. Or Hannibal the cannibal. Or maybe go slo-mo Matrix. How 'bout I sick an army of Oompa Loompas on ya? Clearly I need to add some more movies to my repetoire. Perhaps that's what I'll do next. Right after I magically pop some popcorn from upstairs in my bed. Magically I say because at the present time I'm stranded. Ewww! Ewww! Ewww! This little situation calls for a song . . . *clears throat*

Sung in the key of "J" for John Travolta. *clears throat again* "Stranded at the drive-in. Branded a fool. What will they say? Monday at school . . ." Wanna join me? Anyone? Want me to zip it? Yeh? Well, you don't gotta be so rude about it. GREASE is the word! And a hickie from Kinicky's like a Hallmark card! Another of my favorites if you hadn't already guessed. "Elvis, Elvis, let me be!" I wanted to be Rizzo someday. On stage or in life, didn't matter.

Perhaps the only girl I'd wanted to be even more was Ariel. And no, not the cartoon mermaid! The uber hot one from 'Footloose.' What a bad ass. Red boots! And Ren McCormack! What more could a girl ask for? With Sarah Jessica Parker as a best friend, how could she ever go wrong? No doubt I would have worn a shorter dress to the dance, but I'll forgive her that one transgression.

I wish they wouldn't waste their time with a re-make on this one, but instead a part two. Yeh, that's the ticket! Mr. and Mrs. McCormack. Now living it up in the suburbs of southern Indiana. Kevin Bacon will reprise his role as Ren, of course. And yours truly will play Ariel. She's still got her boots 'Footloose' fans - only trouble is she's put on some weight and can't walk in them. Poor thing went and got MS. Can she dance from her wheelchair?

No? Not exactly a blockbuster I guess. Mr. Bacon can only sell so many tickets on his own. Anyways . . . what else could I star in? Any guesses? Amelia? You may be the only person in the world that knows where I'm going with this. *clears throat, yet again* and belts out at the top of her lungs, "Eeeeeeeaaaasy Street! Eeeaasy Street!" Anybody? Still with me?

'Annie' people! No, I didn't wanna be an orphan. Especially a pretencious little red-headed one with freckles. Geesh! I wanted to play Ms. Hannigan. Still do if the chance should ever present itself. I could play a bumbling drunk now better than ever. Right? Ha! No alcohol required. As scattered as my memory gets, I still to this day know every word to every song the brilliant Ms. Carol Burnett sang in that movie. "Little girls. Little girls. Everywhere I turn, I can see them."

And Oliver Warbucks. Hmmm. OK. I admit it. I had a thing for bald men even back then. Ha! Jason says, "Thank you, Daddy Warbucks!" My favorite song in the entire show is the duet between Hannigan and Warbucks. I think it's called, "Sign!" She croons, "Ya wanna smoochie, my little poochy?" whilst he threatens "Pen a tench ah ree!" She retorts, "JAIL?" Brilliance I tell ya! Brilliance!

If losing the part to my friend Tina who can sing rings around me with a severe case of bronchitis, strep, mono and a toothache all whilst chewing gum and blowing bubbles, well, suffice it to say I had a plan B. B that is for Bernadette Peters. I wouldn't have minded playing Tim Curry's floozy girlfriend.

As far as that goes being cast as Grace Ferrall wouldn't have broken my heart too much none either. Besides the fact she gets the baldy in the end I do love her, "let's go to the movies" bit. The bench scooting across the floor and all. She wasn't too bad a looker herself. No Bernadette, but who is? I remember finding her stunning in the yard when Warbucks compliments her hair, "Wear it down! I like it down!"

What next? Should we go full circle back to Horror flicks? I can't hardly stand to watch 'em these days. Too real. Strangers? Vacancy? House of 1,000 Corpses? No make believe unkillable monster types here. Just your average everyday ordinary freaks of nature that quite possibly truly do exist somewhere. Now, that's what's really scary. Wrong Turn? I know, right? Always know where you're going. Always! No short cuts. Beware of back roads.

Let's change genres shall we? Hate to cause any nightmares. What haven't we covered? Comedy? Too raunchy. Adult films? Refer to answer for comedy. Sci-Fi then? Drama? No! And for good reason. I got enuff of that in my own life. Thanks, but no thanks. So what was my point? Didn't have one. A theme? Not so much. Then why write? "Why waste our time?" asks my dear, devoted readers.

Welllll, I dunno. I'm stranded, remember? With nothin' but time and my laptop. **clears throat one last time this entry** "Stranded at the drive-in . . ." Awwww. Forget it! I wish I was at the drive-in. I'm over it. Guess I'm headin' back to Farmville. Later y'all!

Wednesday, July 7, 2010


LABYRINTH - An 80s classic starring David Bowie. One of my all-time favorite movies. The movie's lead, played by a then up and coming, Jennifer Connelly used to do nothing but annoy me, but although Sarah whines, "It isn't fair!" about a zillion times throughout the nearly 102 minute film, wellllll, . . . I am beginning to relate.

As I continue to worsen I become less and less sure as to which path to take to LIBERATION. "Left or right?" she wonders. And that blasted worm! That little bugger! "Wanna come in? Meet the Misses?" he inquires. Ha! To this I wanna reply, "First you come inside and meet the MS!" With that he'd surely tilt his head to the side as does Gooch when anything is asked of him. Then before he can respond, I introduce the bugger to the bottom of my boot! SQUASH!

What's that? No, I couldn't. First, it's quite simply logistically impossible. There's no way I could lift my leg as high as would be needed for just such an introduction. And second, that adorable little accent having Jim Henson creation is much too adorable to wear upon the soles my Pumas. I love him to pieces, and besides, one of the movie's most memorable lines comes from him. I remember it well. Shaking his little bug-eyed worm head in disgust he looks to the camera and proclaims, "If she'd have kept going that way, it would have taken her straight to the castle!" YIKES!

So me and Connelly's character have quite a bit in common. No, I don't sport beautiful raven locks. No, I don't run thru the rain with my pup . . . though I prolly would if I could --- barefoot and all! What I mean is . . . , wellllll, . . . I too wanna be left alone in my bedroom. I want all my stuffed animals just to myself. I want my lipstick to make myself pretty. Where the hell is the damn rewind button?

Please don't get me wrong!!! I don't wanna change anything. I wanna keep my boys and my husband. Even my pitbull. But I wanna go back to how I was back home. How I felt in Jr. High. Invincible. Nothing to worry about except maybe what to wear to Friday night's dance. Dad would be proud of my defense in the game. Mom would bring me chocolate milk to bed. My little sis would look up to me. What's sooo wrong with wanting all that back?

Newsflash movie-goers: the happy little sanctum I speak of - even long for - doesn't solve anything for anyone - including myself! Given everything she'd longed for, Sarah still needed to make it to the castle beyond the Goblin City to rescue her brother, Toby. And me? I need liberated to rescue my family. Huh? Is there an evil king holding them captive? Of course not, but I want to be a better Mom. A better wife. A better daughter. A better sister. A better aunt. A better friend.

So which way should I go? Left or right? They both look the same! Just as Bowie's uber sexy Jareth character gave Sarah everything she thought she'd ever wanted in an attempt to distract her from her true goal - I too am struggling with distractions. New symptoms. I should probably go to the hospital for steroids. Think I should? Sarah prolly would as she was awfully eager to follow that goblin bag lady in to her bedroom to enjoy all her prized possessions.

Turned out it was all fake and smack in the middle of a junkyard, however Sarah struggled at figuring this all out. Perhaps she was just slow. Or perhaps she'd wanted to be back in her room soooo bad . . . I dunno. What I do know is having steroids now may interfere with future test results. Remember? I need stenosis to be found. Steroids now would just be another temporary bandaid and possibly even a roadblock towards my ultimate goal - LIBERATION.

Plus those miraculous little ROID bastards age my insides. I'm only 34. My insides however prolly pushin' mid to late 80s or so. And the swelling. Weight gain. And severe, severe joint pain. Shriek! It hurts just thinkin' about it. I could blog on ROIDS alone. But I won't. I'll spare you kind readers. And yeh, . . . you're welcome. Now where was I?

Back to Sarah. Worse yet was her waking to discover herself at a masquerade ball. She was beautiful here with much more hair upon her head than she'd had the entire movie. Anyways, absolutely a vision. Stunning white hoop skirt. Shimmering, iridescent ball gown and all. And dancing with Bowie. Huh?! I've always been jealous of this scene. I mean, who wouldn't give in to this fantasy come true? C'mon, ladies, ya with me? No? Sarah hadn't been either. What a waste of Bowie.

So the way my warped mind sees it - my albeit brief remittance of MS symptoms, enjoyed post failed procedure was my dance with Bowie. And now, movie-goers - now I've fallen into the bog of eternal stench. I failed to mention it in my last entry, BUT my downward slope this time 'round brings me to the outskirts of Whoville.

What? Is the analogy hopping too much for ya? Stay with me now. Aside from Santa and Frosty, the mean ole Mr. Grinch is prolly my all-time favorite Christmas character. So the slope I'm on . . . , welllllll, . . . can't help but think of the slope between his rock and Whoville. I'm just sayin' . . .

Okay. Back to the bog. What's a girl to do? Nothin'. Nothin' at all without Hogwart! I mean Hoggle, of course. Sarah's best friend within the maze although frustrated at times, helps her at all costs. Thru the oobliet and past the cleaners. Without Hoggle Sarah would be lost. Just as I would be without Jason.

Next up, are the helping hands! That's you! All my new internet friends and dear ole friends still tolerating my analytical BS - y'all are the helping hands. Brilliant those hands! For weeks after my boys first saw the movie they were trying to mimick the hands' gestures and voices. Didn't we do that too, Amelia? And the guards! And the door knockers!

But on with the main players. Sir Didymus, the brave fox, and his trusty steed dog, Ambrocious (my boys) are inspiring sure, but constantly in-fighting and thus more of a distraction than an assist. Can you guess which kiddo is which character? Then there's the huge ferocious Loodo (Gooch), Sarah's ever faithful companion that proves not everything is as it seems. My scary looking pitbull, in comparison, is scared of butterflies. So much so that he leaps in his Mommy's lap to escape them. Hehehehe.

Oh, and the crazy guys that throw their heads around? The 'Chilly Down' guys? Any guesses as to who they so brilliantly represent? Anyone? Who'd wanna take my head off? Hit it like a golf ball with their leg? Crazy, right?! Exactly! My doctors. More harm than good, I tell ya. Hairy, google-eyed, catastrophies, all of 'em.

What was my point? Did I even have one? Perhaps I was just longing to write a movie review. What should I do? To ROID or not to ROID? That is the question. No? What is my telephone number? I have this sudden urge to watch LABYRINTH. Wanna join me?

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

A Funeral, Fireworks and Footdrop

Long time, no blog. "Your hands still work, don't they?" asks the husband. Well, yeh! So far. Thank God! Just typing those harsh words makes me think . . . ASSHOLE! But alas, he is not. Quite the opposite really. Poor guy. He's been down lately. Have you noticed? I have. And why, you wonder? Great job. Good pay. Nice house. Sweet truck. Healthy kiddos. Parents both present and accounted for. What could have this guy down? One word for ya - me!

Enuff with the happy play by play of my goings-on. Since my failed LIBERATION, things had been looking up. HAD BEEN. HAD. Please note the past tense here. I fell at the hospital. Did I mention that? My dearest friend died. Did I mention that? I'm sure I did, but I feel like in order to better explain the state I'm in today I must elaborate.

I call her 'dearest' and not 'best' because Jason is my best friend. Sure, Jason sees and experiences all my suffering alongside me, BUT my Wendy . . . she knew first hand. We shared so much me and her. I'm not claiming to know what she went thru battling cancer nearly 15 years. I only know how it felt to want to do something and simply not be able to. Our plans of being Super Woman - crushed, daily. No Super Mom. No Super Wife. More pertinent to the situation, together, we recognized our loved ones sacrifices.

More than the pain and the disabilities of our diseases - we hated the affect they had on our loved ones most of all. Our sons' missing out. So much unfairly being thrust upon them. Made to grow up too much, too fast. Our husbands' willingness to take up the slack becoming, welll, quite frankly taking over everything . . . including caring for us. "Overgrown, unwanted babies," we had jokingly once called ourselves. Our poor unsuspecting hubbys. Niether knew they'd each have two children to care for plus adult-sized nearly helpless, . . . well, you get my point.

Wendy and I tried not to get each other down. In fact, after each time we'd talk on the telephone or instant message each other we'd each of us feel better about things. We'd share our woes and stories of how Jason did this or Kent did that. We preferred to feel sorry for them and our kiddos than feel sorry for ourselves. Afterall, we couldn't do anything for ourselves - but, fight the fight, right?!

Example: Kent had to drive everywhere. This bothered Wendy so. And, welllll. My license hasn't officially been taken away YET, but when's the last time any of you have seen me drivin'? Jason away on business, I felt all big time gettin' to take Abe down the hill to school. Yay, me! But had it been worth it? Would Jason have been more at ease had my mom or his parents just have come and got him? Yes. The answer to that question is yes! That futile little attempt at normalcy probably turned a few more of Jason's hairs grey a little earlier than scheduled. Ha! Who am I kidding? What hair, right?!

Anyways, I miss her. I miss her first-hand understanding. I LOVE YOU WENDY! I know. I know. Enuff already with the pity party. So the long way 'round to my point, then, heh? Point is, I haven't been myself since she passed. No? That's not the right way to put it. Let's try that again: MY CONDITION HAS BEGAN MORE NOTICIBLY WORSENING SINCE HER PASSING. There. Better? I'm deteriorating, people! This sux!

To recap ever so quickly these past ten years have been rough. From nearly not seeing, to not walking at all with cognitive issues mingled thru out I was just beginning to get into the swing of things. In denial while preggers with Asa I was determined to prove everyone wrong and beat this thing. I was an athlete after all. And an Orth. You can't tell me what I can't do!

Then 3 mo. old Asa's momma can't get off the couch?! WTF? Massive amounts of steroids and rehab. And she's back. Just in time to eagerly (yes, I'm attempting sarcasm here) start one of the immuno suppressant injection therapies. Yay, me. All was well for a bit with just weight gain and fatigue to contend with. And what new mom doesn't have that problem, right?

Then along comes Abel. Wow, was I ever sick carrying that kiddo. I even had to take high dollar nausea meds given to chemo patients. And spent as much time in the hospital as out . . . huh, he was a rough one. Finally he came a month earlier than scheduled. Was he o.k.? Yes. Phenomenal 9 lbs. 8 oz. preemie - the biggest they'd had in the NICU at that point. They only took him so they could start me on IV steroids immediately as my gait and vision were worsening. I'm sure I was quite a sight 8 mos. preggers stumbling around in the August heat like a boozer. I was smart enuff not to carry around 2 1/2 year old Asa, but couldn't hand off Abe as easy until of course a willing doc with a scalpel would intervene and remove the little bugger! Thanks again Dr. Walker!

I said quick re-cap, right? Anyways, came home feeling much better with Abe. My Aunt Agnes came to help me and my mom and dad had Asa. (I found out later that they had him, Amelia and Kyle had him, Grandma and Grandpa had him, and heck, maybe all of Pt. Township by that point.) Soooo, no horrible relapses following Abe's homecoming. Again, things were looking up. And back on the injections just in case. Bring it on MS. Is that all ya got? As Rocky said to Clubber, "You ain't bad. You ain't baaaad. You ain't nothin'!"

So from summer '03 to spring '10 I gradually declined physically and began tackling acceptance. As much as I despised this crippling MonSter the silver lining thus far had been that it appeared to be a slow but steady slope downward. Sure I wasn't getting to do all I'd hoped to do in life, BUT what I could manage to accomplish I was attacking with all the fire I could muster. I learned to make the most out of what I'd been given. In other words, prioritize!

For example, the sports the boys' didn't completely enjoy and or dominate the hell out of . . . we would skip and concentrate on the next season's offering. Why sit thru a hot baseball game when you can go to a cool football game where the team has nicknamed your eldest, "King Kong?!" I kid you not, they even had a V formation play to get the quarterback thru untouched in which my very own son led the V. The runner was told to get behind Asa and he'd be safe. YOU GO ASA! When's football start back up?

Admittedly there were ups and downs in that time including a few hospital stays, BUT relatively smooth sailing in the life of an MSer. To better define relapsing-remitting, the kind of MS I was diagnosed with, flare-ups happen and subside. Over and over. Different places. Different things. You don't know one day to the next what may be malfunctioning. For that matter, one hour to the next even. Sux, I tell ya. Sux.

So somewhere along the way I'd picked up a few things that failed to ever subside. My right leg. I drag it bad. Ever notice? If you answered, "no," then you're a liar! Or blind, I suppose. Anyway, sometimes its better than others but always dead weight. Somedays I don't have to lift it to get it in my jeans. Other days it won't even hold my weight. Any who . . . that's how it works 'til eventually more and more stuff won't subside and I'm a drooling bed ridden vegetable. So much to look forward to I tell ya!

Then father-in-law Kenny hears of this hullabaloo in Italy. And my failed local attempt at it brings a brief taste of health. It was so yummmmmy. My uber jealous hubby even worried, I'd up and leave him. Ha! He secretly wishes I would! And back 'round to my oh so elusive point again ----> the slope down this time around has not been so kind. Not at all forgiving. Somewhat treacherous. Hellish, even. Do I wanna talk about it? Great idea, BUT I can't remember my phone number people. No joke. Thank God I know my old one. So I can call my mom at least. I love you, Mom!

Now my left leg is acting up. He's taken on alot of extra work since my right one has been dying it's slow death, BUT that's no excuse for the shenanigan's he's been up to as of late. I shouldn't bitch I suppose as if he were to exit the same as 'ol righty I'd be in a world of motionless hurt. With that I'd be currently working on upper body strength and dusting off my wheel chair. I'm too hard headed for that route. My left leg is jumping and jerking. WATCH OUT KARATE KID! And it's not just failing to work with me - that bitch is working against me!

Feet flat on the floor I cannot raise the ball of my left foot off the floor. Not a real big deal while sitting. Then stand. Ha! Wish y'all could see me. I laugh at myself, and then pee, but that's a whole other blog!? I steady my right as best as I can then try the left only to have it refuse to bend at the knee. And what's this? Trying still for a forward momentum of any kind I find my left toe pointing down as if it belonged to a ballerina in training. Fine! We're still going to the bathroom, Bitch! But my more spasming right leg not used to all the stress . . .

You get the point. And my husband, welllll, he gets an awfully sore arm and back working as my escort. Poor guy. On to part two: Fireworks. Noticably down since the failed LIBERATION I thought a party might cheer him up. We'd just gotten the pool up. The 4th of July was approaching. A three day weekend. A nearly clean house, hmmmmm, perhaps I could call in the cavalry. Surely this would bring him outta his funk. [cross your fingers]

I think our little get together, ice cold pool water aside, was a success. Food was good. Friends were great. And we even made it to the fireworks. Now to clarify. Jason had to make most of the food himself. I'd planned simple macaroni salad and baked beans, but after straightening the house (or attempting to help to anyways) I wasn't getting around too well. I directed from my chair and he made it all. Then came the whole would she or wouldn't she be able to get in the pool? Would she need to pee once in? And how the hell will she ever get out without embarrassing herself? Without embarrassing her boys? Husband included!!! Just a side note: at the evening's end I was quite possibly the only of the Spindlers not to experience a wardrobe malfunction. So there! My suit's elastic may have seen better days, BUT you gentlemen . . . you have trunks with drawstrings! They are for tightening said trunks. Not just pretties!

Then there's the fireworks. Where will we park where Angela can see 'cause she sure can't walk. Here my friends is a prime example of missing out I'd mentioned earlier. If I'd felt better we'd have been out on the river in our boat for optimal viewing. Or gotten a blanket and trekked to the river front. Or at least a lawnchair in the park. Alas we were in a parking lot a couple blocks away and the boys confined to only the bed of the truck. The bed I might add that was faced in the wrong direction so their crippled Momma wouldn't have to leave her seat in the truck. Such a spoiled little princess I tell ya. As much as I love fireworks, I'd have much rather preferred the boys to better experience it. Again with the hindering of the loved ones! Can I get an AMEN, Wendy?

With all I had done at the end of the night, Jason seemed relieved it was over vs. sad it hadn't lasted longer. Maybe I was beginning to mis-read people as bad as I was mis-reading the swimming text on my lap top. That sux too as I love to read. Speaking of, Koontz where you at with a new book, bro? Any who . . . there's always tomorrow, God willing. And with that began the real 4th of July. Complete with homemade icecream. Sunday school. Church. And then a picnic in the Family Life Center. All that and I wasn't getting around worth a darn. Aunt Ann got my plate for me. Grandma got my drink. And Amelia helped me to the bathroom. So besides corraling the boys and simply worrying what would go wrong with me next - Jason had a bit of the day off from being my nanny.

Once home and bored to tears I began chatting with a friend on facebook regarding firework festivities for the evening. Reitz hill, he'd suggested. A movie, I suggested. It was a plan if we could pull the kiddos from the pool in enuff time and get Papaw and Granny to watch 'em. Yay. It all worked out as if some divine power had set it in motion. What's this? Theatre #13? Towards the back? Oh my! Immediately the vein in Jason's forehead begins to pulse. His eyes roll. "How are we gonna do this?" he asks. I decide to try for #13 myself whilst he gets in line for popcorn. And carefully following the counters and walls. Mindful and focused on each step I make it . . . fall free! And knowing me all too well, our friends were only in the second row.

Yay! Letting go of the railing in the dark to grasp at the chairs was the toughest part. The physicality of it sure, BUT seeing my husband's face with teeth gritted for me . . . that was rough. Had he gritted them at me angry I can't walk? Was he mad I no doubt was causing a scene? Was he embarrassed? Was he worried I'd fall? Probably all the above. It hurt me so that I was hurting him. And to all the other viewers whose previews I may have briefly interrupted . . . SUCK IT PEOPLE!!! And I mean that in the kindest of ways.

So then for the exit. Which for me always proves hardest after having sat 2+ hours in the dark. I'm always disoriented. Anyways, Ryan helps me to the back door - way closer than the entrance. And Jason makes his way out the front to the truck to come around and get me. Aggravated, no doubt, that I required his friends' help yet again. Newsflash here though dear: in the nearly 7 years we've been friends now I consider them my friends too. Just sayin' . . .

Then to Wendy's for some Jr. Bacon cheeseburgers and a potty break. Note to self: I must start forcing myself to use the handicapped stalls!!! All too often these days the normal stalls commodes are way too close to the ground. So I took a little while. The toileting itself had gone suprisingly well. It was the dismount that I lost points on. Ha! I tried to make a funny! Had it not been for my quick-witted ingenuity thinking to brilliantly use my cane hanging on the door from a hook to eventually hoist myself up from there, . . . welllllll, I guess I'd be blogging from the west-side Wendy's pee hole. What a vision! I know. Hope I didn't ruin supper for ya.

Then to Reitz Hill for Evansville's big to do. Or not! My gosh, look at the cars! I think all of Evansville and surrounding burghs had the same idea. Oh well. Can Ang walk at all? Of course not Jason hastily replies without even consulting me. A u-turn and we're headed home. And I get to hear about how he'd rather have stayed at home. And how having anybody over was prolly too much on me. HOLD THE PHONE! On me or on you, Jason? C'mon, Baby! We can't stop livin' now. Just know that as frustrated as you get with it . . . I'm even more miffed.

I'm not only the one with the problem causing the problem I'm also seeing the problem reflected back at me in the faces of anyone who gives a shit. Those who don't . . . welllll, I sure wish you could learn to just not care what they think. Really, Baby?! C'mon! Buck up, buttercup! So part three to this little entry: Footdrop. All I have to really say about this is FOOTDROP SUX!!! All this time I thought I had it, wrongo bucko! I gots it now by golly.

Wanna talk about it? Give me some pointers? My number is . . . ummmm, . . . uhhhhh. To hell with it! I can't remember. Pray for me please! I'm so needing it right now. And for Jason too. He's my rock . . . can't have him cracking! So call me, k? That is if YOU can remember my number. Love y'all!