She talked about the armies that marched inside her head...........

The Cure -- The Empty World -- 1984




The Princess called her doctor Friday to ask about the results of her bloodwork and MRI. As she can't make or receive many calls during work hours, she advised the doctor's office that they could leave her a message on her cell phone. The message she had back from the doctor told her this:

Her labwork is completely normal. Nothing to be concerned about.

Her MRI is essentially normal.


Essentially.


Essentially because it is NOT normal. There are no tumors, no dangerously distended veins about to burst, no gross malformations.

There are, however, "speckles" that are visualized on her brain.

"Speckles"

That should not be seen on a normal MRI.


The options are these:

Damage as a result of chronic migraines
or
Lyme Disease

The Princess was on her way to the lab this morning to have a Lyme titer done. It was not included as part of the routine bloodwork done last week.

If it is Lyme, it can and will be treated with long-term antibiotics. If it is NOT Lyme, we will have to learn about methods to prevent and/or treat serious migraines.

But, nonetheless, the damage has been done. The "speckles" attest to that. They are spots of injured brain. And the "speckles" don't go away.

The Princess seems, so far, to be oblivious to that point. I, however, can't get it out of my own head.


She should have gone to a doctor sooner. With my medical experience, I should have insisted upon it, even though she had no insurance coverage.


As her mother, while I know that the results could have been far worse, my heart is a little sick today.

Your head hurts and you can't breathe

Tryin' To Throw Your Arms Around The World -- U2 -- 1991




We have survived a few health scares at the Casa de Avalon in the past few months. We have discussed, ad nauseum, the doggie health crises here and here

There has also been an ongoing series of tests for the Heat Miser, resulting in two short-term surgical procedures. Luckily, we were told last week that the Pathology from the latest procedure was clear, and the HM was given a clean bill of health. For a few months, I was very quietly holding my breath.


And now, it's the Princess who is requiring some medical intervention. The Princess is normally a very healthy girl. Even as a kid, she was rarely sick, and only required 2 visits to the hospital, one for an ugly spill in her new party shoes. In high school, she had perfect attendance for the entire 4 years, aside from the day of her 16th birthday when I took her to New York City as a surprise. She was diagnosed with a Thyroid Goiter the week before she left for college, but even that has not been problematic and she was recently taken off of her Thyroid meds. Aside from a dramatic slip of a knife, she has remained injury and illness free in the recent memorable past.

Last December, the Princess turned 23 and she could no longer be covered under my medical plan. She was without medical coverage until 3 weeks ago when the coverage from her new job took effect. In the intervening time, she has begun to suffer from headaches......sometimes fairly debilitating headaches. At first, I simply chalked them up to stress. She can be very hard on herself, so a stress-related headache would not be out of the question. Add into the normal stress equation: graduation, a move back home, a job search, a move into an apartment, a new job, a new schedule and a shit of a boyfriend..........well, you may start to understand why I was not so terribly alarmed at a few complaints about headaches.

Until the complaining was occurring on almost a daily basis. As soon as she was covered by insurance, I encouraged her to make an appointment with a local doctor for an initial appointment. I used to work with this Doctor during my days in the Emergency Room. She is kind, compassionate, accurate, and she literally has an office around the corner from both of us.

The Princess had her appointment last week. Wisely, the Doctor scheduled her for some long-overdue labwork, recommended that she see a dentist as she thought the Princess might be suffering from Bruxism

and then


She told the Princess that she was making her an appointment for an MRI Scan. Of her head. Immediately.

That threw the Princess into a bit of a tizzy. Since I have always been the go-to medical person in the family, I assured her that this was simply precautionary. That her new doctor was being prudent by checking out all possibilities. That she would be fine.

She seemed to cope with the development fairly well. By nature, my Princess is a terrible worrier. The MRI was scheduled for this morning at the healthcare facility where I have worked for over 20 years. She asked if I would come with her. When I met her this morning, she confessed that she had not slept last night. She was awake with worry.

Oddly enough, I was not really worried at all. After so many years of working in an Emergency Room, I only get my panties in a wad if a body part actually falls off as I am watching. Otherwise, most other things can be fixed.

The Princess counts on my stoicism in the face of a potential medical crisis.

So I accompanied her to the waiting room, and helped her fill out forms in triplicate that asked her if she had ever been hit by shrapnel. When the tech came to get her, she assured both of us that the procedure would take no longer than 20-25 minutes.

The Princess did not emerge until over 45 minutes later. Obviously shaken. She confided that she was so worried about the entire process that she cried through the whole MRI. She said that the staff informed her they would be taking 5 or, at most 6 films, but by the time they actually finished, they were already on number 8, and the 8th scan took over 7 minutes to complete.

She is certain that she has a brain tumor. They told her that her doctor will have the results by tomorrow, but the inconsistencies between what she was told and what was done during the scanning were enough to make her completely unravel. She is afraid.

And no amount of her Mother's bravado could make her feel better.


Especially when her Mother was fresh out of bravado.


I was a Patient Advocate long enough to understand about the unspoken in the field of medicine. The procedures that are supposed to be simple until someone sees something. Something bad. On a scan or in a lab result or on a film. Something big. That changes a patient's life in ways they were never prepared for.



Please, please, don't let my Princess have SOMETHING.

Don't touch me there ,oh no not there .........

............Don't touch me there , anywhere but there -- Don't Touch Me There -- The Tubes -- 1976



I'm back. Only because all of your begging and groveling was so emotionally taxing for me.

And maybe a little gratifying.

Tell me again how much you all love me! Nevermind.


So, here's the rundown:

The Princess is still dating Lumpkin. He is still a first-class loser. She is busy at work with the kiddies, and tired when she gets home, but she is also collecting a regular paycheck which seems to up her energy-to-shop quotient.

The Heat Miser is fine. We are slowly but surely entering the season of her discontent. Heating season in new England. She is preparing her sharp tongue and her eagle eye to watch for any transgressions in the temperature-above-64 arena. Violators will be flash frozen.

My friend and neighbor Patty is doing fine. She hasn't missed a single counseling session and heads back to court in a few weeks. There is a sad but effective stalemate in the house. The spouses barely speak to each other, and Patty spends as much time away from the house as possible. I don't know what the final outcome will be, but for now, she has time and assistance to make the best decision possible.

The Poodles are fine. More on that below.

I am just friggin' ducky. Sick and tired of my job, needing a vacation. Hospice training is almost done. 3 more weeks to go. In general, the training is informative, but a bit too touchy/feely for me. I keep expecting someone to break out a guitar and bellow the refrains of Kumbaya. There is one really annoying older woman in the class who is coming precariously close to a tongue lashing from me if she can't keep her giant pie hole closed for more than 25 seconds. There is also another woman who fancies herself a "spiritual healer" but seems more intent on cleaning her diamond tennis bracelet and bragging about her beach-front home.

This week, we will all be the lucky recipients of some complimentary Reiki as we learn about relaxation techniques. Since I basically despise being touched by most people, but most especially by strangers, this should be a great way to spend 2 hours.

After the training is done, I supposedly have to shadow another Pet Therapy team for 3 visits and then Trevor and I can start our own visitation schedule.

So, in preparation, and because he was freshly groomed BY A PROFESSIONAL ( here he is prior to grooming),


Post grooming:


and again:


I decided to take him to the nursing home that I normally visit with Maisie. I figured that he would benefit from the exposure prior to actually starting at Hospice, and since the residents already know me, they would not be concerned about a visit from a new, and large Poodle.

He was looking rather spiffy with his new hairdo and his natty Delta Society vest:




and:

******Please also notice his beautiful new, holiday-themed collar. It is a candy corn pattern on orange ribbon in honor of Halloween. Trevor's breeder Carole made that and several more for him. Feel free to take a look at her website. She makes spectacular custom collars at very inexpensive prices******

Everything seemed in order. I was laden down with Liver treats, a favorite ball, his vaccination and Delta certification paperwork, a bag with wipes and baggies and combs and scissors and toys and possibly some Xanax for me, his leash, and Trevor. I loaded Trevor into his crate and everything else into the car and off we went.

It was all going smoothly and I was excited about having him meet all of our regular patients. I sang all the way to the Nursing Home. It was going to be a fun day!

Then we arrived. My first inkling that all was not rosy came as we attempted to enter the building. Apparently, pneumatic doors have been known to attack and maul defenseless Poodles, a fact that I was unaware of until Trevor magnanimously brought it to my attention. He refused to go through the door. Just. Refused.

After some cajoling, and maybe a well placed but gentle nudge from my knee to his bottom, he bolted to the safety of the interior, narrowly escaping with his life.

We strolled through the hallway, copied his paperwork to leave for the Recreation Director and headed for the elevator. THE ELEVATOR!!!!!!!!! A double-doored chamber of death! Again, I resorted to using a slight bit of persuasion, and once aboard, Trevor was pleased to discover that he had again cheated death.

He was ever so happy to disembark from the elevator onto the Short-Term Rehab floor. Until, that is, his presence caused an immediate swarm of staff and visitors to come running, all of them simply begging to pet him, to touch him, to POSESS HIM. As the crowd converged, Trevor retreated. Behind my legs. Squarely. He would not even hazard a peek at the dog-hungry , slavering crowd of carnivores that surrounded him. He simply stayed entrenched behind my legs until the crowd filtered away. I had explained to the well-meaning people that, since this was his very first Therapy visit, all of that attention at once might have been a bit overwhelming. They were very understanding and gave him some space. He then popped out happily, tail wagging and proceeded down the hallway.

Trevor was happy to roam the halls, sniff at the Linen carts, peek into every open doorway to see what was inside. It was only when a stranger attempted to touch him that he felt the need to pack his bags and leave. As soon as a patient or family member made a move toward his "personal space" , he simply turned tail and headed for the door. Once, in a moment of deep confusion, he waltzed himself straight into the patient's bathroom. Imagine his surprise when he had to emerge straight back into the same room he had just vacated.

After about 30 minutes of this advancing and retreating dance, he seemed to process the idea that these people meant him no harm. With encouragement, he would delicately approach the bedside of a patient, as long as no deadly equipment was close enough to cause him bodily harm..........and, if no one was trying to sneak behind him in a vain attempt to goose his ass.

He really hates all forms of goosing. You touch his ass, he leaves and DOES NOT return.

We stayed for another 30 minutes or so. Trevor eventually became relaxed enough that he was able to demonstrate some of his tricks for the eager residents. A favorite is " whisper" where he pretends to bark but no sound comes out. That shakes their wheelchairs every single time.

After our last visit, we headed for home. There was no fear of the pneumatic door upon exit as it was the portal to freedom. He was thrilled to be home and broadcast his excitement by racing around the backyard barking at the falling leaves and possibly at the pollen, or a gnat in Lithuania.

Clearly, we have some more work to do before starting our Volunteer career at Hospice. I have to get Trevor out more in crowds and expose him to some more novel situations. He is an extremely loving and sweet dog, and for a first visit, he actually did fine.


Let's just hope there are no serial goosers when we get to Hospice.

I can't pretend there's any meaning here, or in the things I'm saying

Getting In Tune -- The Who -- 1971



Sooooooooooo -------- I've been conspicuously absent from Bloggerville lately.

Wanna know why?




Because I don't have a damned thing to say.

Nothing.

I have decided that my life is simply too boring to support a Blog. I mean really.

Poodles?

Grooming.

The Princess.

Lumpkin.

The Heat Miser.

My washing machine.

Squirrels.

Seriously kids. How is any of this shit remotely interesting?

If it's not interesting to me, I'm sure it can't be much fun for the entire 5 of you that read me on a somewhat routine basis.

Do you need to know that I am miserably bored in my job and I'm looking for another? That I finally got a new washer so now my clothes are clean. That I am getting ready to spend another weekend grooming the dogs. That the Princess is still dating dumbass Lumpkin. That she still lives in her apartment. That my roof is still not fixed and I don't yet have the money to fix it. That Hospice training is going swimmingly. That I had a hangnail on Saturday and a zit on Monday. That I hate what my life has turned out to be. Do you need to know all that?


Do you?????


What the hell is interesting about the minutiae ( HI KIM!!!!) of one person's life?

I don't really know. Yet, it's that same minutiae ( HI JEFFEE!!!) that keeps me reading so many other Blogs. Except that theirs are usually MUCH more interesting and definitely better written.

Once I explained who I was, to an extent, and how I ended up here, it's been all bullshit. Filler.




Sorry.

finished with the mop then you can stop, and look at what you've done

Plateau -- Nirvana -- 1994



This little post by Belinda, and her struggles to get herself organized have captivated me. Because, in so many ways, I am just as debilitated by my own issues regarding organization as she is. Completely in the opposite direction. I am hyper organized to the point that my environment appears militant. I HATE clutter. No, more than that, I am paralyzed by clutter. It feels as if the space is closing in on me when it becomes cluttered.

I kid you not.

On the surface, it would seem a wonderful obsession to be afflicted with. Actually, it is rather exhausting.

I didn't start out this way. I was a slob of a kid. My idea of cleaning consisted of cramming everything as far under the bed and as high in the closet as possible. I was disorganized at school, always missing books and assignments. My lockers should probably have been condemned. I despised organization and the time that it took. I reveled in being surrounded, literally, by my stuff.

Somewhere along the line, my stuff suffocated me and made it impossible for me to function.

It wasn't until I was a 30 year old college student that the magnitude of the issue became clear to me. I had a very astute Criminal Justice/Sociology professor who somehow understood that I was struggling not as a result of lack of intelligence or ambition, but because I simply could not seem to get myself organized. He took me aside and told me that I needed some comprehensive testing at the college's Disability Resource center. He sensed that the problem was larger than my ability to solve it.

So I was tested. Every type of test under the sun. Question after question about my goals and my abilities, my hobbies and my vices, my strengths and weaknesses. Hours of analyzation.

And that was when we got the very first disquieting inkling that I have, and likely always have had Attention Deficit Disorder. As did my Father before me, probably.

Very intelligent people who were totally overwhelmed by simple, everyday tasks. The realization, at 30 years old that I was not, as I had spent a lifetime being told, stubborn, oppositional, lazy, unmotivated, negatory, messy, unwilling..........................well, it simply stunned me. 12 years ago, ADD was not yet the diagnosis-du-jour, and I set out to learn whatever I could about it.

The pages and pages of information opened my eyes. Here were descriptions of people JUST LIKE ME! People who had spent a lifetime trying their best, only to be told that it not only wasn't good enough, it probably wasn't even close. People who, despite their best efforts EVERY SINGLE DAY, could NEVER seem to find success. People who craved danger and action and excitement, but couldn't figure out the most basics tasks of living, like how to manage a simple checking account.

So, with a bit of guidance from the Disability Resource center, I set out to change my life. They taught me methods of organization to get my surroundings in order. In the process, it helped me to get my life in order. Somewhat.

Except that I learned too well. What started out as a project to clear out clutter grew into a need for rigid organization. And control. And distance.

I have managed to clean anything unnecessary out of my life. Including people.

I have learned to be comfortable that way. I made my life sterile.

In some respect, my dogs have taught me to relax with a little mess. That's a good thing.

But in so many ways, I am still paralyzed by the thought of messy relationships, messy homes, messy emotions.


My very clean and organized tower can sometimes be a very lonely place.

The dirty colors, getting brighter............

The dirty delicates do the final rinse -- Watching The Clothes -- The Pretenders -- 1983




It has come to the point in my illustrious Blogging career where I have absolutely nothing of value to share.

How's that?


The new washer came Saturday. The dog is allergy free. The kid is STILL dating Lumpkin. I AM NOT pregnant like at least half of my Blogroll seems to be. I don't even get to have an amusing Blog stalker

I only get a sad little boy-child , pathetically obsessed with




Ralphie from A Christmas Story, in my comments. I guess I should be happy. He called IAI "sugartits".

I am so hoping I can watch her cap him in his fuzzy little ass as he hops away.


I've got nuthin' else.

Anyone for rabbit stew?