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Archive for the ‘Crazy for no reason’ Category


And now that I’ve posted yet another maudlin, privileged, first-world whine (see previous post) I’ve decided that I need to bring back some humour. We all need a good ol’ laugh. This one dates back a few years, but I’m not sure I’ve ever told it. In fact, I only just remembered it last weekend at a birthday party for my husband at our house. We were all hanging out having a few drinks and trading tales when the conversation turned to waxing. I don’t remember how, there was a lot of wine involved.
So this memory came roaring back to me and I shared it, and now I’m going to share it with you.

Many years ago, more than nine now, I think, we used to live in a little town house in Cambridge. I actually really loved that house, it was our first real home. The first home we owned and, like any place you own, we had put a lot of work into making it our own. However, before we did all the work, we had a ton of kids and ourselves piled into three bedrooms and one bathroom. It was…snug. Anyway, we did the kinds of things most parents with full and busy households do and got involved with sports and dance. Sports, for us, meant soccer. We coached and the kids played. We coached a lot. First one team, then two teams and then one summer which shall never be repeated, three teams. Every summer we liked to do something fun for the teams and we would have a skills/fun practice where the kids got to do really neat challenges. We would hang hula hoops from the goal posts and do precision challenges etc. And at the end, we’d let them pie us in the face. One year when it was my turn to get pied, my husband thought it would be a nice treat to buy chocolate whip cream. You can imagine how that looks, melted on a face in +30 degree heat. Not. Pretty.
Anyway, one year we told the team if they won a certain amount of games, Shawn would shave his head. Well, they did, and he did. And he looked good. So good, in fact, that shaving his head became a regular summer thing.
I don’t remember how it happened, but, I *believe* it had to do with a comment on a bald man’s head that looked so smooth and shiny, we thought it had been waxed.
Yes. We went there.
No, we didn’t think to ask anyone first or get advice.
No, cell phones were not so prevalent then and certainly did not have the video capacity they do now.
We went out to shoppers and bought some wax and strips. That night, I buzzed his head with the clippers so that the hair was short, but not so short there would be nothing to grab onto with wax. It was maybe, a half a centimeter long, or half of a half. We decided it would be best to start with the back of his head. Low down, from the nape of his neck straight up, perpendicular to his right ear. I applied the warm wax for him, as he sat bare chested on the side of the tub. I carefully placed the strip over the wax and rubbed it. We chatted, he said the warm wax felt nice. I asked if he was nervous and he said, a little. I asked if he was ready. He said yes.
I yanked upward, in one smooth motion, just like the instructions said. I yanked upward. His scalp yelled NO.
I don’t think it was actually his scalp that yelled, it was probably Shawn himself. But it was so primal. I’ve never seen skin pull away from the body that much. That strip didn’t budge, not one bit, but his skin did. We immediately realized that this was the worst possible decision of all time and the kids were drawn like moths to a flame to the bathroom door, no longer distracted by the Disney movie we had put on for them, they wanted to know if Daddy was dying.
I turned on the shower and bent his head over and tried to soften the wax again to the point of at least being able to take off the strip. But the wax didn’t want to cooperate. The wax thought it was funny. I thought it was a *little* funny. Shawn did not. I got my scissors out and tried to gently hold the strip away from his head enough to cut the tiny hairs but I was so afraid I was going to cut his scalp. We tried using a razor, but it kept getting gummed up in the wax.
It took us over an hour to get the strip off his head and get most of the wax off. Poor Shawn had such a headache and we had to razor the rest of his head to get it somewhat smooth. I mean, we learned some valuable lessons: leg hair and head hair and leg skin and head skin are NOT the same beasts. Waxing your head is a bad idea, and, if you spend long enough with your head tipped down over the tub and a shower head running directly over you with warm water, your ears will be super duper clean.
We have never again experimented with waxing any part of Shawn’s body. And, even though he did keep up the practice for many years afterwards, he no longer shaves his head in the summer. Bummer.
So there you go, a more lighthearted, true story, from the annals of the Reilly family years. And a little laugh for your Friday.

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There was this movie that came out in 1996 called “The truth about Cats and Dogs” in which Uma Thurman and Janeane Garofalo played friends in a bit of a reverse Cyranno de Bergerac. Uma is the tall model who maybe isn’t so worldly and Janeane is the smart, short, self-conscious one. There is a lot of great banter in this movie and the dialogue is smart and funny without pandering, but the reason I thought of it today is because I had a couple of friends take my picture.
So, there is a scene in the movie where Uma takes Janeane to a mall cosmetics counter and as Janeane is making very funny, if self-depreciating comments about her pores and the ‘free radicals’ in the air, the saleswoman plunks a huge, magnified mirror in front of her face. It’s a very aggressive move, and it perfectly illustrates two things about women: one, that our own inner dialogues to ourselves are worse than anything a person can say to us and two, that when insecure, we will spend money to try to fix it.

Which brings me back to today and my two friends. I work with a bunch of really fabulous people and in preparing for an upcoming newsletter, two of the people I love the most at work took my picture. Not just mine, but, this is my blog and this story is about me so, yeah, they took my picture. First of all, it’s daunting to have your picture taken. I am a total slave to the new age technology that allows me to use filters and take a zillion digital pictures to capture just that right ‘one’. So, having someone else control the lens made me nervous. Plus, I like these ladies. I am “the funny one”. I can always make people laugh. So of course I struck some poses like a fake Hollywood celeb with that hand on the hip front leg cross pose (from which I almost fell over, and I was wearing sneakers, not heels) and one of me literally climbing the wall behind me. But then they just kept on taking face shots. Which, I admit, was the point, but, again, no control=panic.
My inner me was freaking out a bit, having a hard time smiling without instantaneously criticising myself for how I must look. My inner me was instantaneously cataloguing every flaw that I feel the worst about or obsess the most about. My inner me was being a terrible, insecure wise-ass with a giant magnified mirror in my face.
Suffice it to say there were some really nice pictures in the bunch, because of course they’re both great photographers, but, as the emails kept rolling in for me to check them out, I had a really hard time. How do you turn off an inner dialogue that has been a part of your life for as long as you can remember?
You don’t.
I looked at each picture. The ones that were silly, the ones that were awful, the ones with too much neck, the funny one where I tried to pull my neck smooth, the one where I’m trying to look serious and am clearly clenching my teeth. I looked at every one of them. And whenever my inner voice tried to be too harsh, I said, that’s not me. I’ve worked very hard on my inner dialogue over the years trying to correct a lot of toxic thoughts and thought patterns. It’s not easy. But that can’t be me anymore.
So, I picked a nice shot, and also said that I would be fine with the goofy one of me pretending to climb the wall. Because that goof who likes to make people laugh, that’s me.
And I’m pretty okay with her.

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While I was away, this funny thing happened which, admittedly, used to happen with greater frequency but has kind of stopped over the last years. I paid attention to myself.
Yes, yes, I pay attention to myself, but, like, in that I have health issues that demand attention. When on holiday, particularly when travelling without one’s family, who else do you have to focus on…but you?
Flash back about five years. I was in peak health. I had joined a gym, befriended the owner and had a personal trainer. I looked great. I felt great….physically. The problem was that I was all about how great I looked. I let a lot of relationships slide, including the one I had with myself. Because outwardly I was looking amazing and yes, I was very much enjoying grabbing something off the rack from the “regular” section of the store and knowing it would fit before I even tried it on, but, I was also in denial about a lot of internal struggle. And I needed to turn my spotlight back on my family.
So I did.
And then we moved east, and I spent a year looking for work and cooking and baking. And eating. And then of course Shawn’s health took a sharp nosedive and then so did mine.
A year of steroids and treatments and mandatory feet/ankle rest and, well, if you read the blog you know the rest. I gained a lot of weight. Yet the irony was, in ALL other aspects of my life, I was the happiest I have been in years. I found a job I love, made friends, became a proactive part of a new community, and basically started enjoying life again. I was heavier, sure, but that wasn’t the main focus of my being anymore. I lived in yoga pants, jeans and hoodies anyway. And all that mattered was that my husband and kids loved me.
Packing for my trip out west, I took along a bunch of clothes I hadn’t worn in a while. Because I knew that I had nights out, and a lunch with coworkers and plans that required me to dress up a bit. And I packed my makeup because, well, I *was* going to a wedding after all. But without kids to organise and a husband to keep me busy I only had me. So I spent time. And, I gotta say, I was really happy with how I looked. I felt like a more polished version of me. It was great. I texted my friend Dana that I looked good out West and sent her outfit pictures.
On my last day of holidays, Allison and I went out to run a couple of errands and, being early for one of them, we stopped at a store for plus sizes. I had never gone into my branch of it at home. I was still clinging to that memory of being an off the rack size. (Here’s the thing, when I put something on, in my head, I see myself wearing it in my old body so sometimes I get upset when I see how it looks on my current body)
Something dawned on me that day though, trying on clothes with Allison. If I let go of the number on the label and just put on something that fit, and fit me well, I looked great. I felt great!
So, I bought a pair of jeans. Then I came home, went to my branch of the same store, and bought another pair of jeans. And a top. And a vest.
Then I went home and looked at my closet. Big, heavy sigh.
I am a clothes hoarder. No, maybe it’s not that bad, but, I hang on to stuff with the idea that ONE DAY, I’ll get back into it again. It’s been five years. And even with the great new clothes that fit me well and with taking that bit of extra time again to ensure that I was putting a little effort in like I did out West, when I saw the things I had once loved that no longer fit me, the sadness crept back in.
Well, I don’t want to feel that anymore. It was time to get rid of the “I have a dream” section of my closet.

Saturday we took the kids into the city for the Buskers on the Bay festival. We spent morning to mid-afternoon watching the acts and then scooted home so our middle daughter could get to work on time. Kids scattered, hubs went to play his new video game and I went upstairs armed with an empty garbage back and a determination, albeit a slightly nervous one.
It was like ripping off a band aid. I started in the closet. There were skirt suits and dresses. A lot of them like new, and beautifully made. I posted those online in a “buy nothing” group so that some other local woman could get the benefit of my previously expensive taste. As I suspected, everything I posted was gone by mid day Sunday. But the closet wasn’t enough. I started in on my dresser. And my shoes. If it didn’t fit, it went. At first I was sentimental and sad, but as the chore went on, it got easier and easier. And then I started to feel really good. Everything left fit, fit well, I liked it and it looked good on me. Why hadn’t I done this YEARS ago? No more would I open my closet and immediately feel fat and regretful. Now I felt empowered and awesome.
My husband thought this was a good idea so we spent a few hours on Sunday doing his closet as well. And cleaning the room. Amazing how much clutter can build up without really being noticed.
I feel lighter today. I woke up and every option I saw was an actual option.
The only downside? Now I am noticing that the linen closet needs a purge. And the living room. And the kitchen. The joys of homeownership.

I took a vacation. I went to an amazing wedding and met with wonderful people and stayed with an absolutely beautiful friend. And I kind of found myself a bit. And I remembered that I like who I am.

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We have…an infestation.
No, not like six years ago when we had bedbugs and DEAR GOD may we never endure that perfect storm of EW ever again.

Saturday past. The day before Mother’s Day. We actually had a warm, beautiful day with double digit plus temperatures. It was wonderful! So of course we spent the day out in the back yard doing clean up, pulling out old shrubs and things that we’ve been meaning to pull out since we moved here, raking, you know, all that good hard summer prep work.
We left the back door (to the sun room) open, and, the door from the sun room to the kitchen. Just a bit. Just enough for the dogs to get in and out so they too could enjoy the fine weather.

We forgot to close them.

Saturday night. My daughter and I are in the living room watching a show. My husband is down in the basement playing Assassins Creed. Ash gets up to go to the kitchen for a drink of water and immediately starts yelling for Shawn and I.

Why?

Because we have crickets. Big, giant, black, ugly crickets. All. Over. The. Kitchen.

They were on the floor, on the cupboards, on the wall, ON THE CEILING!!! No, I’m not kidding, two of them were on the goddam ceiling. She was frozen in the doorway freaking out.

Shawn came up and we spent a good fifteen minutes killing, catching and getting rid of them. After we closed the door of course. Our dog Kermit ate one, I’m pretty sure.

That was Saturday.

On Sunday, we found about six more. Three of them in the living room. Yesterday morning the kids killed four more in the morning, more after school and I got two when I came home from work.

So, let this be a lesson to you all. If you’re going to pull up old shrubs and shit trees and basically turn over old earth in dark, pokey corners of your yard, DON’T LEAVE YOUR DAMN DOORS OPEN!

I have to go now. I have a plague in my home and it must be cleansed.

ugh.

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It was a dark and stormy night.

Actually, it was a stupid night after the first day of spring with a freak snowstorm and now it looks like full on winter again and I don’t like it.

It’s twelve thirty six am here. My husband is gently snoring in bed beside me and I cannot sleep. Could be the steroids. Could be my overactive brain. I’ve never been a great sleeper. I mean, I *was* getting good at it for a while there but then I got sick and went on steroids that can mess with your sleep patterns so there you go.

My room is too warm. Which is funny, because before his heart attack Shawn was a human furnace and liked it cool whereas I was always cold, but, we’ve done a switch because my body has already kicked itself into pre-menopause and I’m hot all the time and his new, post heart failure, on blood thinners body is now always cold.
Trade-sies!

I’m annoyed with my illness. I’m ever fearful of his. Who would have guessed that we’d each wake up one day at 40 and be sick for the rest of our lives?

That’s maudlin, I know. But it’s late and therefore the maudlin thoughts are the ones with top billing. My brain always did like to fixate on the negative. At least that’s what a therapist once told me.

I miss smoking sometimes. But I don’t miss the money it ate up, the smell of it stale or the health problems it probably was a huge contributor too.

I need some sleep. I’m going to be so tired in the morning. But, the plows are out and they’re doing the circulation of the school parking lot across the street, so all I can hear is that loud engine revving and the sound of the scoop scraping on the asphalt. Not exactly a lullaby. A very Canadian sound. Like a zamboni. Or tinny voice at the Tim Horton’s drive through.

I’m going to try to sleep soon. I’m going to lay down, tuck my body pillow neatly between my knees and pinch and release my muscles, from my toes to my nose, as a yoga teacher once taught me, until my whole body remembers how to relax at the same time.

I will not get distracted by the beckoning electric light of my cell phone’s internet. I will not.
Probably.
An hour, tops.

Goodnight, strange world. I’ll see what you look like in the morning.

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It turns out, a LOT of you read my post on the ONE night I didn’t love my hospital. Like a lot. It was one of my highest rated posts ever. Which is not a bad thing. I even got a thank you for writing it from one of the staff members at the hospital. But let me fill you in on what’s going on since then and why I am back to full-on loving my hospital.

Yes, it was a shit night. No, no one should have to wait 11 hours in pain before seeing someone. That was crap. I stand by that.

So I posted my pity party thing the other day. Feeling sorry for myself and whining and all that good stuff. But then, some things happened.

On Monday, my husband drove our daughter to Halifax to tour the University she was accepted to (don’t ask me how in the hell we’re going to make those financials happen, I’m still hoping on the lottery) and I went to work. I LOVE my job. I lucked into working at one of the greatest places in the city and I have the most wonderful co-workers. But it’s really hard to keep your spirits up when you’re in pain. My feet were still swollen despite being on meds for three days by that point and my legs were hurting. I was still limping and a lot of people at work asked me how I’m doing. Well, I was honest, but I hate complaining all the time so often my answers were kind of jokey. Oh, you know, still sore, but hey, I’m okay!
I got home Monday night and had some running around to do. My daughter had a flute lesson, with my hubs and other daughter away it was just my two youngest and myself for dinner so we stopped at Sobey’s and I let them get whatever they wanted to eat. None of us were really hungry, it was a nice treat.

When I got home though, I just couldn’t ignore the pains. My legs from the knees down, my wrists, elbows, I was hurting all over. I thought, I’ll take a nice bath. That’ll feel great on all my sore spots. And it did. Until I tried to get out of the bath and I couldn’t get up.
I had to call my 15 year old daughter for help. That night I called my Rheumatologist’s office, knowing I would get a voice mail. I left him a message asking him to please just call me back in the morning. I wanted to know if it was normal for everything to get exponentially worse before it got better. His office called first thing in the morning with an appointment for me for 9:30 Wednesday. That fast.

Tuesday was more of the same. Pain so bad it was hard to get through my day. Shawn and Ash weren’t due to come home until Wednesday but I couldn’t hide from him on the phone how hard it was for me. I got home from work just after 8pm, spent about fifteen minutes with the kids and then came to bed. Within a half hour I heard voices. Shawn and Ash had come straight home from the tour and were here! I’m so glad they got to do their full tour first and I’m so very thankful they were home because quite frankly, I was scared and grateful to have Shawn able to come with me back to the hospital. By now my legs were the same size from my mid-calf down to my toes they were so swollen and there were red patches on my skin.

I saw my Dr. the next morning and he confirmed that I likely have sarcoidosis, a very serious disease, but a treatable one, and it was likely that which kicked me into the RA symptoms. By the time I left the hosptial at 1pm that day, I had had a CT scan with contrast (no, the radio active dye DID NOT give me any super powers. I’m still bummed about that), and EKG and more lab work. He just called the departments and got me in. And everyone was great.

I am off for a few days now on some new meds trying to get the swelling down and my symptoms under control so that I can find my new working normal. It’s daunting, and a little bit scary, but I know that I have some really great care behind me. I may not have a family doctor yet, but I do have a specialist who is looking out for me in every sense of the word and that, my friends, is golden.

It just goes to show you, it’s important to speak up when the system lets you down, but it’s equally important to talk when they really rise to the need.

Now, if only I could stop googling sarcoidosis.

Special thanks to Dr. Grant and that lab tech who took my blood whose name I have forgotten. You were great! Didn’t feel a thing.

On with life, dear friends. A couple of days of bed rest means more work on the current book. And that’s something to be really thankful for!!

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I’m about to whine.

Last night was a rough night. Like, rough. So, after my awful night at the hospital, I had a positive experience there – positive in that I have a specialist to work with, whom I got in to see quickly and he seems both very nice and very thorough. Two attributes I love in doctors. He confirmed that I do indeed have rheumatoid arthritis and started me on a course of fairly aggressive anti-inflammatories as well as a pill to protect my stomach. Fine.
Here is the problem. It’s me. I’m the problem. My brain simply did not want to compute that this is a permanent disease.
I went home and broke the news to the family, and texted my best friend Sarah and we cracked jokes about putting baseball cards in my some-day wheelchair spokes. In fact, we all kind of cracked jokes all night because that is what we do. We talked about how some-day I’ll be entitled to a handicap parking permit, and won’t it be nice to have that? Prime parking all the time? Ha ha, so funny, it will be hilarious.
We went out Saturday night to hang with some great friends and while it was kind-of-sort-of mentioned, pretty much I ignored it. Besides, it was a birthday party and I wanted to have some fun.
And then Sunday, we took the kids into the city to hit up Value Village (my kids LOVE thrift shopping, thank goodness) and to go to Costco for some groceries. While moving around was a little sore for me after the festivities of the night before, I managed and we went home.

That’s where the day went south. For me anyway.
You see, I realized that this is not like my sciatica or any sprains or breaks or illnesses I’ve had in my life where time, medications and therapy are going to make it eventually go away. This one won’t go away. Ever. There is no known cure for RA. And yes, we got it early, it looks like, but mine has been a little aggressive in how quickly it cropped up and how fast it went from mild pain to full swelling and more pain. I don’t like it. And I started to feel very sorry for myself. I said to my husband maybe it was my karma for some of my poor choices. He (very smartly, we’ve been married a long time) didn’t really answer that. Since I had been somewhat active the night before and all morning long, my afternoon and evening especially were quite painful. So, I did what any self-respecting 40 year old adult woman would do: lay in my bed feeling sorry for myself and crying.
Because I’m a damn grown up.
This morning I’ve tried to put a new spin on things for myself. I’m NOT the only one in the world with a disease. I’m NOT the only one in the world with THIS disease. Feeling sorry for myself isn’t helping anyone, especially me, so I need to stop it. I got up, got dressed and went to work. I made sure I took my pills and I walked slowly from my parking lot to my building (four blocks), trying to let myself get into a rhythm and not pushing it too hard first thing in the morning. I plan to get up a lot from my desk today, so that I’m not sitting for too long stretches at a time. I’m trying to force my thoughts to go down positive pathways instead of negative ones.
In short, I’m trying to be a damn grown up.
No one wants chronic pain. My father has it in the form of fibro myalgia and I marvel now even more that he maintains the level of activity he does and if he can do that at 70 after suffering for YEARS, I can do it at 40.
I have no idea how yet, but I’m sure as hell going to try.

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