Knick Knacks

I am the CamoBack of Mount St. Vincent

2015-09-20T21:47:00.000-03:00

So, this post is a little late coming but I had homework. Yes, that's right, I had homework. I now have more homework that what I know what to do with but yet, I am still ridiculously excited about that prospect. I did overdo it a little bit on a psychology assignment but I think that's my own, "OH SHIT THIS IS GOING TO BE SO HARD AND THERE HAS TO MORE TO IT THAN THIS SIMPLE ANSWER!! WHAT! THE! FUUUCK!" process of getting things done. I breathed, had tea and settled and then just had at it. Got it wrong. I was on the right path but overshot the objective and went way too far. Like aiming to walk to the fridge and ending up in Scotland in a furniture store buying a deep freezer.

It's okay, my professor just smiled and totally understood that I was away from this for a while. I realised that it isn't advanced psych but rather, intro psych and catered to people who are fresh out of high school who are barely off their mother's breast, some still in Cadets and most unable to sit and discuss life's biggest inquiries, such as whether or not we are passed the age to trust a fart, over a nice glass of whiskey or three. (Hint: my discussions with the my trusted other half is that once you reach 30, farts are questionable but 35-40 and beyond, fart on the toilet. Unless you're helping me buy my first pistol. In that case, just walk away from me and crop dust the entire Army/Navy Surplus store. I won't name names ... **ah hem** ... Christopher ... **cough cough**.)

I will admit that the first day was intimidating. I had my books in my brand new military spec, digital camouflage (Canadian, of course) and equipped with lots of MOLLE shit (Modular Lightweight Load-carrying Equipment, if you're wondering) in case I become overloaded and need five thousand places to hold my gimpy pens and pencils or a water bottle and maybe a bus ticket. So I was weighed down, drowning in straps and velcro, twitching and spastic, tired, nervous that I'd get my classes mixed up or not find a lecture room. My biggest worry, which I think is a pretty normal worry, is arriving late and everyone looking at me. C'mon, I already stick out like a sore thumb so I don't really want to be the smiling, red-faced old woman, covered in tattoos, wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, Chuck Taylor's with out of control bushy black curls, cat eye glasses and an NFA (National Firearms Association) patch on my redneck camo bag waving and apologising as I walk into the room. I'm a bull in a China shop on the best of days so you can just imagine what me coming late to a call would look like.

Hello everyone!

Why did no one tell me that having a backpack on was like carrying around an evil being that like to sneakily knock everything over? I have no control over that thing and I will blame my Multiple Sclerosis. "Sorry, MS made me do it" -- MS is the devil, it makes me do things and it's minion is this camo thing on my back. I am the CamoBack of Mount St. Vincent. I think I need to go to bed.

Bottom line: I think I made a good decision here and even though I'm only going into my third week, haven't written a big assignment or suffered the dreaded mid-term exams, I can honestly say that I haven't been this alive in a very long time. Outside of family, who knew that my favourite things would be homework and gunpowder.

Mission Impossible: University Orientation Edition

2015-09-07T22:14:00.000-03:00

I planned a nice, quick trip to the new school with the munchkins yesterday to try to blow through an orientation, an attempt to avoid the beginning of a "frosh" week and do a nice quick and out of the school before feeling like I need my cane. The plan was to simply run to the bookstore and check to see if a horribly overpriced sociology book was finally in stock then run to get the orientation kit I ordered at three AM last weekend. A bag packed with surprise goodies? How could an overtired, overwhelmed, broke, cranky and yet excited to go back to school mom refuse?

It was fun and quiet when we flooded off of the bus and up the hill to Rosario Hall. Somehow everyone thought it was Miss Lily starting classes, not dear old mom standing in front of her asking all of the stupid questions and avoiding the chatter about the things I was avoiding like pub crawls and welcome dinners, mature student mixers and Shinerama (good cause but sorry, I really don't have the time). We slid by the radio station team and the giggling teenagers in their shining, newly minted adult status being embarrassed by good ole mom and dad in front of their new drinking buddies. I feel bad but I can't help but wonder how many of them will succumb to those butterflies and nerves and still be here when classes start, Christmas or next fall. I hope they become familiar faces and keep those giant, excited smiles. As much as overly excited young girls annoy the hell out of me with their terrified yet flexing young male counterparts, it's also incredibly infectious. I danced in public. I blamed my innate need to embarrass my children but that would be a lie, I danced for the hell of it because it felt good. I was the oldest student in the vicinity so may as well work it and blame dementia. Hey, 35 is ancient to someone who barely catching the wind of 19's first fart.

I managed to dance the shorties and I through the area of what I assume is a student lounge, slinked passed a service table complete with ice tea and cookies that landed in my purse without anyone even noticing (mom powers) and up the stairs to breathe before going full spy mode to get to the bookstore without running into more jovial, bouncing, wide awake students. Nope, we ran into sad mom and what seemed to be an equally annoyed father.

"Hard to see them go, isn't it?" this poor woman quipped at me.

"Oh I know, these guys are having a hard time seeing me go back to school," I replied and walked away from confused faces. C'mon, I know that was a little mean to weird out those nice people but how old do I look? Don't answer that. Then a new game dawned on me... child prodigy.

We finally and, with surprising ease, found the bookstore and I released my children with their library rules while I went to the spot with that elusive sociology book. Not there. Card says it isn't in stock yet and I get my little panic in my belly and the over-reaction of what would happen if I didn't have my book in time for class!! Oh no!! Swiftly I gathered my spawn and went to the desk, asked the nice lady if she know when the particular book would be in because my son was going to need it soon. I pointed to Everett who just happened to be picking a wedgie at the time... awesome.

Bookstore was completed and on to get the coveted orientation package. The area was just down the hall from the bookstore, so it should be easy to not make eye contact with anyone in blue shirts or people at desks. There was the line of tables manned by what looked like a cheerleading team. I stopped, lined up the little people behind me and conducted some surveillance to see exactly how this worked. I carefully watched the next two families go through to get their kits, making note of the order of the people they spoke to, the things they signed, what they walked away with and how fast it went. I also realized in that moment that I may have some issues with being a social creature. So far today my sarcasm and innuendo was lost on people plus I was getting nowhere with game of "Child Prodigy" which only myself and Everett found incredibly hilarious.

I signalled to move forward toward the first table, carefully bypassing a table for a charity sign-up (I support you but I don't have the time) and forward to table number one. Two lovely young girls, neither with a clue of what's going on and seeming to not have found their groove after a possible party the night before.

I prepaid for the package. Next table.

Name, first and last. They lovely young lady welcomed Lily to the school and asked her what size shirt she wanted and, without missing a beat, Lily gave her size while I smiled to put my hand out for the bracelet that would be marking me as one of their own. Huh? Yup, that was confusing.

"She's twelve, I'm the student but I promised her she could have the shirt." I smiled at my very mixed up attendant before she pointed me to keep moving.

Table three. Basic or enhanced? This thing was $75 for a basic, well over $100 for an enhanced version. I don't need pants or sweatshirts so I went for basic. They attendant once again handed it to Lily and welcomed her to the school. Everett suddenly yells that he's the one starting on the ninth... child prodigy for the win!! I am sure that we have reached the point of being everyone's, "you wouldn't believe the nut I met today" story.

Again, how fucking old do we look??

All in all, the morning ended well, we trotted off after meeting some pretty incredible people with some pretty great stuff in my orientation package, well worth every cent and all the hard work the orientation team put into getting it all together. I have even more of those little butterflies floating around in my belly in anticipation of my first class (psychology 1110 if you're feeling nosy). So, with all that story out, thank you Mount St. Vincent University for making a fun and incredible morning for myself and my family, for ensuring that starting at thirty-five isn't going to be uncomfortable or weird, that my kids are now excited to see what post-secondary education actually looks like. My orientation package was dumped out (I removed the condoms and lubricant first without anyone noticing) and allowed my munchkins to rifle through and divide it up making them feel like a big part of this experience. I couldn't be a happier mother, student or part of the story about the weird family at the orientation.

And, thank you for the mittens.

Back to School x Four

2015-09-04T16:27:00.001-03:00

I woke up this morning without my body pillow and instead of being wrapped around that incredibly comfortable piece of sleep heaven that not only saves my back but also my sanity, I was hugging tightly to a psychology textbook, drooling and panicking because not only did I miss my run, but my three rugrats were also still snoring and drooling. While doing the rushed, gimp style roll and fall out of bed followed by singing the good morning song from the floor, my brain yelled at me, "you should really start writing this shenanigans down"... duh, I have a blog... that I haven't put an entry in for over a year now. I have a new computer with new software and a fancy keyboard for school so, what's stopping me? Laziness and lack of a topic maybe? I'll settle on laziness since I consider myself a graduate of the fine art of carefully planned sloth between rounds of necessary activity.

So, let's start at the beginning. There's really no point right now trying to explain why my kids decided to continue their education. I'm sure it was difficult for them to figure out if grade three, five and eight are worth their time and trouble but let's face it, the final deciding factor for them, regardless of whether or not they were happy with the decision, is that dear old mom doesn't really give them much of a choice in the matter. We've had the discussion about elementary math not being good enough to even mow lawns for a living but the boy chimed in with something about peeing in the bushes (I have no idea why, he's seven so just go with it) to which we discussed that adults that laugh while peeing in random bushes get a different kind of pay cheque or may be inebriated and make their money doing other things plus they usually also get arrested for doing that no matter how they earn their money. He decided that urinating in bushes is not a plausible career choice at this point, maybe during a possible future drought.

Now with that said, let's get selfish. Why did I decide to go back to university and work on a degree? Yes, I know that's crazy considering my circumstances but guess what? I figured out that in order to get out of these particular set of circumstances, I need to re-educate myself and move forward into something new. This is not uncommon for people considering that a larger percentage of adults changes jobs and/or careers up to seven times in their lives. My resume so far is a strange conglomeration of hops and strange deviations from seemingly interesting paths. Sydney Tar Ponds remediation project to becoming part of the team refitting an oil rig then making asphalt. Strange adventures for sure. I've dabbled in graphic design, payroll, worked with an MLA and sat happily on my ass doing nothing. One of the few things I've thoroughly enjoyed was, oddly enough, sitting in a class and taking notes, studying, the smell of new books, research to satisfy my curiousity and making the light bulbs go on. However, it wasn't feasible to revisit that. Oddly enough, becoming disabled did make it possible to return to school... weird how that worked, eh. (I'm Canadian, shhh.)

Then MS hit and all of you my lovely readers know that battle and that now I'm home full-time: a disabled single mother of three. That's what I was reduced to and that's what my identity became -- mother and the growing list of things I can no longer do. Let's be honest, I do them anyway. I break things, I fall over, I drop a lot of stuff, I trip, I injure myself but I'm not going to stop, just laugh and readjust. Then other things happened other than the physical losses and losing control of my physical self was okay with me to a degree simply because I understand the personality of my disease. I've never known life without it, my beautiful mother battled it her entire adult life. MS is one of my identifiers but, at the same time, has it's own identity within me... like a bad roommate you can't evict but can slip some meds to and shut them up for a little while. Your friends still visit despite the living situation and get a laugh out of the stupid shit the roommate makes you do... like fling a spoon halfway across the kitchen or the Quasimodo dance when you stand up and try to walk.

The things that are beyond my control are the fact that it is incredibly difficult to be taken seriously in this province as a mother and a single woman (I'm sure a single man as well) when they say that something just doesn't seem right either with themselves or with their children. When there isn't an outward wound or physical symptom, the cases are thrown to the bottom of the list. When there no blood and guts issue that can be scanned and looked at or a blood draw with a number in a specific range, there really isn't much in the way of help and the resources that are out there. It took me eleven years of feeling like a hypochondriac and chasing doctors to find that one who believed me and sent me for tests to determine that I did have MS. After reading my medical records, I discovered that I was symptomatic of bipolar disorder at 14 but it was swept under the rug, again it was referred to in my medical records after a suicide attempt at 21 but wasn't told and at 35, it took an irresponsible psychiatrist through the MS Clinic (she had my medical records that I'm guessing she didn't read for a full history) treating what she perceived as stress induced depressive episode with the wrong medication that sent me into an almost complete and dark depression for my family physician to determine that yes, I do have a mental illness that somehow I was able to maintain on my own and with limited care and medication during my adolescence and adulthood. Funny how a lot of my decisions and behaviours now make complete sense. I can now add crazy to my identifiers.

Now, let's move on to my oldest who went through an incredibly tumultuous year of mind-blowing, erratic, dangerous and sometimes incredibly violent behaviour. With many phone calls to 911, many trips to IWK emegency, two social workers from two different agencies coming to the home to help, her teachers and school officials making note of and reporting her behaviour and even myself asking Child Protective Services for any ideas of programs or assistance with getting involved with any program to help my family, nothing worked. Finally, at the last emergency room visit we met with a psychiatric nurse, not a doctor because she explained that there is an incredible shortage of qualified psychiatrists and psychologists available in the province. She gave us a referral and sent us home. Came by ambulance with a twelve year old girl screaming she wants to die and ended up being sent away by a nurse with our fifteenth card for the Mobile Mental Health Crisis Team. Joke, call them and leave a message, hope they return your call.

She gave a referral for an emergency psychiatric appointment with the IWK Mental Health Service team. The same one that turned her away twice before. When we received the letter for the assessment, we were given an appointment almost six months away. It takes six months to see a doctor for emergency mental health in this province. I called, I yelled and stomped my feet for something sooner and received a letter with a later appointment date. Again I called and yelled and stomped my feet with an answer of being sent to a doctor that doesn't normally handle these kind of cases or see no one at all. I took the option of the doctor which may have been a mistake with the result being not having the full psychiatric assessment that was requested but a small interview with the two of us in the room together (no privacy no comfort), asking me questions about my childhood experiences that ended with the following statement: "her behaviour has been great the last couple of weeks so, I'm going to give you some information on some programs you can sign her up for, youth groups. It's all fine. If I saw her a few weeks ago I would have said she has this ***** diagnosis but not now." ... What in the ever-loving fuck is wrong with this person? When did a change in behaviour lasting two weeks mean that she was fine? There was something wrong, whether it be some sort of condition or something that she experienced or simply the hormones of puberty hitting her little body a little harder than normal she needed support and care from an outside and safe source, Mommy just wasn't enough anymore. Luckily, the two social workers stepped in and, happy to say, that little fart is doing much better, is smiling and laughing and incident free. Mind you, I have yet to figure out how to stop the eye-rolling. Now, because of her insane mother screaming about this to anyone that would listen, we were able to provide her with an enormous support system that is pulling her through whatever it is she was going through. There was no thanks to our healthcare system because if left to them alone, we'd still be struggling and my little girl may have gotten to passed the point of no return. I wanted my daughter, not a statistic.

Now, I have two other battles with two shorter cute creatures that also call me Mommy or MMOOOOOOOOOM!! One who has no behavioural issues because she's a princess (my eyes are rolling, she's a diva). We have had skin rashes and other issues that for years no one has really listened to me about. Chocolate milk makes her puke, milk makes her constipated, there are other things that randomly do this but milk is the biggest one I notice, yes the steroid cream stings and burns these undiagnosed rashes she gets, yes I know that's not normal and no, doctor/pharmacist/nurse I don't know what it is, that's why we're coming to you. Almost ten years with this and blammo, one doctor finally gives us a referral to a dermatologist. We're still waiting on that answer. For now she's happy in her dress doing twirls and planning her fashion career while I wash all of her stuff separately, make sure I tackle her when tries to drink or eat anything milk and/or chocolate, switched all her soaps and shampoos and pull the angry, overprotective, crazy, tattooed mom card whenever necessary to try to keep the rashes at bay.

The third one? Oh, we have a psych-ed assessment coming this year that I've been fighting for since grade one and we're finally getting speech/language help, a resource teacher to work one-on-one with him and an occupational therapist to help with his classroom setting. This took four years and one teacher to look at his grade primary level handwriting to agree with me that I have incredibly smart and creative son who obviously learns in a different way than the rest. Some are saying dyslexia and ADD while others are saying he's high functioning autistic or what used to be called Asperger's Syndrome. With lots of work at home and now, after a lengthy battle, the school on my side my little monster of boy will finally get a proper assessment so that we can focus on how it is he learns, what he needs around him to thrive and give him a better start. Not a lot of families are as lucky as we are in this case and I know there are a lot of families who have children a lot older and in higher grades that are still fighting.

So, with all that said and all that peek into my personal life and that of my strange little family, I'll share why I decided to go back to school:

No one should have to fight as much as I have for myself and my family to be healthy both physically and mentally. No one should have possible medical conditions kept from them by doctors. No one's children should go without assessment or treatment. No woman or man or child should be given the run around by a medical system who then places the blame on the parent or individual for not knowing how to navigate an intense medical bureaucracy. Not all of us are capable of finding the resources that are tucked and hidden in the nooks and crannies of this antiquated, underfunded and broken system. I was so blessed and so incredibly lucky to have firms like FamilySOS and Parenting Journeys come into my home, free of charge to me and not only be an advocate for myself and my children but give me the tools to be able to advocate for myself and family on my own. With that said, I want to be able to get the credentials I need so that I can do my small part to make sure that another family doesn't have to fight the way I did.

That and I seriously do like to study and part of me wants to sneakily use some of my friends as research subjects. So, let's take this serious post as an introduction to what's to come ... weird posts about school and cats and kids and adventures to the next phase.

Love you all, thanks for reading :)

My three favourite study buddies!!

Cranky Slurred Attempt at Remembering My Point

2014-04-08T18:39:00.001-03:00

This is my new PMS driven cranky post. I've been avoiding writing for the passed few weeks because there's been a lot going on: I haven't been feeling well which isn't unusual plus the passing of a lovely neighbour that left us all shocked and a lot of other confusing, dark and twisted things. I'm tired. Don't get me wrong, it's not all bad considering my amazing beautiful friends, The Mister, my strange and wonderful children and my now FOUR precious cats (that is no particular order of importance). They keep me supported and strong and smiling.

There are endless lists of things I need to do, bills I need to pay, appointments I need to attend and getting my brain to remember even half of those is a battle in itself. In fact, today was the second day in a row where I was called because I was currently missing an appointment. Go me! It makes me worry, I forget way too much lately and I don't know where to place the blame ... stress? sickness? overwhelming amount of crap? I'd say a little from each column.

I'm looking for a new, more affordable apartment and was lucky enough to find one in the building that a friend of mine lives in. Ground floor, lots of space, heat included in the more reasonable rent and a better neighbourhood. I filled out the application, provided my incredible references and now I sit here waiting to be denied. I forgot that my old, pervert landlord (see previous entry) has my credit screwed and now I'm embarrassed that I even filled out the application. I should be sticking to small privately owned flats in hopes that someone will take some pity on me. I thought I had a sublet a couple of months ago but, turned out they knew Mayez and let the tenant I was going to take over from know that if I showed up at the building, they'd have me arrested. Rapist: 1, me: 0.

I've been passing my time cleaning, scooping poop and making mental lists of things I desperately want to remember to put into a list of things I'm tired of hearing, along with trying to remember appointments and phone calls that need to be made. I'm having a hard time with memory and, although laughable at times, it's getting annoying.

For example, I completely forget what the point of this post was. I had it all mapped out when I was in the shower, I had specific topics to vent about and a point to make. Gone. Forgotten. I'll remember again sometime around 3am followed by telling myself I'll write it in the morning to which I'll just simply trot through the day and then once again remember when I'm in the middle of a shower. I figure that as long as I remember the important things, like to feed the kids and where I live, I'll be okay.

C'mon, laugh. I'm having a wonderful giggle at my own expense.

OH! I remember! I am not drunk! Let's elaborate shall we: I have good days and bad days. I have trouble with memory and that includes trying to have a conversation because I sometimes lose my train of thought or have a hard time getting the thought from my brain and out of my mouth, that connection breaks. Add to that the fact that if I'm tired or fatigued, my speech slurs and we have a recipe for disaster. I'm slowly becoming reclusive because of this issue and because I know people assume I have been drinking. The people close to me get it but try going to Tim Horton's in the morning with the toonie you found in a parking lot, walking up to the counter and totally forgetting how to articulate what it is that you want to order. Some of my conversations with the Mister go like this:

"I had this wonderful idea where if we take that thing out to that place where we can, you know (I'm flailing in hopes that somehow my constantly moving gimp hands will help me form words) shoot or whatever, we can figure out how to make the thingy we were talking about the other day."

In my brain, I have everything I want to say but my mouth just refuses to do it, I legitimately forget how to articulate a thought. Luckily for me, the Mister smiles and responds:

"If we drive to the range we can see the other frames people built to hang targets so we can build our own?"

Yes!

It's a small victory, a giggle followed by trying to figure out how the hell he figured that out. He speaks my language of doo-dads, thingy-ma-bobbers and quigger-jiggers. I am incredibly thankful for that and text messages. Texts are easy, I can stop and think about what I'm trying to say. Turns out my thumbs are smarter than my tongue.

I am off on a weird tangent and I honestly don't think my memory was the point of the post. Feminism maybe, the plight of being a single mother and trying to be taken seriously but that is a long ass rant for another day. I'm in too good of a mood now after having a little laugh.

Time for tea and relax time with my little people.

PS: I didn't proofread this, please forgive my atrocious grammar.

My body wants to be inside out ...

2014-02-24T21:40:00.001-04:00

Can I be blunt here for just a few minutes? I'm in bed, flat on my back and trying to figure out how to describe how I'm feeling. Aside from a minor headache, I feel like my whole body is electrified, twitchy, my skin isn't crawling but my muscles are and my spine feels like it's going to crawl like an alien out of my back. It's almost as if every muscle in my body wants to tighten and flex, that's the only way I'll get rid of the feeling but dammit, that hurts after a while. Why does my body feel like it wants to turn itself inside out? Oddly enough, the only things that hurt are my hands but I think I'd take an ache over this because at least my ibuprofen could help with an ache.

I have no idea if these feelings are caused by my medication or by my MS, I'm confused by the whole thing. Here's the blunt part: I hate every minute of this: every needle, every morning of waking up and wiggling everything to see if it moves. I'm already tired of being thankful for every step I take, every morning that I don't fall on my face and every dish that doesn't get broken. I am grateful for all the little things but at the same time I wish my little victories were still being happy for the Friday bus ride home from work instead of trying to find new ways to open things that don't include my teeth or waiting for the kids to come home from school so they can help me open a yogurt.

I'm not trying to have a pity party here and I understand that my prognosis can be positive. I am alive after all, I just wish there was a window into the future that could tell me what quality if life I am facing. Is there hope that I'll be on a Friday evening bus home from work again? My neurologist says no to me right now, got the papers in the mail today saying so. That's probably what set me up for a tailspin this evening. The kids are bed, the house is quiet & my brain decided to be over active.

Silly brain needs to come up with a genius way for me to knit again instead of making me feel like there's a layer of slime under my skin. I'm sliding around now like an eel. Hey! I found a bright side: I am becoming quite adept at squirming which is a bonus to know that I can wiggle away from danger like the imminent zombie apocalypse. However, if I'm going to be gimpy, I at least would like the benefit of knitting scarves and poorly matched socks or sew more zafu pillows or not concentrate on my gait when I walk anywhere so people don't think I'm drunk at 8AM. I do get to carry around a letter saying that I have MS and will not pass a field sobriety test. I find that one pretty amusing. I don't drive but is it possible to get a WUI (walking under the influence)?

Okay, I'm getting silly and tired. I think it's time to cut this drivel short and try to find a way to calm my twisting muscles. I do have to say thank you to my darling readers, your non-judgement and unwavering support over the last few years, months and weeks has been incredibly appreciated. I hope to have many more of these foolish posts to come.

Note: I blurbed this out to the speaker on my phone so please excuse any spelling and/or grammar errors. Also, I'm a little too twisted up in my blankets with a cat on me to proofread this crazy post.

Birthday Schmirthday

2014-02-16T15:49:00.001-04:00

I'm turning 34 today. Seems like every other day since I woke up with a tiny person jumping on me at an ungodly hour, the kids are screaming, the house is a mess, the mister showed up late for breakfast and left early and I've barely sat down from cooking and cleaning the usual Sunday mess. There are a mass of Facebook birthday wishes I'm quickly reading, liking then twisting to finish whatever mess I started trying to fix. I'm taking a minute now to sit with a cup of tea and some music before I go break the ice off of the step.

My brain keeps trying to reflect on the last year, try to get a handle on things and pack 33 away before 34 starts rolling but I don't want to do that. There has been so much good tempered with so much bad that it really was a year that left me shrugging my shoulders and wondering what the hell happened. I would like to pack it all away without the reflection and the fight to understand this last year. There are parts that I'll never understand and probably best that I don't.

If I could have one birthday wish, it would be that the bad things and the hurt don't carry over from one year to the next. I wish that our birthdays were a cut-off date for shitty times from the previous year. Whatever we were hurting from or stressing over the day before ends on our birthday and we can celebrate a new beginning, a fresh start. Sure we got our lessons from the previous years, we remember how we learned and we grew but what if our birthdays carried us over to something better? We take our friends, family, good times and happiness into the next year but the hurts and the pains and the worries stop as if they're hitting the wall. It wouldn't be ignorning them, it would finishing them and moving on with only a somewhat bitter and fleeting memory remaining. Basically I want to put Bad 33 in a box (MS, Mr. Khoury, finances, etc) and tuck it away but take the Good 33 box (kids, the mister, my friends) and leave it open to add Good 34 stuff to it. Does that even make sense?

What I'm learning from today is to not put hope into something as trivial as the day the number on the life odometer flips over. It really is just another day with all the same occurances, with all the same disappointments, heartaches, smiles and love from the previous day. Change is simple and slow, sometimes unnoticeable until we take a few minutes to look back but sometimes it slaps us in the face with the recovery slow and almost unnoticeable. This is especially true when looking at pictures of our 1980s hair. I'm going to remind myself today that nothing lasts forever, it all has an expiration date so I shouldn't put too much stock in the hurt and enjoy the peaceful moments when they're here; feel it all, it all eventually goes away and that happens much too fast.

Except Madonna, she's forever so I'm going to throw on some of her tunes and dance in the kitchen to my guilty pleasure, read my Facebook wall posts again from all the beautiful people in my life because hey, it's my birthday and there's only a few hours left.

Mr. Khoury, You Don't Get To Win This One

2014-02-11T18:09:00.000-04:00

This one is going to be hard to write but it has to be done. My hands are shaking and my brain is going a mile a minute trying to clear up what it is exactly I want to say, where to start and where to finish. I'm angry and so, I'm writing this open letter to an old landlord who just won't get out of my life.

Dear Mr. Khoury:

There's nothing "dear" about you but we'll get to that explanation. We started our doomed tenant-landlord relationship a couple of years back when I took over an apartment from two dear friends of mine. That place was a dream come true for myself and my kids with its big rooms and big yard with a garden, great neighbours and close to a school, parks, bus. Beautiful place in a prime location so I'll give it to you that you're smart with real estate. My friends warned me that you were a creep, that you would give me a hard time but I blew them off. You see, I'm a tough girl and have survived quite a lot in my life that the majority of people who know me, don't know about and I plan on keeping it that way. I figured if I survived those things, there's nothing you could throw at me that I couldn't handle.

Holy hell was I wrong.

It started out seemingly innocent, you'd drop by to see how the kids and I were adjusting and give me a hug. Eventually you were around at least twice a week and hugs turned into hugs with an ass grab. After a while I was thankful for the chain on the door because a few times you tried to get into the apartment while I was in the shower. The ass grabs went from that to touching my chest and telling me you liked my shirt or using the excuse that I had a lint on my sweater ... you lingered a little too long. You made too many requests that I wear lower cut shirts.

I finally told you that you were making me uncomfortable and that's when things went to hell. Soon you were at the apartment every day, knocking on my door, yelling up at my window that you wanted to talk to me. You were approaching my kids and telling them that their mother had better start behaving. I told them you were joking but they were scared and soon nicknamed you The Scary Man. Then you started coming in and telling me what furniture to get rid of, how I wasn't properly cleaning the apartment, berating me for not weeding the garden. You gave me rules: I wasn't to have any overnight guests except for female family members and there was to be absolutely no men allowed into the building. You assured me that you would be watching and you did. The kids and I would hide on the bed and be as quiet as possibly hoping that you wouldn't realise we were home and you'd leave us alone. They refused to play outside because they were afraid you would come around and I would call my neighbour to look for you before I left the house and before I came home. We were prisoners.

After a few weeks of living like this you called and left a message that you were having trouble with your bank account and would need to collect rent from me in cash. I quickly called you back and offered to leave an envelope in the mailbox for you and you could leave a receipt in exchange but you refused. The first month it was fine; you came in and took the money, hugged me, grabbed my ass, kissed my cheek, told me I was beautiful when I'm on my knees in the garden (I'm not the first or only person you've used that line on) and conveniently forgot your receipt book but would drop one off. You left and I showered for what felt like an eternity to wash the stink of you off my body.

The next month was hell of hiding from you. I couldn't stand the idea of you touching me, I could feel your disgusting hands on me, smell the sweat coming from you, the brown on your teeth and odd sweet smell from your breath. I was looking for a new place, hoping to find something in the area so the kids wouldn't have to switch schools. The kids were tired of laying on the bed being as quiet as possible when you were around which was now on a daily basis and for hours at a time just walking around the yard or standing outside the door waiting to hear a footstep or a toilet flush.

I was taking my time looking and I finally found a place one street over at the same time that you came for your next month's cash payment of $1200. Even though the lease said $1050, you charged me extra for care and maintenance of the place and because I was late once and you were forcing me to pay your banking fees even though you wouldn't show me proof but I figured it was easier to pay you than to deal with you so I obliged. So through the month I was withdrawing bits and pieces, stashing it away until you came around. When you came this time, I let you in and you asked me to sit so I did, thinking you were going to sit with me but instead you stood over me. I handed you the envelope and you told me once again that you forgot the receipt book. I tried to stand up and you put a hand on my shoulder, pushing me back down into the chair. Shocked I stared at you and you started berating me for having an unclean home, good women don't have laundry piles or dirty supper dishes soaking in the kitchen sink. I put my head down and bit my tongue when you finally sat across from me and reached for my hand which I quickly pulled away only to have you grab it back and squeeze. I pulled away again and that's when you told me that I could make the issue with rent easier, that all I had to do was give in and spend some time with you in the bedroom. You told me that you could show me what being with a real man was like and in exchange you would make my life easier by lowering my rent considerably.

I jumped up from the table and told you to leave, you refused and told me to sit. I yelled at you to get out or I was going to have you removed, that I would not have sex with you but you refused to leave. You stood up and walked to me, I was backing away from you while you were telling me I was a disgusting girl who didn't know her place and should have more respect for the men in her life. I was finally backed into the corner of the counter while you kept grabbing my breasts, between my legs, pushing my arms away when I tried to cover myself, when I finally screamed at you to "GET THE FUCK OUT" and that's when you slapped me so hard that my glasses came flying off of my face and called me a dirty, disrespectful bitch and whore while you turned and ran out of my door.

You didn't come around the next day.

The day after that I got a summons to tenancy court for eviction for not paying rent.

I thought this was good news. I could tell the tenancy board what had happened and that I already had a place with a moving date. I know you're wondering why I didn't call the cops but I didn't think I had the option. I'm a single mother of three and had no where else to go so I thought keeping my mouth shut while I was still there was my best option and I could open it when I left, including the tenancy hearing. You were very careful of making sure that you only did these things when the kids were asleep or I was alone so, I had to hope that someone would believe me.

When the tenancy hearing finally came, I realised I couldn't proved that I paid cash because you refused to bring me receipts but that was okay, I had honesty on my side and I knew that you had dealings with the tenancy board many times before. Another thing I was wrong about. I broke down into tears on the conference call for the hearing, no one would listen to what I had to say and the lady who was running the hearing was making it sound like I was a ghetto rat just ripping off my landlord when I yelled that "this man tried to rape me". The lady disconnected from you and spoke only to me, saying that I needed to grow up and get a hold of myself. She then told me that I would have her decision within two weeks.

Two weeks passed, I moved and no notice from the tenancy board. I saw you parked across from my new place when I first moved watching me. I know you refused my friend entry to finish getting the last of my things and clean the place so I figured you just wanted me gone as much as I wanted to be out. Two dressers and some clothes were worth having you out of my life. I saw you drive behind me slowly when I was going to Giant Tiger, I saw you pull in the mall parking lot and watch me going to Wal-Mart or Tim Horton's. I see you driving by my apartment five to six times every single day. You've approached the kids early in the time that I had moved so I rerouted their walk home from school and notified the school of the make, model and license plate number of your car. I've watched you follow me, I saw you in my work parking lot more than once. I saw you at my bus stop.

Months passed and still nothing so I thought that everything was done and over with. Then I go to the bank and guess what? Somehow, you were able to get a small claims judgement against me without my knowledge. I never received a summons at home or at work. I never had a phone call. I don't understand how you were able to do that when I had absolutely no notification. You know my bank, my address, my phone number, where I work and follow me enough to know my schedule. The tenancy board also has all of that information so there was no excuse for me not to be able to defend myself against you in a small claims court. You put a lien on my bank account six months and one day after the date of the judgement which was a smart move because that meant that I couldn't appeal the decision. After a week of back and forth between courts and finally having a complete breakdown in the sheriff's office, I was able to get a sheriff who knew you and understood that I was being honest and the victim of your vengeance for loss of control and did what he could to make things easier for me.

I closed my account and went to cheques only and have been forced into the process of filing bankruptcy because I'm the sole provider of three children and on a long-term disability income after losing a great amount of dexterity from complications of Multiple Sclerosis. I hope that makes you happy Mr. Khoury.

You never stopped the driving by, the stopping in front of my apartment, the pulling in front of me when I'm walking, pulling into parking lots and watching where I'm going but a couple of months ago you made a big mistake and that was stopping my girls. Two little girls on their way home from their friend's house and you stop them on the sidewalk, wouldn't let them pass, yelling that you had a message for their mother and they had better listen to you. They ran home, came in crying and just like the Mama Bear I am, I went over to the next street and I berated you. Your only answer was that I was said that you "stopped fucking me and I couldn't handle it". I almost threw up, walked back home and called the police. You can do whatever you want to me but you will not scare my children. They had a chat with you and the next day I filed a peace bond application.

That didn't stop you.

The hearing came and a friend came with me. All you had to do was answer yes or no. If you said yes, we'd sign the papers and agree to stay the hell away from each other, it would be over. You said no and because of that, a hearing would have to happen. My heart sank and I broke into a fit of tears. I wanted it to be over, I wanted to be done. The bankruptcy is taking care of the judgement and the bond would have taken care of the rest but no, I had to go through more. I bawled in the courtroom, in the silence all I could squeak out was that all I wanted was for you to leave my family alone. The sheriff rubbing my back while my friend stroked my hair and the judge told me to get some help and the hearing was scheduled.

I contacted the Avalon Centre and found some wonderful, amazing women who helped me put into perspective the sexual assault and supported my decision to not move forward with sexual assault charges. You see, in the time since that initial peace bond hearing I was given my definitive diagnosis and started taking daily injections every evening so my concentration has to be my health, I cannot ... no, I refuse, to make you a priority.

That's where I'm supposed to be tonight, telling a judge why I think the bond should be in place but I'm home with my children instead. I contacted Victim Services and a counsellor at the Avalon Centre contacted to court to do what they could so that I could go to court during the day while the kids were in school so that I wouldn't have to worry about childcare, I wouldn't have to do an injection in a courthouse and I wouldn't have to face you.

The court said no. For some reason, the people who apply for peace bonds and are in fear of someone have to face them when it comes to a peace bond hearing, they have no choice. Any other court case and the person in fear can be in a different room, provide video testimony or have a proxy but not in a peace bond case. You have assaulted me, sexually and physically and I would have no protection from you in that court aside from a sheriff. Victim Services and the Avalon Centre were great in offering to accompany me to the hearing but that doesn't help me with childcare or with my health issues.

You get to walk into court tonight and the judge gets to throw out my application because I am a no show due to family and health issues plus was refused to be allowed to offer an affidavit, a notarised letter, video testimony or to meet with the judge at an early time when I wasn't sticking a needle in myself and putting three kids to bed. It's not fair.

You get to hurt me, I don't get to tell. I get silenced by red tape. I get silenced because I don't have the money to fight you. I get silenced because I am a single mother with medical issues and no one willing to work with me within the justice system. You get to hurt me and walk away scot free. You get to hurt my family and get away with it while I'm the one who is moving out of the area, changing my phone number and moving the kids so that you can't find us. It's not fair. You get to hurt me over and over and over while I get to feel abandoned by the justice system that is supposed to protect me from you.

File sexual assault charges? Why? So I can suffer for years while you're being investigated? No, my family has been through enough hell with you and now you get to keep on doing it to me and any other woman that crosses your path that you think is vulnerable.

You don't win though. You didn't get my body even though you tried and you may have torn down big pieces of my life including my finances, my feeling of safety and brought me back to panic attacks and anti-depressants but you know what? I am not ashamed because I'm still here and I can tell other women that they're not alone, that we can survive what people like you do to us and that we will come out stronger. I may have to eat an Ativan to help get me through the day but goddamn you will not steal my ability to have a voice against you and the stupidity of the courts when it comes to peace bonds. I am positive I am not the only one and I'll scream from the roof about how unfair it all is, how unfairly I was treated from the tenancy board on down to the provincial courts.

So you see Mr. Khoury, you don't win this. All you did was give me the fire to fight.

Birds, Bees and Hairy Armpits

2014-01-17T11:28:00.001-04:00

I am a survivor, a fighter and an all around pain in the ass when it comes to certain things. I dredged and trudged my way through a lot of hardships and losses, losing my parents and a daughter, failed and tumultuous relationships, financial struggles and then, the icing on the cake, being diagnosed with the disease that took my own mother's life. I'm still smiling and I'm still happy and I'm still moving forward. There is one thing that worries me like no other, one period of time that I'm now facing head on for the first time from the perspective of a mother and an adult. This is scary business, some serious stuff that I really don't know how I'm going to handle. It's called ....

.... dun dun DUNNNN ....

Puberty.

I am the proud mother of three babies, one of which recently turned eleven. I'm looking at her and seeing my little girl, a chubby nine pound baby who had so many rolls she resembled the Michelin Tire Man (real name is Bibendum - I remember that but can't remember the name for scissors, go figure). Now my chubby baby is almost as tall as I am with hips and a waist and ... lord thunderin' help me ... we're shopping for bras along with preparing for periods which I'm hoping that when it finally does come, will give a brief relief to what seems to be almost a year or more of severe PMS. However, I also know that this is probably the tip of the hormone iceburg but I'm refusing to admit that yet.

Attitudes are changing, wants and needs are changing. My little girl is in a strange transition period where she wants to be independent; choosing fashion and friends, taking babysitting classes and dreaming about her future while at the same time getting excited for Santa Claus and sheepishly asking for dolls. Little Miss L who now looks eye-to-eye with her dear ole mother, is stuck between being a little girl and the reality of growing up.

It's becoming easier to embarrass my little girl and she's getting to the stage where being seen in public with Mommy Dearest and her "little" sister and brother is a shameful act. That's where I dance around like a fool and watch her whisper through clenched teeth while her face turns red, "you are so embarrassing". On the flip side of that, I'm not too embarrassing to be around when there's a nightmare, a bully or an issue with homework. I am embarrassing when I start talking about how normal it is to get hair in funny places then complain about shaving armpits. The two "little" ones find me hilarious while my blooming soon-to-be junior high student just turns red and ....

"MOM! NO! You're gross! Ewww!" ... *stomp* *stomp*

I guess it's obvious that we have a very open house about changes in our bodies and Miss L knows she can ask questions and get the uncomfortable answers from her mother. I don't mind being open about the voice changes, hair changes, hips and boobs, pimples and moods simply because I don't remember anyone being that open with me. I heard the word "menstruation" a lot but no one explained to me about cramps and bloating, PMS, leaks and what to do. Ladies, we all know how beneficial it would be if someone had've taught us how to make an emergency pad out of toilet paper and that cold water takes blood out if you get it right away or, that a special selection of super comfortable "period panties" is an absolute must. It would also help to know that small make-up cases in the bottom of our school bags would be perfect for hiding pads, fresh bloomers, deodourant or, what I would like to call The Puberty Emergency Kit.

I wish I had've been armed with the information so I'm hoping that my being so open about the changes we all experience to become an adult, as well as respecting our bodies when it comes to relationships with other people, will be of some benefit to her and to my other two soon to bloom munchkins. I was twelve years old, only one year older than my snotty pubescent darling daughter, when someone was exceptionally inappropriate with me and my lack of even basic knowledge at that point left me in a situation where I couldn't even describe to anyone what happened. Our girls need to know that our bodies are ours and no one has a right to touch us when we say no or when we're not ready. I sincerely hope that my openness (no, my girls do not know what happened to me and this is the first I've come out with it outside of a therapist's office) can give both of my girls and equally importantly, my son, the knowledge, respect and ability to stand up for themselves and to know there is no shame in saying no or waiting and respecting the other person who may say no to them.

Mind you everything is appropriate according to ages although the little sister was quite jealous that her big sister got to go shopping for "panty stickers" without her. That turned into an interesting conversation that ended simply with a disgusted eight-year-old whom, after absorbing the information, flipped her hair and strutted off doing her patented drama walk. The boy might be a different story. At this point he's simply fascinated with himself and that's wonderful but I do see a lot of phone calls to Daddy in the future. Girls I kind of understand, boys are totally different animal.

With all that said, puberty scares the shit out of me and not because of talks or body changes or issues with sex or sexuality. By they way, we are 100% supporters of gay rights and I myself identify as bisexual. Wow, I'm coming out with a lot today aren't I? I'm quietly giggling thinking of what twists my own, very private sisters would be in if they knew I was sharing so much with the world but hey, if I'm experiencing this stuff than so is someone else so why not share and commisserate and support each other? Anyway, I'm on a tangent so back to puberty ... it's the realization of how fast time goes by. Eleven years ago I was nursing a little girl and staring down at her, absolutely terrified of being a mother and shell-shocked that I really had a baby. Then I blinked and I'm sitting here writing about puberty. I never understood when people told me to enjoy them when they're small because it goes by quickly but now I do and I worry if the next eleven years are going to be just as fast.

I guess this is really a family transition and like all transitions, bumpy. We'll survive and one day I'll get to do with my babies what I loved doing with my Ma before she passed and that was sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and talk about what it was like growing up, telling funny stories of things I did as a child that either I didn't remember or she never found out about. I tell my kids that I'm not their friend, I'm their mother and here to guide them into becoming adults but, at some point in the future, we will be friends. As much as I want them to stay tiny and innocent and ridiculously hilarious at times, I'm also excited to get to the friendship part of the parent-child relationship.

Those will be some pretty great stories ...

Another Hiatus ...

2014-01-15T21:31:00.001-04:00

I guess my promise not to take another long hiatus from writing sort of went down the toilet. In all honesty, it's been a pretty stressful couple of months or so with trying to figure a lot of things out. It's okay though, I'm doing well aside from fatigue and a new relapse that is including vertigo which throws me off balance so if you see me out, I'm not as drunk as I might look. I'm powering through it, setting myself some nap schedules and adjusting to my new normal. Now that the diagnosis is definitive and the syringes of Copaxone are sitting happily in my fridge, I feel ... well, I feel surreal.

"New Normal". Is there such a thing or is normal not so compliant as to allow itself to become in a state of newness? I don't know how well or for how long I can wax poetic on the ever changing and morphing state of normal. I guess it can change, we change. I read somewhere that people tend to have gone through personality changes on an average of every seven years which explains why when we reacquaint ourselves with someone from our past, they can seem so very different than what we remember. Silly maturing brain.

So I suppose the point of my rant before I drifted off into a pre-nap, exhausted tangent is that my new normal includes a feeling of being surreal. I guess the surreal feeling is coming from having to adapt to something that I just wasn't prepared for nor did I ever want to be prepared for it. Sitting across from a neurologist and hearing him say that he was positive I had MS turned my whole world upside down. He went on after that explaining to me the ins and outs of the disease but all I heard was that I am now the proud new owner of the same disease that killed my mother. I know, I know ... medications and treatments and outcomes are completely different now and the chances of me ending up with such an aggressive form of the disease is slim but I can't help it if I slip into memories.

There's a lot of new things that this new normal has brought with it, like giant pink elephants in the room with me that I try to ignore. I'm sure this is perfectly normal to allow myself to slip into autopilot as I progress though the daily tasks of laundry and dishes and sweeping floors, chasing kids and making lunches. The elephants sit there though, waiting for attention but I prefer the autopilot. The old wonderful will has to be updated and we all know just how much fun that can be (definite sarcasm there) plus with that comes appointing guardians which means some difficult conversations to have. Then there's determining a living will and the possibility of appointing someone power of attorney in the case that I can't make decisions on my own (already had a pretty intense nightmare about that one that required tea to recover). There's also looking for a new apartment without stairs since my heavy legs are making it hard to get up and down the ones here. I also have to hunt for some fat utensils for my gimpy hands, find some way to get some vocational training since office work is out of the question and almost impossible to me now and blah and blah and blah and elephants. I prefer autopilot for the majority of the day and tackle the big things one at a time, no rush since I plan on being here until I'm at least 114 years old.

So even though I'm gliding through my days spaced out on Planet Distracted listening to old George Carlin stand-up and crossing things off of my multiple lists, I seem to be enjoying these days more. I get excited for sunshine and snowflakes, the rain doesn't seem like such a horrible thing anymore. I don't dread the housework but rather enjoy the outcome after a good cleaning session. I like chasing tiny people around in the morning and waking the munchkins up has become a game. I look forward to making supper and hanging out listening to the events of the day from the perspective of three elementary school kids whose hugs have become the best thing in the world, I could simply melt. The daily trip to the gym to limp around with the other ladies, most of them over 65 and in better shape than me, is inspiring and amazing. My lovely and sometimes strange BBM texts from two of the most wonderful and beautiful girls I know are sure to brighten my day and are definitely something I thoroughly enjoy, even if most of them are sent from the bathroom. Then there are Thursdays. Yeah, that's a whole other post but that amazing shooting teacher still gives me butterflies and makes me stutter. Thursdays have become my favourite days, one that I can forget my elephants and relax with someone who loves zombies as much as I do, can talk as much as I do and smell the pears and caramel in a freshly opened bottle of whiskey.

It has become quite a surreal life these last couple of months. 2013 was frought with worry and wonder and 2014, although started quite oddly, seems to be settling itself into a balance of exceptionally difficult and exeptionally beautiful.

Needles, Headaches and Dammit! I'm Standing Up!!

2013-09-15T20:44:00.001-03:00

I'm finally sitting up with only minimal head pain. I had the big finale of tests this passed Thursday, the needle in the spine, the lumbar puncture. My nerves were shot for the majority of the days leading up to it and finally on the morning of, I was a wreck. They were putting a needle in between the vertebrae of my spine to steal my cerebrospinal fluid for testing and I was not really happy about the whole ordeal. Sure it's the last test on the list but: NEEDLE IN MY SPINE!! All told, I ended up with twelve freezing needles and two in the spine. It felt as gross as you think it did. Blech.

Once I arrived at the hospital and met my nurse I was almost immediately at a slight ease but still wringing my hands. Normally tests don't make me nervous but this one did so, with the doctor's permission, she gave me a lovely dose of lorazepam and left me to grin until the neurologist arrived for the test so I sat texting everyone I knew furiously and staring at my feet swinging over the side of the bed. I should not have watched the procedure on YouTube. It doesn't look that bad but, it's a damn needle in my spine. I think I'm still freaking out.

Happy pre-procedure with Ativan, johnny shirt & Chucks.

Aaaand what the final result of a lumbar puncture looks like. Yuck!

There is also the fact that I'm still nursing a "spinal headache", a side effect of the procedure. Basically if I'm standing up or sitting upright, my head is pounding. I'd equate it to a migraine because light and sound hurt but I think I'd be putting down the power of the mighty migraine as I've never had one to compare. All I know is that I'd rather have a fork jammed in my temple than feel that pain. Yes, yes I know I can take ibuprofen or acetaminophen but it doesn't help. The only thing that rids the melon of the throbbing spinal headache is to lay down. Once I'm horizontal, I feel like a million dollars and can take on the world.

Three days in bed is enough, I need to move before I fuse to the sheets and farther than just the school and back or answering the door for take-out. I did force myself up today, swallowed more ibuprofen than I care to admit before tackling a shower and the weekly Sunday Big Breakfast. I felt great bumbling into the bathroom with clean clothes and towels, excited for the hot water and fun smells. By the time I was rinsing the shampoo out of my hair I couldn't keep my eyes open because the light hurt so much and the noise of the fan was, well I wanted to suffer the noise of the gun shot to make it stop. I suffered through conditioner and getting washed while hoping to get my ass to bed before I had to start Big Breakfast but no.

I hopped out of the shower to a text that my regular Sunday morning guest was coming a little earlier. That was fine as I still thought I had time for a quick lay down before I started cooking until I saw what the munchkins had managed to do to the kitchen while I was in the shower. There was at least one load for the dishwasher, the floor needed a severe sweeping and mop while the table and counters were also in need of a scrub. I sighed, I sat and I put three little people to work. I was pleasantly surprised that these three who normally do their best to become my housework nemesis happily chipped in and helped clean the mess in the kitchen. My kids, outside of their constant sibling fighting, really are thoughtful and awesome.

The bacon was a little burned, the sausages were a little extra greasy and the pancakes were unusual but edible at best. I cooked, swallowed more ibuprofen, put my head down on the table, cleaned up and kept going. I did it. With a three day headache I managed to accomplish Sunday Big Breakfast, survived three squealing kids who take the words "Mom isn't feeling good, please be whisper quiet today" as a challenge of who has the highest volume and a lovely man loudly discussing the finer points of pistols and whiskey over a breakfast I didn't have the stomach for.

I wouldn't change it for the world, not one moment.

I'm one step closer to full diagnosis, treatment and getting my hands back to at least some use. I was shown just how much Lily, Chloe and Everett do care and reaffirmed how much I'm thankful that I have such thoughtful babies. Plus I was able to be distracted by someone who enjoys the same things as I do, teaches me a lot of new things and isn't afraid to make fun of my spastic arm. Through all that pain and feeling like my eyes were trying to escape my head, I couldn't help but smile and laugh and be at peace, happy in the moment surrounded by people I care about.

I really am a lucky girl.

THE BREAKFAST
(Yes, the whiskey was included.)

I Saw My Brain and Other Adventures

2013-09-04T23:05:00.005-03:00

I woke up this morning with every intent on this being a good day. That is until I realized I slept in for the first day of school. I rushed and somehow managed to get three kids fed, dressed, washed, lunches made and out the door in time to get to their first day of school. It wasn't without some battles of "there's no way you're wearing that" and the panic of making sure everyone has everything they need even though we've checked and double checked every day for a week now. Let's add the breath test to make sure all the teeth are brushed and the face inspection to make sure no jam from breakfast was missed during the washing. Clean kids is a small morning victory.

We all managed our shoes, our stuff and were on our merry way. Lily found her grade six class, Chloe made it to her grade three room and Little Man Everett arrived safe and sound to grade one. Once they were dropped off I slowly meandered my way home. Kids first day back to school was a small morning victory so I kicked a rock, mailed a letter (yes, people still do this) and pondered how fast my kids are getting older and bigger and also, like most mothers, how weird it will be to have a quiet house all day even after a summer all by myself. However great this small victory, I still needed to get home and clean the house a little.

So I get home and what faces me is two broken wooden beds and a bunch of boxes that I pulled out of storage to rummage through and purge. That was a mistake. I looked up the stairs and wondered how the hell I was going to get the energy to get up them let alone get the broken beds broken down for the garbage. Not only that, I had company coming at ten for tea. It was 9:30AM and I wasn't even close to ready for anyone to see the mess that had become my apartment. I quickly kicked off my boots and grabbed the clothes and the Mr. Clean and the broom. I had that place looking clean yet slightly disorganized with enough time to brush my teeth, my hair and change my shirt. I stood with the broom in my hand, the dish cloth on my shoulder waving like a cape with my hand on my hip ... Super Mom? No, Super Procrastinator who completed a small task in a tizzy rush which I am counting as another small morning victory.

The kettle was on when my morning visitor came bearing gifts of a giant box of tea and a big jug of milk. It was lovely but I was more excited about the smile, the hug and the little bit of affection I was craving. I will not nor do I want to get into details of the discussion but let's just say that no one ran, no one cried, no one freaked out but someone did fart. All in all, another small morning victory that left me happy, comfortable and secure.

Now the big part: the neurologist. The kids went to my friend's place while I went for the bus which was late then the ferry which was also late then the walk which made me late to the office where the doctor was running behind. Thank you universe. There's only one other time I remember shaking in a doctor's office and it's not a time I care to remember. I texted my friends, joked with the receptionist and listened to the older couple next to me try to figure out what the purpose of a neurologist was. They also whispered about me very loudly.

"She's too young to be here, there's nothing wrong with her."

"Ohhh wait, look! Her hands do that tremor thing like mine do .... hers are worse." (Picture the look of awe on a woman who is at bare minimum 80.)

Yeeeeah, dear readers, remember that sometimes people can hear you whisper when you're sitting next them separated only by an end table with two magazines. Nothing else to do but giggle as they were freaking adorable. Before I could debate too long on whether or not to tell them what the FRCPC meant after Dr. MacKelvey's name (Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians of Canada for anyone who was also wondering), THE Dr. MacKelvey was calling my name.

Off I went but no skip in my step since I felt like I was walking to my doom. I sat, he sat and reviewed my charts and then he did the coolest thing ever: he brought up my MRI scan and showed me my BRAIN!! I saw my brain! Top and side view and my neck and it was so interesting and so gross. My eyes looked like boiled eggs and my cervical spine look like meaty ox tail. The brain itself looks just how you'd imagine it, like wrinkled grey play dough. The MRI scan was amazing, I could even see hairs coming from the line that was my skin and wrinkles and what would be muscle and the bone was incredible. I was able to see the inside of one of my vertebrae!! Small afternoon victory of seeing the inside of my own head and not a lobster's! Whoop!

I also saw my lesions and that's when it was real. Reading the MRI report was one thing but seeing the white blotches on the screen that was MY brain, not a Google image, hammered home the reality. I was in a neurologists office, not someone else, being told that although I seem to have gained some strength since my last visit, my progress was slow and it didn't look like my hand function was going to come back. I wasn't holding someone else's hand when they were told that even though the lesions were small, there were a lot of them, I was wringing my own hands together. It was my shoulder this man touched, looked me in the eye and promised me he was going to do what he could to keep my from progressing like my mother. He told me not to give the 100% to the diagnosis yet, to keep hope up and there are still more tests to do then finished that statement with,

"All young women like you with these kind of lesions, it's always MS".

Lumbar puncture next week. Going to look at my cerebrospinal fluid for oligoclonal bands, patterns of immunoglobulins (antibodies) which are products of the breakdown of myelin or something to that basic sort. Testing positive for these bands is indicative of MS and will, along with the MRI and EMG test, give me the 100%. Although, the way he looked at me changed and suddenly I'm being seen not at his office next time but at a hospital with all of my follow-ups at the local MS Clinic.

The receptionist was a little nicer on my way out, spoke a little softer when she handed me a blood work sheet and the clinic's card to call at any time with any questions. She'll be in touch with the time for the lumbar puncture, which will happen within a week with a six week return on the results which, if positive, will be the result needed to start interfuron therapy to slow any progression and help put me in remission from this lapse.

No real victory this afternoon, just a good dose of reality.

The Great Gimpy vs Lobster Battle of 2013

2013-09-02T19:51:00.002-03:00

Picture it: Atlantic SuperStore, Fairview Halifax during a no-tax sale. Myself and three small kids wandering through deciding on how to spend our very small budget to obtain maximum meal results. We also required something for a celebratory meal since after months of stress, worry and spending copious amounts of money for requested paperwork, my long-term disability claim was approved. I don't have to worry anymore about forcing myself back to work and can concentrate on my appointments, the lifestyle changes, regulating medications and getting myself to a good place before I have to add work to the equation but, I digress, as that is not the point of this story.

We traipsed around the store until I spied a big yellow discount sign in the seafood department, I swung a hard left almost knocking three tiny people down like dominoes and headed toward the beacon of money saving possibilities. That is where I saw a sale on lobster. LOBSTER! So not only did I find cooked, fresh lobsters at a no-tax sale but also marked down for sale. I rummaged through the bin with the other vultures, shooting necessary dirty looks until I found the perfect lobster. Not too big and not too small not too big of an amount on the price tag which fit perfectly within the range of "I'd only spend it on tea at Tim's anyway" reasoning.

Red Delicious

We brought home our fresh red delicious crustacean and carefully placed him in the fridge. There he sat while I sat at the table realizing that I have the grip strength of an eight year old child and cracking a lobster could prove next to impossible. The search for a volunteer lobster cracker began and, after two days and contacting pretty much everyone I know to see if they would be willing to come help me, I ended up with no help. Finally, on the second day I came to realize I was in the position where it was either eat the damn thing or introduce him to the compost bucket in the morning. I almost mourned this lobster by constantly thinking about the newspaper and plastic bag covered table, the mess of the shells, how long it had been since I've dribbled lobster juice down my chin and the front of my shirt while I was tipped back in my chair and sucking on claw like a por... nevermind, not finishing that analogy but I'm sure you guys get it.

I decided to take out Red Delicious and while ripping open the plastic wrap had a chat with the lesions in my brain to please allow my hands to not be so weak today because there was something important that needed to be completed. No, I don't have a nutcracker and yes I have a hammer but considering the fact that I drop almost everything I pick up, no one really wants me to be swinging a hammer. I thought about it, I planned and, in some cases, I sent texts with subliminal messages such as, "feel like having some lobster?" but it didn't work. I considered locking the munchkins in a room and digging out my hard hat so I could hulk smash this little beast but then thought of the possible holes in the walls or the broken kitchen window that could result from me flailing any type of heavy object. Finally I was cranky and decided to go for it.

Calm.

Prepare for murderous rampage.

I know, it's not very big but we had our talk and I think my hate face finally softened his shell.

I took some deep breaths, I had some minor meditation and then Red Delicious and I had our talk. I explained to this beast that I was a mother with children to feed and that he was going to a better place, our bellies. Finally I tried an intimidation tactic and showed this little, delicious ocean cockroach who was boss and brought out my hate face. I put it on the table, I took off my sweater and put a bun in my hair and readied myself for the gimp battle of the year so far. My cracking, aching hands were no match for my will power ... and, aside from that, I was hungry. I grasped the tail, I twisted and I pulled.

SURPRISE!

Hell yeah, now let's get serious.

The beginning of my victories over this beast of the sea!

I snapped that tail one way and then split it the other pulling the meat out and letting the juice spill on the plate below me. I tossed the remnants onto a plastic bag and went for the body. Slowly I removed each leg, one by one and enjoying every snap of the shell as it came off in my greasy hand with a crunch and a squirt of the salty water this monster once lived and was boiled it. As I grasped the now legless and tailless body in my hands, I squeezed it in my fists and felt that shell crack which allowed me to open it and take out the gross stuff that none of us here eats. However, I did get to inspect the inside of Red Delicious' head which followed promptly by disgusting myself at how a little too interested I had become in lobster brains.

The tail was completed, the legs were removed and the plates were filling up with lobster meat but there was one part left: claws. This is the part I was worried about, the part that gave this Lester his strength in his life might be the downfall of my slow victories today. I took a deep breath and started, each knuckle coming off easier than I expected (the lobster's, not mine although it was starting to feel like mine were about to snap off) and I pushed little pieces of meat onto the plates while the juices started spilling to the floor. A messy clean up was worth these small conquests and I was happily sitting on the top of the food chain. I did it. I cracked the claws and dug out the meat. The juices and bits of shell covered my shirt and I was loving it.

After wiping up the majority of the mess, I yelled to my kids to come taste the fruits of my labour. One little lobster died so that we could have a treat ... CORRECTION: so that they could have a treat. The three little monsters ate it up so fast by the time I turned back around from putting the shells in the compost, it was all gone. Vultures. I live with three tiny vultures but it's okay since they were smiling and happy on the top of their food chain too.

Thumbs up to lobster murder and dismemberment.

Things I Need to Stop, Please (picture me sticking my tongue out)

2013-08-14T21:38:00.002-03:00

I'm starting this after a misunderstanding of a comment from a lovely cousin on a post I put on Facebook last night. What started as a joke turned into a half a joke leaving me confused. My cousin was able to squeak out a "stop please" before she ran to go for coffee with her friend and was unable to finish the joke she was making. It left me sitting here wondering what it exactly it is I need to stop. This woman is amazing and, even though we've barely had a conversation over the last few years, she's been quite supportive and offered a lot of support for my new journey with MS so I know there was nothing negative but, it still made me think.

I laid in bed staring at the ceiling making a mental list of things I needed to stop or possibly needed to stop. Stop writing? Oh hell no. I don't care how awful of an author I am, writing this blog is the best therapy outside of getting a tattoo and we all, well most of us, know how therapeutic that needle can be.

Do I stop getting tattooed? Stop laughing, I was serious! It'll never happen though, I don't feel finished yet and getting inked is a personal journey. I'm sure I'll let you know when my canvas is complete. Same goes for the ears, they're at a 0 gauge and definitely going to be bigger. Swallow that thought now, I'm not arguing about it or justifying it.

Do I stop second guessing my abilities? Yes. I think that's one thing I can stop and learn to trust that I am an intelligent and capable woman. Fear of failure stemming from doubting if I was good enough has already cost me a couple of dreams so dammit, I need to work on putting that one to bed as do a lot of us other smart, capable women. A road to success is paved with failure. Yes, it is now cliche o'clock.

Do I stop hoping to find love? The answer six months ago was a resounding yes. There was no way in hell I would even consider being in a relationship. I didn't want it, wasn't looking for it and had no desire whatsoever to let someone in. I was quite happy alone and was quite happy with staying that way. There was no way I would let anyone set me up, introduce me to people, just no. I very much enjoyed the freedom of being single, being on my own and doing my own thing without having to include anyone else outside of my little family. Funny how things change when someone walks in your life and throws you for loop. Seems all of my desire to never be in another relationship melted away and now I look forward to it. I'm actually a little mad this person has made me a smiling, ridiculously happy hypocrite.

Do I stop the negative body image? Another resounding yes! So what if I'm fluffy, I've actually grown to love the few extra pounds that I have. The older I get, the less afraid of mirrors I have become. Yes it can be difficult finding clothes since I'm too big for normal stores and too small for plus size but hey, I'm not exactly a person with a conventional sense of style anyway. I've learned that no one is perfect and I've learned that it is the imperfections in people that I find beautiful because they're what makes that person different. I needed to learn to love the imperfections in myself and I think I'm on that road. So hey, calling me fat is not an insult, I know what size my pants are and if you don't like my fat ass, that's your problem and not mine. I'm gonna flip my giant curls and keep strutting along.

Do I stop singing to myself? Only when I'm alone in public. I'm a rock star, my singing to myself is not going to stop so please, stop shooting the dirty looks up at my kitchen window when I'm putting on a concert for my cats.

Do I stop worrying? I'm a mother of three kids, I will never stop worrying. It's the things I worry about that needed to change. Worry priorities! Worrying what the people at my job think about my performance when I know that I'm doing my job to the best of my abilities is not important but worrying about my kids getting home safe from school is perfectly fine. See the difference? I have learned to, albeit not always successfully, prioritized the worries. I'm working on it.

Do I stop shaking? I have MS! Okay, that's not funny but hey, I need a sense of humour with this diagnosis. I won't stop shaking but I'm not going to stop working on taking care of myself and getting as healthy as I possibly can, learn to live with the symptoms I have, prepare for the ones that might be ahead of me and fight like hell to keep the Lesion Family in my brain from adding to their brood. MS picked a worthy opponent, I'm one tough sonofabitch.

I had a big list in my head last night while I was laying in bed but this is what I've managed to get out for tonight. I expect that this entry may be edited to add more "stops" and explanations as to why I should or shouldn't actually stop them. It was a nice purge tonight and must say I feel pretty good now. Good enough for a cup of tea, pajamas and a snuggle up with The Big Lebowski.

OH!! I will never stop with tea, zebra print flannel or classic movies either ...

It's That Time of Year ... 100 Pre-Sharpened Pencil Time!

2013-08-13T21:12:00.000-03:00

I sit down a little while ago to do the inevitable and combine three school supply lists into one easy list for shopping. As I have the three lists in front of me, I realize just how specific these lists are but horribly so. It's not a pack of crayons, it's Crayola crayons only and very specific scribblers, pencils, etc. Before I have a teacher jump down my throat here, I understand that it's better to have the classroom uniform and all the kids have the same things but my question is this: does it really have to be Crayola, Hilroy, HB, Fiskars, Mead and everything else brand name? Why can't it be no-name or dollar store brands? I understand there are some things that can't be found as a no-name product but come on, there's no reason to not break it down to minimal name brand supplies.

Let's look at it this way: I don't live in the best of neighbourhoods. Where I am situated, although close to an elementary school, is a combination of low-income families, single working mothers/fathers, fixed income families and other assorted families peppered between senior citizens. It's a quiet neighbourhood but still a little sketchy as one would expect from a low-income area. So, if the majority of the children going to this elementary school are families like mine and budgeted to the penny, than how is it possible to expect all of these families to come up with the supplies? Okay, I'll concede that a lot of them have one child which makes buying supplies easier but, for the most part, it's two or more children in the school and that can make for a small financial crisis. I didn't start this to complain though as this is a time of year I normally enjoy and not just because the kids are back in school but because we have a lot of fun getting ready for it.

Back to school shopping is normally a game. The kids and I pick a day to go to the stores with our list and turn shopping into a scavenger hunt where each will be given a supply to find and put in the cart. Sounds kind of boring but think of chasing three little people with a shopping cart while they get excited over the pretty folders and the funky scissors, can't help but have a good laugh at the red-faced little people fighting their way through an aisle full of crayons. Oh and the look on their faces when they can't reach is priceless and turns them into tiny engineers if I don't get down the aisle in time to get it for them. Then it's home, a little pizza party to celebrate our conquest followed by sorting it all out. Everyone in their own spot with their list yelling out what they need while I toss it in their pile. Once that's finished, it's the labelling and packing and bed. Doing this last year was actually quite simple and I was blessed with the list requiring a lot of dollar store items but this year, well see for yourself:

Edit: List of supplies has been removed as it was brought to my attention that the post was coming across as a shady way of asking for help and that is not the case. My apologies to anyone who misunderstood the point of this entry and I do thank you for the offers of assistance. Please, all I ask is that you keep on reading ...

I still have some supplies from the last school year but not nearly enough to get them through. When I add school bags, lunch bags, gym sneakers, new clothes to the list it makes my head spin. I want to enjoy this back to school season as much as the other ones, not fret over if we're going to get it all together in time. I've already mentally written the note to the teachers to say, "sorry but you'll just have to wait for the rest". No harm in that I guess and I'm sure I'm not the only parent who isn't able to afford everything all at once. I know I could've done it all in bits and pieces over the summer but all of the extra money went to my doctor's office to pay for the reports requested by my employer, Shepell and ManuLife. That itself is a totally new post.

So, dear readers, cross your fingers that at the end of this month I'm delegating the sharpening of 100 pencils to a group of tired babies of mine in preparation for the impending trek to the classroom. I can't think of anything I'd rather do than a school supply pizza party with my little munchkins.

Who can resist chasing these three tiny crazy people around Wal-Mart?

Nightmares? No, I've had enough but thanks ...

2013-08-07T22:37:00.000-03:00

Have you ever had one of those dreams that were so real that they stuck with you for hours, sometimes days after having them? Or that they were so real that you woke up from your sleep mid-dream in either sweats, tears or panic, maybe even ecstasy? That happened to me last night. I remember bolting upright in my bed with a tightness in my chest and an unnerving sense of urgency and panic thinking I was still in my dream. I slowly realized I was in bed and in the dark except for the reptile lights, sweating under my comforter and trying to catch my breath. The dream I had was so real that I really did want to pinch myself.

The evening started quite normally, I snuggled up with my copious amount of pillows, ensuring they were all placed perfectly where they'd be the most comfortable for me. Three under my head, body pillow wrapped around between my knees one tucked behind my back and on and on. I don't know why I do it, I wake up with most of them on the floor but it's a cozy way to fall asleep happy and relaxed. The cats did their usual bounce off me and into the window but they settled down while I finished watching a silly show on the laptop before turning over and passing out. Then I remember this:

Laying in a hospital bed surrounded by a doctor, a couple of nurses, my shooting instructor and a lawyer. The lawyer I have never come across in waking memory which doesn't make any sense because I do have a lawyer that does my papers. I remember them saying something that I understood as "feeding tube" and felt the actual pinch in my side. I looked at the lawyer, the worried face of my charming companion and signed what I understood as a power of attorney, a living will.

That's when I woke. Deep breaths, confusion and panic in the dark but I came around, sent texts to people that I'm close to asking if they ever had dreams that felt so real. I ran to the washroom and did the cold water on the face trick that I think only works in the movies followed by some deep breaths. I fell into some meditation breathing and snapped myself out of it, went back to bed and, after a long time and diary entry, fell back to sleep.

I don't think that this would be so much of a nightmare if it wasn't something that could possibly happen. With the diagnosis of MS, I've had to rethink and redo a lot of things in my life from diet and exercise, work and yes, even my final wishes and plans, insurance and all that other lovely stuff. Was this my brain telling me to get a move on with some of these things or just some fears manifesting in the subconscious state? Was it a way for my brain to tell me that I've been a little too aloof with this diagnosis and to start taking it a little more seriously? Either way it ruined my lovely sleep and I can think of much better things to do with my range companion than sign paperwork in a hospital bed.

Whatever the reason for it, it freaked me out, still is a little bit and for some reason, I felt the need to share. To be honest, I'd take a zombie nightmare over that any time. Zombies I'm ready for but lawyers scare the shit of me (teehee).

Brass, Sweat, Steel and Gunpowder

2013-07-29T21:11:00.002-03:00

I walked through what looked like a dining room that ran almost the length of the building I just went into. Rows of clean perfect tables, pine wood panelling and concrete floors with a directional star in the middle, shocking for the place considering what it was. I stopped and traced the toe of my pink steel toe boot along the "N" depicting North and then the "S" that was pointing more toward the door that I needed. I could see the lake from the windows across from me and feel the pine needles stuck to the bottom of my boots. I scanned the place, found the smile I was looking for and followed the bearer to the door with some bundles of things we needed to do what we had come to do.

He opened the door, the squeak of the hinges resonating though the building that was empty except for us. The room smelled like nothing I've ever smelled before. I sniffed, laughed and commented on the different odour that was an overpowering scent of unpolished brass, sweat, steel and gunpowder. It was an assault on the senses at first but after leaving to use the washroom and re-entering, it became welcome, almost comforting. That could have been do to the person who was waiting for me to come back. Did my brain make a connection between the smell of a shooting range to the person who was introducing me to it? Probably. I'm sure if I was dragged there against my will, that smell would not have become so pleasant.

We walked the length of the range together, checking out what was ahead of us and planning targets. I poked the at the archery targets with the fascination of a child. They're actually a lot more dense than I expected. I don't know why I was thinking they would be soft, maybe because I'm warped by Robin Hood: Men in Tights since the targets are stuffed with hay and look so fluffy in that movie. We found a target deer that I became quite amused by and I'm sure my sanity was called into question when I walked back down the range to check out the hole in the boards that made up the wall at the end. There was nothing but wood chips and angled styrofoam panelling, musty and pungent. I walked back with a skip in my step and helped with picking the perfect position for a target. We hung normal target looking papers first, then zombie targets. I guess we were playfully preparing for the zombie apocalypse. I can't hit the broad side of the barn so I guess I'm very lucky that my wonderful instructor nailed Eddie the Executive square in the eye.

It was my turn. Which one did I want? I didn't care, I don't really know the difference between them all yet (relax, I'm studying and learning and still a newbie so please forgive my fuck ups). With my MS I shouldn't really be shooting without my wrists braced but I felt good today, a little stronger than usual so I gave in to temptation. He handed me two 9mm, told me to pick. Not so easy while I eyeballed the .45 that I remember being so fond of the first time he had taken me to a range, that one outdoor. The lighter one, it might be easier. He gently reminded me how to slide the clip in, pull the slide and the whispered reminder to keep my damn finger off of the trigger until I was ready to pull it.

It's a strange feeling to have a gun in your hands. Having my two hands wrapped on something that has such a destructive potential feels both empowering and terrifying at the same time. It's anticipatory adrenaline that brings your heartbeat to your ears when your concentrating on that target ahead of you and every time I pulled that trigger, felt that recoil and resonance of the boom, I felt stunned at how utterly powerful these weapons really are. I was holding in my little squeals but I couldn't hide that crooked smile of complete disbelief that I was really doing this, the Buddhist was learning to fire handguns. I could hear my charming chaperon giggling behind me, keeping me grounded and keeping me safe. I'll reiterate, I cannot hit the broadside of a barn but I managed to get some on target and the only thing I really accomplished was realizing how much fun target shooting is, having some laughs and feeling a little more bonded with my tender attendant who is, obviously, a much better shot than I ever will be.

We packed it in. I swept up the brass shells while he gathered up the equipment. Oddly enough, the sounds of the brass banging together and pouring into the bin was almost musical, like a deadly falling xylophone. I swept the range of the papers that came off our mutilated targets, happily pushing the dirt to the pile already started by the hole in the wall while I was quickly reminiscing on the day and smiling at the laughter I could hear at the other end of the building. A hearty, infectious laugh that dissipates any shitty mood I happen to be in and brings down the guard I normally have quite high.

So, all in all, it was a marvelous day and one that I'm thankful for. I can't wait to do it again ... and again.

One More Pet & I Can Charge Admission to My Zoo

2013-07-25T21:46:00.000-03:00

I had a doctor's appointment today, I'm pretty sure it was appointment number 125 556 926 or at least that's what it felt like. I'm sure I spend more time with my doctor than I do with my friends. Today we filled out the paperwork for long-term disability and that was certainly not fun. I have a list a mile long of things that my body just does not want to do or does without my permission. Thankfully, I do not require diapers ... yet. I'm sure I'll have a wonderful long post about that if the time ever comes that I welcome Depends into my life but as of right now, I'm good. Well, I have to cross my legs when I sneeze or laugh too hard but I'm going to blame that on my kids.

During the question and answer period about whether or not my hands are working yet and a giggle about how my left bicep gets spastic when I lift my right leg, my doctor looks at me and says I look a little stressed. I fell into sarcasm mode and replied with, "yes, another $150 for three pieces of paper to be faxed to a multi-million dollar corporation while I sit figuring out what bill I can avoid to use the money to pay for the report is always good for the stress levels". Her raised eyebrow and suddenly pursed lips showed her surprise at my response but it was a true statement and she understood my frustration.

Then the magic happened, my soft-spoken and well-meaning caring Egyptian doctor who never lets me leave her office before she tells me a corny joke makes a statement that I think is her corny joke, "you should look into adopting a companion dog for yourself". I'm sure I choked on my own saliva before I explained to her that I have three kids, two cats, a free-roaming iguana and a tiny corn snake so if I added one more pet, I could start charging admission to the zoo that would be my apartment. yI had to ask if she was volunteering to buy food and pick up poop because I have enough shit to deal with. Seriously, between the litter box, terrarium and nightly iggy baths plus kids who forget how to flush and my own potty trips, I literally do have more shit than my fair share. I'm not really complaining, I don't mind the poop but I certainly don't need to add another bum to this equation.

Then she explains to me that I should see the other animals, not including the kids here, as more of my owners, that cats and reptiles see the human they live with as their provider of food and, when they feel the need, affection. They also see us as their cleaners of poop and other assorted pet tasks. So basically, they love me but to them I am merely a caretaker and I get paid in random acts of affection that usually mean "get up and feed me". Dr. Smiley then explains that dogs see us as caretakers but also see us as friends and actually value our companionship, love us unconditionally, give us affection without ulterior motives. I beg to differ because I know if I was unable to get myself to the bathroom, I would be the kindest and most-loving creature to the person or alien that was going to be taking me there.

So, I've come to the conclusion that as much as I would love to have a dog around here, it's simply not feasible. I know the kids would love a dog and I know if we adopted an older dog I could avoid some of the initial costs of having him fixed and the struggles of potty training and just get through the struggles of introducing an older dog to a ridiculously strange family dynamic. Maybe sometime in the future when things calm down around here with me settling into my new diagnosis, treatment and the family gets used to all changes that are happening can we make room for a brand new slobbering, furry mess of an addition to the brood.

... and no, I'm not referring to a man although some do bare a striking resemblance to our canine counterparts.

She sat there during the whole process of writing this post, bumping my hands wanting to be petted.
Voice recognition doesn't work when all you're saying is, "Sasha be nice!".
And yes, I am sitting on the side of my bed using stacked Rubbermaid containers as a desk, shoot me.

Tattoos - A Different Kind of Discrimination

2013-07-08T22:50:00.000-03:00

I left the house today in a sleeveless shirt, a nice dressy one paired with clean, comfortable jeans that I save for special outings and some dress shoes. My hair was down but it's obvious that it's clean, brushed and taken care of. I wasn't wearing make-up today but that's not unusual for me either and aside from that, I was having a girl's day out to a movie and maybe some dinner with my buddy Miss M so, make-up was not a necessity. A greasy, fast food supper that would hit the spot with it's horrific, heart attack inducing deliciousness. Sorry, it's been a while since I've had the pleasure of A&W and A&W is where everything ends up in this post but first, let's get the details underway.

Everything was great when we went out aside from getting stuck in the rain and having no coat. We managed to time the bus perfectly, had enough time to wander around some shops and sat in the movie theatre with an almost perfectly timed arrival with perfect sweet spot, dead centre seats. Everything was perfect to watch some 3D zombie mayhem.

So, here's the issue: when I go out with shorter sleeves it becomes apparent that I have tattoo work. I'm working on a full sleeve on my left arm so I'm tattood from shoulder to wrist, have a couple of tats on my right arm, a piece on my chest and sprinkling of a few more in places less visible. Today my arms and chest tattoos were out for the world to see. Usually I think nothing of it and just go about my business with the attitude that these are mine, they're personal to me and if someone doesn't like them then don't look. By some standards I have a lot of work done, by others I have very little. Tattoos and everything that surrounds them is subject to a lot of different factors with the biggest one being preference, of course.

Every time my tattoos are visible, I see people look and that's fine, I look at tattooed people too. I do it because I love the art of it, the fact that we can use our skin as a canvas to tell our story amazes me. I assume people think the same way I do, whether it's a respectful fascination and appreciation like mine or simply wondering what the hell is wrong with painted people, it's okay with me. I've been pointed at and that's okay too. I'm sure I am not the first or the only person with ink that has had someone point at them. Sometimes people stop to ask me questions out of curiousity or a fellow collector in the permanent ink club and sometimes it's the weird guy who thinks that he can lick his finger and try to rub them off. Sorry dude, they're not fake and you could have just asked.

I understand that even though our current population has more people with tattoos than without and the art is steadily becoming more mainstream, there is still a lot of prejudice when it comes to people with ink. I still wear long sleeves on job interviews and cover them as much as I can in more "professional" situations. My intelligence or capabilities did not drop when the needle banged some ink into my skin and my IQ doesn't drop with every new piece of work. I see the issue with acceptance though, that some people just don't like the way they look and the old cliches that only the dregs of society have tattoos still sit in the back of some people's minds.

I guess what I'm saying is that while choosing to be tattooed, I also chose to be discriminated against. I knew it going in but sometimes I'm just amazed at the lengths people will go to or what they'll say. I have a family member tell me once that I'm intimidating because I look like I just got out of prison (no colour ink in the joint but they don't understand that) or some people drop their gaze from mine when walking toward me but that could be because I'm usually smiling like an idiot and say hello to everyone (a cultural thing that hung on and never let go). To be honest though, I don't encounter much more that the occasional look or a point. Long story short: I am not a sailor, an ex-con, in a gang or a prostitute and I'm not intimidating. I'm just me.

So with all that said, let's place myself and Miss M in A&W finishing those wonderful burgers. We need to catch the bus back home so I run to the washroom to have a little tinkle before we head to our stop. On my way I see a tiny girl with her grandmother happily bouncing about. On my way back out of the bathroom, I see the same pair of cute little girl in glasses and the grandmother sitting at the table next to where Miss M and I are sitting. The grandmother meets up with me as she's going to the counter getting their food, I smile and say hello and keep going to get Miss M so we can be on our way. The lady I said hello to did not smile back but returned the greeting with that up-and-down look I'm all to familiar with and gave me a scowl. That's okay, she's her own person and that's not an uncommon reaction to an unsolicited hello in the city.

Things changed for me when I sat at my table and noticed the grandmother moving her little girl away from me, looking at me like I was standing there with an ax in my hand as she swooshed the little girl clear across the restaurant. At this point I'm shocked but my stomach flips when I notice she physically turns this kid's head when she notices the little one looking in my general direction while once again scowling at me.

My heart hurt. Here was a wonderful opportunity for this little girl, nor more than three or four, to ask some questions or even just point at the colourful girl and instead her grandmother instilled the idea that tattooed people are to be kept at a distance. I wanted to tell her that each of the cherry blossoms represent someone that I have loved and lost, the Buddha on my wrist reminds of my beliefs in living the best life possible by showing respect and love, the lotus on my chest with the skulls is something as simple as coming to terms with horrible decisions and finally being at peace with them, the ohm a meditative symbol, the treble clef a reminder of my pianist mother, my kids' birthdays in Roman numeral and the symbol of family with them. I wanted to tell her that each of my three children are represented on my body with their own tattoo and that each and every one I have tells part of the story of the life I have lived so far. I really do wear my heart on my sleeve or rather, have my heart permanently etched onto my body.

I don't know if this should have bothered me as much as it did but it made me sad to see someone so disgusted by my appearance which in all other ways was clean and normal and to project that disgust to the small child she was with. I know I said I accepted the discrimination with the body art but sometimes, it hits a little too close.

Like A Kid Who Lost Their Nintendo ...

2013-07-05T15:56:00.000-03:00

There is no delicate way to say this except to say, "holy shit it's hot today". I'm cowered in my little apartment fighting with voice recognition software to try to write something to pass the time. Fans and cold water are doing nothing to fight a "feels like" temperature of forty degrees. Environment Canada's website is telling me there is a risk of thunder showers this afternoon and so, as I write this, I'm also saying a little prayer of sorts that at some point I will hear those blessed thunder bangs, a music in it's own right.

I know you're asking yourselves why don't I just jump on a bus and go to a beach or find a friend with a pool or sit on the balcony in the breeze I can see pushing the trees around. The answer is simple: I'm not allowed. I'd love to be able to get out of this stifling apartment and into the summer but it's simply not in the cards. My doctor made it very clear during my last appointment by pointing out some of the symptoms I complained about that led them to scan my big ole melon in a giant magnet. Kind of went like this:

Dr. Practical: "Don't be out in the heat and humidity. Try to stay inside until it cools off."

Me: "Why? If it's a nice day I'd like to go out and enjoy it, even for a little while. Go for a swim, maybe a hike." (I'm smiling and dreaming a little at this point.)

DP: "Photosensitivity. You burned in SPF100. Your skin can't handle UVs even with protection. Plus you got a sunburn on your legs through your bedroom window the last time I saw you, remember?"

Me: "Right." (That was duh moment.)

DP: "Don't forget the fatigue you get when you're overheated. I know you're going to ask me and my answer is already a big N-O to energy drinks. Those things make your tremors worse and you know how much your hands and legs swell in the heat so be prepared to lose more dexterity and have your symptoms amplified on the hotter days. You'll be fine once you cool down and if it doesn't let up once you've cooled off for a few days in a row, call me right away since you could be having a relapse." (Why is she still smiling?)

Me: "Yeah, I know. Cold water and a big hat?" (Her cheery optimistic tone and sound advice has me a little defeated at this point so yeah, I'm sinking into the chair, pouting like a kid who lost Nintendo privileges and squeaking out my question that I already know the answer to.)

DP: "Cold water and stay in the house. Find something to do that doesn't require a lot of exertion so do your housework at night or first thing in the early morning and try to rest during the day or only work until you start feeling tired. Stay inside though, especially during the hottest parts of the day. Rainy, cloudy and cooler days though, enjoy the shit out of those ones."

Me: "Got it, Captain."

That appointment left me feeling quite defeated. These were symptoms of summer that I've had for almost as long as I can remember with the only exception being that now I can attribute them to something specific. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks while I was skulking at home, pacing with my lip sticking out after the appointment, I really can blame all of this on something now and I don't have to feel like the resident gimped up freak who has two colours: lobster red and Casper white. Seriously people, I'm so white that I'm almost translucent.

Put it this way, there have been times where I've been invited places or asked to do things that I knew I just couldn't do which would elicit the "she's so lazy" responses from people along with the looks of disbelief and the accusations of faking it so I wouldn't have to do anything. I think I became known as a Master of Avoidance and Mistress of Excuses. Well, neurological science bitches! I'm not ashamed anymore or confused as to what the hell is wrong with me and I really don't owe anyone an explanation to begin with.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm not trapped inside for the summer, I just have to rearrange my schedule. I'm not limited in what I can do, I just have to find some new ways to do them. It's a new challenge and even though I didn't really get much of choice to accept it or not, I'm game for the next chapter.

Oh my fuck this heat sucks though ...

Here we go ...

2013-07-03T19:03:00.000-03:00

Here we go, it begins again and by "it" I mean the job search. I spent the day trying to retype my resume since my voice recognition software decided it hated my accent. It will get done, slowly but surely. I need to get back to work sooner than later so, I'm going to attempt to cross my fingers that at this time next week I will either have a return to work date, a new job on the horizon or some promising leads.

I promised myself that I was going to make this blog a little journal but I've been slow again. Monday of last week turned into a trip to work to discuss new duties which are nothing and I'm being thrown back into a job that I couldn't keep up with but now I'll get to do it with a really weird keyboard. I tried to explain that taking calls from clients is out of the question for me now since I cannot keep up with their metrics but they're not having it. I'm told that I just need to pick which keyboard is easier to use and I'll be fine. It definitely worried me a little that none of my new ergonomic equipment or desk was set-up aside from a lop-sided hydraulic desk even though my return to work is imminent. Seems odd for me to say that given the above paragraph doesn't it but I'll get to that.

The rest of the week was trying to argue with my insurance company and my doctor that it shouldn't cost me $60 for two pieces of paper to show that although the symptoms that put me off work in the first place aren't gone but instead, we know how to work with them now that a diagnosis has been reached. My doctor says getting back to a normal life would probably be beneficial while my insurance is screaming about liabilities. So, a post-dated cheque, papers get faxed and my insurance company was happy to have something from my doctor telling them the same thing I was telling them for weeks: "ready, willing and able but with limited capacity". Insurance says legally my employer has to comply, they'll do a return to work plan with them, I'll probably be back within a week and I start getting excited to return to a routine. With my blessing (more like begging) insurance sends the papers off to my employer aaaaand we wait.

And wait ... I'm rolling my eyes and realizing I have work clothes to wash and get ready for my return.

And wait ... Review payroll compliance legislature.

And wait ... It's Friday, I want to be back on Tuesday after the Canada Day holiday but still no word.

Today I get an email with a letter as an attachment. I had a little shake and dance thinking it was my return to work plan but no, it wasn't. Instead what I received was a letter stating that numerous attempts to contact my employer had failed and as such, my return could not be approved but my leave extended until August 4th. What happens after August 4th? I am advised to apply for long term disability until they can speak with my employer to work out my return and ensure that I can be accomodated. I've been off since February with them having my ergonomic assessment report completed in December so this is not sudden news that I will require this equipment and the fact that I've been in touch with the members of the management of this company updating them regularly since I've been off, my current physical status shouldn't be a surprise either.

My brain went haywire, I'm sure even the lesions did a little W(hat) T(the) F(uck). How can my employer, a nationally recognized, global payroll service provider not be reached? My insurance company was reaching out to them for a week with no results. Phone calls, emails and faxes were not returned or responded to or even acknowledged that the were received. My case worker with my insurance seems just as frustrated as I am since my insurance is running out and she can't say, "sure, go back to work tomorrow" with no plan in place or the employer advising that yes, the doors will be open.

What do I do? I contact my employer. I call and email my supervisor, my secondary supervisor and the Human Resources department head. Oddly enough, this company hides the emails and phone numbers of it's upper echelon very well and I was unable to reach out to them. It's well passed the end of the day and guess what? No answer, nothing, nodda, diddly-fuckin'-squat. Is there a hint here I should be getting? Seems that way.

Now, the real "WHAT DO I DO?" ... Panic? Cry? Hell no, I move on. I'd like to stay with this company and have a career there but if they're going to make going back there difficult for me then I'm at a point where I have to look elsewhere. Maybe this is a hidden gem, a little kick in the arse telling me that I am meant for something else. It's not going to hurt me to get that resume typed up and out there just in case this employer never reaches out for my return. No point in getting worked up about it, I don't have the whole story yet and, in the meantime, my insurance is still good for the rest of the month giving me lots of time to get my shit together ... again. All of this nonsense has a silver lining in it somewhere and, being oddly calm about the whole thing, I have a gut feeling that better things are on the horizon.

Holy crap! I just realized that I am in a constant state of reinvention! Interesting .... but before I ponder that tiny epiphany I have to ask: anyone have a line on a job?

Long Awaited Update

2013-06-23T13:20:00.000-03:00

I'm sitting in my bedroom fighting a pseudoexacerabation of symptoms brought on by a 31 degree humidex. The house needs to be cleaned, clothes need to be washed but it will have to wait until I can cool down and wake up out of the fatigue while hoping the swelling in my hands and legs goes down. It's only noon so the daily workout I've come to enjoy will have to wait too. Waiting is what I do best it seems.

So, I've taken over a year off from writing to dive into work and family but I'm back now and have a lot of updating to do. I know that some of you are reading the above and saying to yourselves, "symptoms of what?". Well, here's the big reveal:

I have been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. The big MS.

There, I said it and now it's real. There's only a few who know because I haven't started treatment yet and not even sure to what extent that I have it. All I know is that Dawson has his fingers in my corpus callosum and there are nine visible T2 lesions that the doctors can see. It seems my braces are hiding other parts of my brain from the MRI that need to be investigated. Yes, I am 33 years old and have orthodontic braces ... I laugh at me too, it's okay. So, once I have an EMG (nerve conduction study) and a possibly lumbar puncture, I'll know more but until then I will go untreated and sort of in the dark except to know that it's there and it's real. We just need to investigate the extent.

I've learned a lot by making my family doctor and, with her frequent calls to him at my prodding, my neurologist batshit crazy. I now know that photosensitivity really is a symptom and that the reason for my vampire lifestyle isn't all in my head. For a long time I thought the fatigue I felt in the summer, the sensitivity to the heat was something we all felt but no, it's not. Turns out that my exhaustion and how easily I fatigue in the heat wasn't all in my head either but a symptom of MS that over 80% of people with the disease suffer from. I've learned that my hands are probably not going to recover and that my grip and dexterity are most likely gone forever, that my limp may or may not worsen. I found out that the pains I started having eleven years ago during my pregnancy with my oldest weren't gall bladder pains (it's since been removed but the pains haven't disappeared), it wasn't severe acid reflux or an ulcer or a delusion. The pains weren't all in my head like they suggested years ago because they couldn't find the cause, they are what's called an "MS hug" and actually quite common in patients with MS when intercostal muscles (the tiny ones between the ribs) spasm making it feel like I'm being impaled by a hot poker and hugged by a grizzly bear at the same time. The swelling extremities, discomfort, occasional blurring vision and sometimes slurred speech are all normal and I'm not crazy but instead quite a textbook case so far.

I started complaining of these some of these symptoms during my first pregnancy and now, eleven years later, I've found a doctor who finally listened and sent me to the right people for the right tests. It feels good to know that someone finally believed me and helped me get the answer. I almost lost my job when begging for understanding that my hands just didn't work properly and then I finally landed off on a short-term disability and then almost lost it again when someone started a rumour that I was faking the whole thing because I was ashamed that I couldn't emotionally handle the job. It is very real and, even though the diagnosis is life changing, it feels good to know that someone finally believed me enough to help me find out what this is.

Am I scared? Absolutely fucking terrified. I watched my mother deteriorate and eventually lose her battle with this disease after 30 years of fighting it. I am a single mother with three kids who are with me 99% of the time so I worry about what will happen if I do deteriorate or if I start needing aids like a cane, walker or wheelchair. Those are bridges to be crossed at a later time though, right now it's all about extent of the disease, watching any progression and getting a treatment program in place. One thing at a time. Get healthy (I've quit smoking; started exercise and watching my nutrition), get educated (MS Society and my uncanny research abilities are doing me well) and get treatment (in the process of getting that figured out).

One thing that I ask is that anyone please not say this to me: "But you don't look sick". Trust me, there are more challenges every single day that I will ever admit to anyone outside of my doctors. I am sick and it is literally all in my head, I'll show you the pictures sometime. So, this blog is probably going to move from the random rants and observations to my experience travelling life with a serious neurological disease. I was told to document all of my feelings, symptoms, possible symptoms, changes, observations and so on. I guess that this would be a good forum for it. Maybe?

Dear Mr. Kelly ...

2012-02-15T00:06:00.001-04:00

Dear Mr. Kelly:

I know you are probably getting bombarded with a lot of very angry emails from the residents of this city. I wanted to add to that list in hopes that you’ll understand that you’re inability and blatant incompetency at handling this strike is affecting more and more people daily. I don’t make a lot of money and the little I do make with my seasonal job is hard earned. I’m a single mother of three children, not by choice but by chance. I didn’t choose my situation but circumstances dictated that this was the life I was destined for. I do not rely on social assistance nor handouts. Everything I own I bought with money that I earned by working. My children know that when I’m gone twelve hours a day, leaving at 6am it is to make sure there is food in the belly, clothes on their back and a roof over their head.

I was laid off from my job on December 23, 2011. It’s seasonal and I expected it but I also expected to get called back come the spring. It turns out that I could have been called back sooner but now my employer is looking at hiring someone with a more reliable means of transportation. You see, my normal day when I’m working is to wake up at 4am, get ready for work then get my kids up at 5am to feed them and get them ready for the day and they are off to the sitter at 6am when I leave to catch the bus. I catch the 80, transfer in Cobequid to the 88 to get off at Bedford Commons where I walk another 45 minutes to my office building. Then at 5pm, I turn around and do the same thing backwards. I have a decent job for the level of education I was able to afford and it pays me more than an average administrator so that my family and I can get by. Now, that job is in jeopardy and so is the livelihood of my little family. The only option I have now is to look for another job but in my field, construction and engineering administration, the jobs are few and far between so now I’m looking at taking two jobs to support my family. And why is this happening to me?? Because YOU failed to resolve an issue that is affecting over 96 000 residents of the Halifax Regional Municipality per day. Because YOU want to save $85 000 per day. Because YOU refuse to bend on any concessions that are offered. Because YOU refuse to allow an arbitrator in to resolve this situation for your and your council’s own greedy, book-balancing purposes with no care to the people who use the public transit system. This includes workers, employers, students, seniors and so on.

Oh, let’s not forget those transit employees who are standing in the bitter cold striking to get what they believe is fair. Now that I see how willing they were to work towards a resolution with you, I have quickly changed my opinion of them and what they are doing. Was it right to strike? Maybe or maybe not depending on the angle you look at it from but they sure as hell have a right to stand up for what they want and the changes they want to see. Is it right for you to refuse to sit with them and come to an agreement? Absolutely not. You're refusal for binding arbitration or to even set a date for a meeting plus all these closed door council meetings and secretive decision making is questionable at best and not the way an elected government should behave.

What this city's council is doing is reprehensible. You are turning your back on many of the voting public who rely heavily on this service without a care in the world about what is going to happen to these people if this strike continues. People and businesses are losing money daily. People are losing jobs or having to lose this semester of university. People who need to see their doctors or get to a clinic are unable. We don't all have money for taxis, we don't all have friends or family who are able to drive us wherever and whenever we need to go somewhere, we aren't all living within walking distance to the things we need.

You should be ashamed of how you are handling this but that's just my opinion. As a resident and voter in this city, I have every right to tell you exactly that.

Sincerely,

Alyson

No Point Making Apologies ...

2011-11-27T15:26:00.001-04:00

So here, let's sit down and set the record straight: I'm not perfect. I know, what a shocker eh? I, as a mother and as a person, make mistakes on a daily basis and sometimes even at a rate of several WTFs per minute. That's human nature I suppose, I just wish that we all could realize that. Wouldn't it be nice if we all came to the conclusion that we're not all perfect, omnipotent sentient beings that roam this earth with infallable moral code and sense of right and wrong? Honestly, I believe it's impossible considering it's the fallacies and imperfections that make ups all human and beautiful. I know I personally live life with my face in my palm and asking myself "what was I thinking?".

I'm not 100% sure where I'm going with this, how this post is going to pan out but I decided to let my brain go and just write. I guess my point is that I've been looking square in the face of judgement and finger pointing for a little while, at least that's what it feels like. Any of you, dear readers, ever feel like you were at a heightened sense of awareness just because it felt like someone was constantly looking at you and criticizing every move you made? Ohh paranoia but I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. Living in a fish bowl or rather, a terrarium (I don't know about you but I can't breathe underwater). We go through this at work, at home, with friends and family and neighbours and those crazy people in the grocery store who give you the side-eye when you threaten your children with leaving if they don't stop arguing with each other. It's annoying and gets our backs up. Some of us let it roll, some of it take it to heart. None of us like the boss breathing down our necks when the pivot tables are having errors, our siblings looking at us over the rim of their glasses in wonderment of the next stupid move we're going to make or our friends shaking their heads as we reason with ourselves and make our excuses. Sometimes we can almost feel the gossip oozing out behind our backs and the discussions of our behaviour without our presence to confirm, deny or defend. Most of us just don't want to to know when that happens but we can't help our gossip "Spidey Sense" from tingling and whether or not we're giving the opportunity to defend ourselves, it doesn't hurt any less.

But it goes both ways!! See, right now you're judging me for starting a sentence with "but" and I'm judging you for being so uptight that you'd really care about that. My point is that as much as we hate feeling those fingers pointing at us, we do it ourselves. We point our perfect fingers at the lesser people who we believe are totally f**king up (sorry for the lack of a better term there). We decide what they should and shouldn't do behind their backs without them sitting beside us to either defend or discuss what is being said. I bet the people we talk about behind their backs feel the gossip ooze coming from us. My thinking here, my idiotic logic, is that maybe we should all just stop. I'm trying at the very least, finding my sense of peace in my own little world with my babies and my animals but some people will always make me raise an eyebrow.

But then we have to look at it this way: would we want people to tell us exactly what they think all the time? What would hurt more: the gossip or someone in your face about your mistakes? That's a tough call. Sometimes I think I'd rather live in ignorant bliss about what people think of me or say about me and sometimes I think I want to face it. Of course, my Ma used to say that I should just let people talk because if they were talking about me, they were leaving someone else alone and how very right she is. So, we can easily discount the gossip but what about when you're faced with it and what about when someone angrily calls you on a mistake that you made? How do we deal with that? I know what I do, I turn and walk away. There's no point in getting into an argument no matter how hurt we may be and until nerves are calm, there's no point in discussion. Screaming may feel right in that moment but I know myself well enough that I'm going to make it worse if I stick around, especially if I'm hurt. I know that making me angry is one thing and I can effectively recognize it and deal with it but hurting me is a completely different ball of wax. I can quickly forgive being angered, I have trouble with forgiveness of being hurt.

I guess my point is that I am who I am, I'm not perfect and nor do I claim to be. I do the best I can with what I have and there are things that are important to me that may not be important to others. My house is never polished clean, my laundry is never finished. I've been known to manipulate and tell a fib to get me by. I can be just as boisterous as I can be withdrawn. I'm not thin, I'm not beautiful in the conventional sense plus I've got scars and marks and wrinkles. Most of the time I don't realize my stupidity until the mistake is over, it's never intentional or malicious but I can seem that way. I'm aloof. I can be flighty and hard to get to know. I guess no one really does know me. My relationships are usually fleeting because I can be demanding but sometimes much to complacent. I'm a loner with a fragile ego, self-conscious but can sure as hell fake confidence when I need to. I'm still coming to terms with who I am and discovering the process of becoming a better person. I do what I feel is best with the little bit that I have and sometimes it doesn't make sense but hey, at least I'm doing something.

There, that's about it I think. I make no apologies for the person that I am and dammit, none of us should. We are all perfect human beings and by that I mean, we're all nuts. Let's just remember our own flaws, deviations, mistakes and quirks before we appraise the value of another by their actions. Maybe if we do that, we'll find compassion and acceptance, not anger or cynicism.

Drill Sergeant or Mrs. Cleaver?

2011-11-11T17:06:00.001-04:00

I'd like to think that I'm going to look back at some of the things my kids do with a sense of humour and have a laugh about it all. Does anyone have any idea about when exactly that happens? Do I have to wait until they're grown and out on their own or does it come sooner? I know the teenage years are out of the question for that to happen considering my own mother's curse of "I hope when you have kids they are just like you" is already coming at me in wonderful karmic justice and since my worst years were the teenage ones, I've concluded that I'm on a downward spiral. Thank you Ma for reminding me all those years that what goes around comes around. Those are your words of wisdom that ring in my head every time one of my kids tells me they hate me or I find that drawing on the counter in permanent Sharpie fine point marker. That is my ultimate **face palm** moment; my mother's wish came true, it sure as hell came around ... times three.

I do have to laugh at most of what happens. I went to the washroom earlier to find a really pretty purple line tracing around the trim of my bathroom door. Pretty pastel purple and squiggly, the handiwork of a six-year-old girl. When I asked the nervous faces of the little motley crew of children in my living room, a unanimous finger pointing indicated that my detective work was correct. Plus the much too emphatic "It wasn't ME!" was all the proof I needed. So, Little Miss Picasso was sent to her room for a time-out only for me to putter into the kitchen and find my son's birthday cake had gone through some sort of ritual sacrifice. Once again, the work of a tiny, female Van Gogh with the help of her brother, Vlad the Pastry Impaler.

It seems lately that my pleas of "don't leave that on the floor", "dirty underwear don't belong in your bed", "stop ripping the legs off of your dolls", "leave that last sip of milk for my tea please", "stop hitting/kicking/slapping/screaming/whining/banging/pounding/throwing/tossing/spitting/grabbing/pinching/gouging ..." are going unnoticed. No matter how many times I stress to not to make that face/grab that toy/throw stink eye/pitch attitude/put that back/take that out ... it falls on small, selectively deaf ears. Please insert a mental image of me with two handfuls of my hair and boiling blood pressure.

Time Out has run it's course, it doesn't work anymore. I almost mourn the many years that Time Out and I have spent together but, in true universal fashion, everything has to come to an end. Spanking and I never had a good relationship, we kind of just stare at each other Me on one side saying that any violence isn't worth it and it on the other saying, "C'mon, it'll get the point across. Just remember 'Mom's Helping Hand' ". Scolding, talking and the eventual barking like a drill Sergeant are all part of the Mommy Repertoire but they are failing me. And yes, I know hollering is not a good thing but dammit, they sure as hell notice once I bellow and dearest readers, I haven't been referred to as "Roseanne" for nothing. Along with my friend Time Out, Confiscation of Coveted Goods is also running away. Taking the toys, the crayons, the fun away for a set period of time used to be my charm. It worked so well the first few times that just the threat of La-La-Loopsy living in my bedroom for an undetermined amount of time would stop any radical behaviour (e.g.: colouring the bathroom and some paper with a brand new tube of bright red lipstick). I miss the days where threats of Time Out and Confiscation would work or a bellow would stop my animals, er, kids dead in their tracks.

Now, don't get me wrong here, I don't punish and take without explanations as to why I did what I did. I ensure that after the inevitable dramatics of some little drama queens and my son's wide-eyed shock and awe have dissipated, we have a sit down to discuss what they did and why they should not, can not and will not have a repeat (oooh, rephrase: hope we don't have a repeat). We talk about respect for others, adults, friends and most importantly, themselves. Considering that their mother is a fledgling Buddhist, it's important that values of consideration, empathy/sympathy, understanding, non-judgement, acceptance, compassion, honesty and awareness are taught. It may be in small doses but hey, I'm still figuring this shit out for myself too.

I think there is also the unpreventable confusion of being raised by a single mother who happens to be working full-time from Monday to Friday almost twelve hours a day sometimes. Some days it feels like I have evening and weekend custody with child care costs being a twisted form of child support. I'm sure a lot of parents feel that, even in unbroken or blended families with two working parents. Balance isn't easy, especially when you're lop-sided like me. I have to try to balance the cookie baking, sweet as pie, fun-loving June Cleaver with the hard ass household dictator. How the hell do I do that? Wear fatigues and oven mitts? Do I make up drill songs to the tune of songs from the Sound of Music? Am I Mary Poppins who repels in from a Sikorsky C-148 Cyclone helicopter wearing a house dress and an apron instead of floating down on an umbrella? Okay, you have my point. Now just think, if that oxymoron role of easy-going disciplinarian is confusing and frustrating to me, how must it feel to them? I need a resident psychologist, behaviourist, yogi, meditation specialist and a monk to give me all of the answers to the questions I have. Blech and pout.

So, I'm told consistency is key and consistent I am, or at least doing the best that I can to maintain it. I have all my fingers and toes crossed, insight meditation, loving-kindness meditation and the proverbial rabbit's foot at the ready in hopes that someday my house will find peace, harmony and Roseanne will be able to leave with Time Out. I'm sure they'd make a great couple.

For now, I have to go let the girls know that dimes do not belong in their brother's nose.

Let the search begin ...

2011-10-23T17:06:00.000-03:00

For a long time I've been looking into a mirror and wondering where I came from. Yeah, I know that sounds a little silly but it's a normal thing to question in my circumstance. You see, I have never known my biological father. My mother had me very young, at twenty years old and my father, through either his decision or that of my grandparents, was never in the picture. I've had conflicting stories as to what happened and it leaves me pondering what is the truth and what isn't. Nobody talked about my biological father during my upbringing and I was too scared to ask.

When I did ask at 16, I was driven out to Sand Lake for a quiet chat in the car over tea and told that he was the one who walked away and he was the one who gave up on my myself and my mother. I was told that trying to find him was pointless and that all I would accomplish by doing so would be to break my parents' hearts. You see, my mother was diagnosed with MS when she was 16 and, as a result of her disability, I was adopted and raised by her parents, my grandparents. I never wanted to break their heart, I never wanted to hurt anyone but it still didn't stop my wanting to know where the other half of me was and where I got pale grey eyes when my mother's were so brown they were almost black. Why was I so almost blonde when my mother's hair was chocolate brown? Why was I so short when my mother was tall? Now don't tell me that it could have been from my grandparents because it can't be, it's impossible but that's not a story for right now even though it does tie into this one, it's not my place to spill those beans.

I was told years ago that I wasn't planned, I was an accident. Years later I was told that wasn't the case and I actually was a planned and wanted child. I was told that there was a hard time choosing my name. Years later I was told my name had already been chosen long before I was born. Years ago I was told that my mother didn't know she was pregnant until well into her sixth month but years later I was told different and that she kept her pregnancy a secret to avoid being forced into terminating the pregnancy due to her medical condition. Years ago I was told the plans for my adoption by my grandparents were almost immediate but again, years later I was told that Child Services workers were at the hospital when my mother was in labour and ready to take me to an adoptive family with only my mother's pleads for her wanting so much to keep me being the reason I was allowed to stay. I was told that when I was 18 and away at university my biological father tried to contact me but was told I wanted nothing to do with him and that couldn't be farther from the truth.

There are many other examples of these things and it's hard to know who to believe. Do I believe the women who became my default sisters through the adoption or the woman who was one of my mother's closest and dearest friends who admitted to holding these secrets until the time was right to tell me. I'm sure, dear readers, you can understand my confusion and my want to be loyal but to which side? I can't ask the parents who raised me, any of them, as they have all passed away. My mother/grandmother lost a battle with cancer in June of 2000, my mother succumbed to MS in April of 2005 and my father/grandfather fought a great fight but lost to ALS in March of 2008. I can't go to them now for answers but only hope that now they can look down and understand my want and need to find the other half of my DNA. They know how much I love them, they know I would never try to replace them but I just hope they also know that I want to understand the other side of the story, the other side of me.

My whole life I felt as though my existence was a burden on my family but that's not the case. Even if I was to be given up for adoption to a strange family, the decision was made for me to stay, even if it was last minute. Regardless of those circumstances, I was taken in and loved by everyone. My mother, my grandparents who became wonderful parents and three sisters (I can't call them my aunts, they're my sisters regardless of paperwork or circumstance) were and are an amazing family. I think a lot of the feelings of burden were placed there by myself and not knowing exactly how exactly I fit into the dynamic. I remember telling my friends at school that my "real" father had died before I was born. My family environment was an anomaly in the early 1980s, I felt very out of place and very much on the outside of my circle of friends because of it. I had to have a reason why I was different, so I made one up.

I do want to clarify before I continue that I had a great childhood. My parents, all of them that I was allowed to know, did what they could for me and raised me well. I wasn't easy on them, not by any means and especially not when I became a teenager. I held a lot of confusion and anger with my family dynamic as well as a lot of other circumstances that don't need to be discussed here. I had a great family, a loving and a happy home. It was full of affection and gentle caring and I could not have asked for better. So, please don't think of me as complaining here, I'm not. I'm merely questioning some of the circumstances of my birth and why my biological father was not a part of it, whether it was his choice or he was forced out. I have so many questions that for many years I was afraid to ask but now, there really isn't any reason why I need to hold back and ask them. I am a grown woman with a family of my own, it's time I got the balls and started the search in earnest.

Aside from using the excuse of wanting a medical history since I'm trying to build one for myself and my children, I want to ask him what his reason for walking away was. I want to ask him the hard questions that I've been too afraid to ask for far too long. I don't know if I can trust the answers that I was already given and I want to hear it from the horse's mouth, so to speak. If I find him and I get turned away then so be it but at least I tried. A big part of me is screaming to start searching now because I don't want to find him when it's too late and our first meeting would be me visiting his grave. Part of me thinks that maybe since he missed out on my entire life thus far, that he might want to get to know his three beautiful grandchildren. And can I believe that my children deserve to get to know their grandfather in some capacity? Regardless of what happened thirty-one years ago, things change and people change. If it turns out that he wants nothing to do with us then that's the way it will be. I won't force anyone into trying to build a relationship with me or my family. As disappointed as I would be if that were to happen, it would be another case of having to accept it and keep moving on.

I was given the name of a long-lost cousin to try to reach who could give me some clues to my father. I found her, we talked and it was wonderful. I was accepted by her with open arms and we chatted about my little family here and my father only slightly but she gave me the biggest surprise: my father has five other children, three daughters and two sons. Holy crap!! My kids have a whole ton of other aunts and uncles!! After some wriggling and with the benefit of having an amazing friend with a hardcore case of "get it done" OCD, we think we may have found my siblings. They're beautiful and look accomplished and so happy. I'm being completely creepy here because I don't even know if they know I exist and here I am looking at pictures of what may or may not be them. Resemblances are uncanny though and a photo of a man who may be my brother looks way too much like my son to not be related somehow. It's such a resemblance, it's eerie. I haven't contacted them and I won't just yet. I want to find my biological father first and hopefully talk to him about everything and ask my questions before I consider approaching my siblings. I've never done this before, never really talked to someone who has and as a result, don't know the delicate etiquette of saying hello to someone who probably doesn't know you're their daughter or their big sister.

I keep hoping and having the fantasy of a wonderful reunion that answers all of my questions and brings on the beginning of what could be a great relationship with a side of myself that I've been questioning my whole life. The side I was told to ignore ... but how can I ignore someone who, in one way or another, made me and regardless of relationship, is part of who I am? There is a whole family out there that would be wonderful to get to know. I was always an advocate of the more people there are to love in your life, the better especially when it's family. I know I'm getting my hopes up and as much as I'm trying to be my usual self and expect the worst outcome, I can't help but wonder what it will be like, what it could be like. I will say again, I'm not trying to replace anyone. I never could but wouldn't it be nice to have the extra? Maybe I'm greedy, maybe this is a selfish search but I just want to know ... everything.

So, readers, here are my questions for you: where the hell do I start? My long-lost cousin has all of my contact information that is hopefully going to be passed onto my biological father but I'm getting impatient and don't want to wait. Do I wait longer? Do I take the information I have and start making calls? I know his name, his age, where he's from and approximately where he's living now. I know people who may be related to him and the town where he's from is not a big town. What do I say when I call and who exactly do I call? Do I start where he's living now or do I start in his hometown where a lot of his/my relatives still are?

Am I completely insane for doing this??