Last year I came up with the brilliant idea that I was going to slowly clean out and up the house and begin fixing it up. Nothing has really been done around here for the better part of a decade, except the year I did some landscaping out front about 3 years ago, which was quickly trashed within 2 months. So I made a list of each room and a list of everything that needed to be done in each room. For the most part, it wasn't anything major like demolition, plumbing, electrical, etc., but it was still a lot of work. Fix a few holes in walls, new carpeting, new paint in some rooms, new furniture/fixtures, etc. But there wasn't/isn't any hurry to get anything done. I figured a half hour here and there when I felt up to it would be fine. It would keep me busy, give me a sense of accomplishment, the house would look a million times better, there would be less to keep clean and maintain, and I know my mother would also be much happier because she would stop feeling like we were "that house" in the neighborhood.
So I started in the back storage room. Most of the large appliances in the kitchen had to go back there along with a baker's rack that was in my office (I learned the hard way that they don't make good book cases), plus once the holes in the wall were fixed and the new carpet was put in, where I live downstairs would be much warmer since all the drafts would be fixed. Six months later, about 15 or so contractor bags full of trash, 25+ boxes of stuff for donation, I finished the room. I learned that power tools are something that are now extremely difficult to use, just how my limits have really changed (re: shortened), and patience. Not to mention it's incredible just how much crap can be stuffed into such a small room.
Then it was time for spring cleaning and warm weather, which meant time to start outside. Another test in patience, since the hedges and bushes hadn't been trimmed in about a decade, so it's going to take years to get them back into shape. In just under 3 months, I finished (almost--I still have transplanting to do) the front and one side of the yard. It's going to take forever to do the entire yard, considering how long it's been neglected plus the upkeep on what's been done.
So my grandmother calls and wants her birthday party/family reunion at the house this year and it's 3 months or so away. I just finished outside, but I hadn't touched the kitchen or living room. The kitchen only needs a bit of wall repair and touch up paint, but the living room… the living room needs to be repainted and completely redone. We had just received a new sofa and loveseat (matching!) in January to replace what was left of our 25+ year old sofa bed and the old love seat went into my office, since even at 20 years old, it's still in pretty good shape. But the recliner. The recliner is 30+ years old, filthy (but could have been cleaned) and very, very broken. Beyond the point of repair. Luckily, a friend of mine was giving away a beautiful antique wingback chair and ottoman. So the furniture is taken care of. It takes all of 5 minutes to choose paint colours (even for other projects down the line.) The holes get fixed, but take longer than expected because now if it's not raining, it's extremely humid. I finally finish the kitchen (except fixing the chairs) and it's time for the living room…
But hold on, a friend is moving and is offering a free bookcase! Which means my office has to be done first before the book case gets put in, since it's easier. It also means the old Ikea entertainment center in my office needs to be cut up and taken out of there. I want to keep the small book cases on the side because I have that many books. So cleaning off my desk, the entertainment center, cutting the old carpet in pieces to get it out, bleaching the floor, buy the new carpet, install it (which was much bigger than labeled, of course), get the book case in, my new heavy bag is installed, my fish tank that's been empty and dead for about 4 years cleaned up and filled, books are put away…. I'm hurting, but it looks awesome.
Back to the living room. It's now 2 weeks until the party. Turns out that cheaper "paint and primer" the woman at Home Depot talked me into buying (Behr Premium) is either horrible, or a bad batch because the ceiling--a dingy light blue being painted off white--now requires 2 coats of paint. My back is screaming, my shoulder is screaming, everything hurts like hell, and I now have to not only edge/cut the ceiling, but put a second coat on it. And I'm worrying about the walls, in which are the same dingy blue, except the dark blue accent wall. But they're being painted light green and it was recommended I buy the Behr Ultra. And I'm thinking I can't paint 2 coats on the walls! And the trim… the trim is supposed to be the ceiling colour. But I bought 2 gallons because the 2nd gallon of the off white was supposed to be used for another project. And I just used an entire gallon on the ceiling.
Did I mention there's also cleaning all the knick knacks, scrubbing the floors, conditioning the wood, painting shelves, outlet covers, cleaning windows… the list goes on. It felt like there was never an end to it all. This was supposed to be something that was done over months to years, not weeks.
Everything hurts. I'm covered in bruises. From where, I have no idea. My joints are swollen. Prednisone did nothing. I'm afraid of what my labs are going to show next week from all of this. Everything looks great and my grandmother had a great time, but I know I pushed myself way too far because I'm just too damn stubborn.
Monday, August 11, 2014
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
So it's been quite awhile. I can't believe two years have passed since I found out my doctors screwed up for 10 years and I've had autoimmune issues this entire time. I'm on even higher doses of Imuran, switched to Orencia because Dr. House was wrong--sometimes it IS Lupus--diet changes, more pills (I can't even wrap my head around how many pills I have to take in a day, even though more than half are supplements), new diagnoses like vertigo, degenerative disk disease, herniated disks, spinal compression fractures, vertigo, and more questions than answers as symptoms reappear, worsen, one problem is taken care of only to be replaced by another complication. I want to return to school. Or work. Or something.
But it's not all bad news. At least there's Sundays. When I'm feeling up to it I go with my dad to help with the rebuilding of a 1968 Firebird. I still remember being a little girl helping him rebuild my uncle's old Jaguar. It's where and how I learned about cars--and how to drown misbehaving dolls in used oil. Before that was an old Mustang, but the only thing I really remember was learning the proper use of the word "fuck" while pissed off. We worked together to rebuild the engine in my first car to get it on the road. It was always kind of our thing. So this is bittersweet. I get to spend time with my dad and get to work on cars again, even if it's an hour or two. It does make me miss working in the shop, though. I miss the work. The challenge. How every day was different.
Every time I think I have everything figured out, accepted things for what they are, think everything is finally under control, know what's going on, I realize I don't have a damn clue. Eventually.
But it's not all bad news. At least there's Sundays. When I'm feeling up to it I go with my dad to help with the rebuilding of a 1968 Firebird. I still remember being a little girl helping him rebuild my uncle's old Jaguar. It's where and how I learned about cars--and how to drown misbehaving dolls in used oil. Before that was an old Mustang, but the only thing I really remember was learning the proper use of the word "fuck" while pissed off. We worked together to rebuild the engine in my first car to get it on the road. It was always kind of our thing. So this is bittersweet. I get to spend time with my dad and get to work on cars again, even if it's an hour or two. It does make me miss working in the shop, though. I miss the work. The challenge. How every day was different.
Every time I think I have everything figured out, accepted things for what they are, think everything is finally under control, know what's going on, I realize I don't have a damn clue. Eventually.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Adapting, Overcoming, Economic Creativity, and Realization.
As usual, things have been a bit chaotic. I've had multiple tests, retests, medications adjusted, changed, stopped, and started. I finally broke down and saw a pulmonary specialist. Luckily, the initial tests, although panic inducing, came back looking pretty good. The doctor did order a blood test unlike one I've never had before and I should be seeing those results when I return to the practice--now that I can reschedule the follow up appointment. After 4 months, I FINALLY got my car back after a major meltdown. The good news is, the repairs were not nearly as expensive as I feared and I had the money put aside to fix it. Unfortunately, there are still a few things left to fix, but my car is safe to drive. I also have to schedule other follow up appointments that have been put on hold because of my car. With exception of my rheumatologist, everything was put on hold; part of it was because the car I was borrowing wasn't comfortable to drive, but the bigger reason was to make sure that I did not accrue any debt until I knew what I owed in repair bills.
Not having a car for a few months proved to be a good thing. It gave me time to think. Over the last few years a lot around the house has been left unattended and let go. Small repairs fell by the wayside, some of the rooms that we use for storage were left to pile up with "stuff." The tough, thorough cleaning didn't get done as often as it used to. So I created list. Room by room, I wrote down the repairs that needed to be done, the overhauling required, etc. And I took that list a step further and broke it down into small, manageable tasks in such a way to ensure that they would get done. I figured I'd start in the worst room that needed the most work--the storage room. We've had Christmas decorations packed up in that room for the past 2 years and there was 4' of junk from one side to the other, except for a few inches in front of the doorway. The bottom of the closet was destroyed, insulation torn apart, light bulbs blown out. Over the last 2 and a half months, nine contractor bags full of trash (now ten), several boxes for donation and counting, and then there was today--starting to fix the closet wall.
In theory, it shouldn't have been too difficult. My mother and I decided to go with a spray insulation instead of buying an entire roll of it. We weren't certain it would work, but worst case scenario, it was a failure and we had to buy a roll of insulation. It sounded insane, but we had several cans of it laying around from another project last fall, so what the hell? Who knew the most difficult project would be in cutting out what was left of the cedar lining on the bottom of the closet. A razor/box cutter didn't work. The cedar paneling was too thick and entirely too hard. A hand saw did not work because the teeth, while almost sharp enough, did not provide enough space to work with, nor did it provide the right angle in which to saw. The Sawzall was missing, so that left the circular saw. Yes, I am fully aware they are generally supposed to be used on vertical surfaces, but unless that cedar could be cut down, no work was going to be done. That's when the real problem began. I've noticed that the biologic I was put on has helped tremendously with joint stiffness and swelling on everything but my hands. The more I use my hands, the more they swell and the stiffer they become. But I was not expecting to have difficulty in using something as easy as that saw. It's quite simple, really, use one finger to push the safety in, another finger to push the trigger, while the other hand grips the guide. Except my hands and fingers were so swollen, stiff, and WEAK that it was extremely difficult to operate the saw, regardless of which hand I used. (I'm ambidextrous.)
I did finally get the job done, including removing the sheetrock and the insulation (which is curing), but it forced me to take a step back and look at what I've been doing and how long I've been doing it. When my hands act up, or begin to "fail," I never realized until today that I compensate by using other muscle groups to accomplish the task at hand. It's a power saw. I've already had to accept that I can no longer be a mechanic, which I still struggle with sometimes. I cannot work. I'm still too sick to return to school. I cannot sit around the house all day reading or watching television. I'm trying to keep myself physically busy as my body permits to take care of what I can, yet I found myself struggling with a basic power saw. There's no other muscle groups to use to get around fingers that won't work. I'll continue over the next several months to finish off my list, but at this rate of degeneration, I honestly don't know how to adapt, deal, or even think about could mean for the future. It's not like a leg, or an arm, or my spine... it's my hands. Maybe RA was taken off the table a little too soon.
Not having a car for a few months proved to be a good thing. It gave me time to think. Over the last few years a lot around the house has been left unattended and let go. Small repairs fell by the wayside, some of the rooms that we use for storage were left to pile up with "stuff." The tough, thorough cleaning didn't get done as often as it used to. So I created list. Room by room, I wrote down the repairs that needed to be done, the overhauling required, etc. And I took that list a step further and broke it down into small, manageable tasks in such a way to ensure that they would get done. I figured I'd start in the worst room that needed the most work--the storage room. We've had Christmas decorations packed up in that room for the past 2 years and there was 4' of junk from one side to the other, except for a few inches in front of the doorway. The bottom of the closet was destroyed, insulation torn apart, light bulbs blown out. Over the last 2 and a half months, nine contractor bags full of trash (now ten), several boxes for donation and counting, and then there was today--starting to fix the closet wall.
In theory, it shouldn't have been too difficult. My mother and I decided to go with a spray insulation instead of buying an entire roll of it. We weren't certain it would work, but worst case scenario, it was a failure and we had to buy a roll of insulation. It sounded insane, but we had several cans of it laying around from another project last fall, so what the hell? Who knew the most difficult project would be in cutting out what was left of the cedar lining on the bottom of the closet. A razor/box cutter didn't work. The cedar paneling was too thick and entirely too hard. A hand saw did not work because the teeth, while almost sharp enough, did not provide enough space to work with, nor did it provide the right angle in which to saw. The Sawzall was missing, so that left the circular saw. Yes, I am fully aware they are generally supposed to be used on vertical surfaces, but unless that cedar could be cut down, no work was going to be done. That's when the real problem began. I've noticed that the biologic I was put on has helped tremendously with joint stiffness and swelling on everything but my hands. The more I use my hands, the more they swell and the stiffer they become. But I was not expecting to have difficulty in using something as easy as that saw. It's quite simple, really, use one finger to push the safety in, another finger to push the trigger, while the other hand grips the guide. Except my hands and fingers were so swollen, stiff, and WEAK that it was extremely difficult to operate the saw, regardless of which hand I used. (I'm ambidextrous.)
I did finally get the job done, including removing the sheetrock and the insulation (which is curing), but it forced me to take a step back and look at what I've been doing and how long I've been doing it. When my hands act up, or begin to "fail," I never realized until today that I compensate by using other muscle groups to accomplish the task at hand. It's a power saw. I've already had to accept that I can no longer be a mechanic, which I still struggle with sometimes. I cannot work. I'm still too sick to return to school. I cannot sit around the house all day reading or watching television. I'm trying to keep myself physically busy as my body permits to take care of what I can, yet I found myself struggling with a basic power saw. There's no other muscle groups to use to get around fingers that won't work. I'll continue over the next several months to finish off my list, but at this rate of degeneration, I honestly don't know how to adapt, deal, or even think about could mean for the future. It's not like a leg, or an arm, or my spine... it's my hands. Maybe RA was taken off the table a little too soon.
Friday, July 5, 2013
It's a Good Thing My Neighbors Know I'm Nuts
So this week has been, well, interesting. My life is like a deranged sitcom most of the time. I just can't make this shit up. On Monday, I was driving through torrential downpours and flooded roads. The first thing I thought as I pulled out of my driveway was "I'm so glad I put new tires on my car!" Except she started acting up. At first, it felt like there was moisture or water in the gas tank--until the car slipped out of gear into neutral. And I started to panic because I just laid out close to $3,000 to replace the transmission at the end of April. Luckily, it's still under warranty, but still.. could it be failing already!?! Then the real fun began--the shuddering, jerking, slipping out of gear, going into emergency mode (staying in 3rd gear...). Trying to drive an oversized tractor trailer with a bad suspension would've been easier. I run into the building, pick up what I need, get back in the car, and the gear indicator shows that it's in low--while it's in Park. And the battery light's on. The battery light flickers a bit and goes out just before all the gear lights go on along with the check engine light and the car locks in 3rd gear again. I manage to get it out of 3rd gear and the fun begins again. (I still can't believe the possibility of my transmission failing in less than 1,500 miles). I wrangle it to a local garage on Tuesday to get the error codes and I'm given an entire page of them, including what's wrong with my air conditioner. (I found out it didn't work during the first heatwave last summer, but I never use it.) In addition to the transmission problems, the main computer for my transmission isn't communicating with anything, my dashboard cluster isn't communicating with the car, and my airbags aren't communicating, either. Oh, and somehow the fuse for my reverse lights blew. So I'm a little upset and pissed off by the time I get home and as I go to slam the car door, it comes flying back at me--it picks THEN to break, too. SLAM, SLAM, SLAM, SLAM, SLAM!!! It still won't close. Awesome. But I can't bring myself to kick my car. The truth is, I still love my car and I don't want to damage the almost perfect exterior.. so after several more loud profanities, I go get the mail and kick the mailbox. You see, my dad is the original Tim Taylor--the world could fall to pieces and that thing would still be standing. Which is probably a good thing, or I'd be looking for it on the next block. Did I mention all of my neighbors were not only home, but outside during all of this?
So I'm stuck driving mom's car. My dad bought it from a friend of his, who bought it for next to nothing from a college student. A college student who either a) needs serious driving lessons, b) needs to learn the definition of "designated driver", or c) used the car for playing bumper cars. There are dents in every single panel in that car--including the roof and hood. And not the typical door ding type dents. They're pretty good size dents! It doesn't help that dad hit it with the snowblower this winter, either. But I get in the car Wednesday to pick mom up and see her sock monkeys on the passenger seat looking like I caught them in an obscene act. Great. I just chucked them in the back seat and pretended I didn't just see what I just saw. It's bad enough driving that car.. with sock monkeys in it, but fornicating sock monkeys? Then realize dad replaced the rearview mirror with the one from his work truck--which he cracked the mirror. (I don't know how--it's a straight crack down one side, which is oddly fitting considering the rest of the car). The radio doesn't work because the antenna broke, so I have to listen to the only CD in the car. Then I notice that no one cleaned the marinara sauce that exploded last month--so it looks like blood stain splatter. And the steering wheel and control console is sticky. (I don't know with what, but I used a LOT of hand sanitizer). And as if I hadn't used the phrase "What the fuck?" enough that morning, by the time I got to the entrance to my community, I began to notice my arse was wet.. someone left the window open, allowing the seat to absorb the 3"+ of rain we had gotten the previous 48 hours.
So on the 4th, my dad fixed my car door (turns out the interior handle stuck--some mechanic I am), and went to see if he couldn't find some physical evidence of the problem for my car. Ironically, we were supposed to throw a BBQ this weekend, but had to postpone it because of my dad's work schedule. Turns out, my car decided to throw her own little BBQ. The entire wiring harness for the transmission shorted and melted. It's a good thing it was raining, or there's a good thing my car would've gone up in flames.
So I'm stuck driving mom's car. My dad bought it from a friend of his, who bought it for next to nothing from a college student. A college student who either a) needs serious driving lessons, b) needs to learn the definition of "designated driver", or c) used the car for playing bumper cars. There are dents in every single panel in that car--including the roof and hood. And not the typical door ding type dents. They're pretty good size dents! It doesn't help that dad hit it with the snowblower this winter, either. But I get in the car Wednesday to pick mom up and see her sock monkeys on the passenger seat looking like I caught them in an obscene act. Great. I just chucked them in the back seat and pretended I didn't just see what I just saw. It's bad enough driving that car.. with sock monkeys in it, but fornicating sock monkeys? Then realize dad replaced the rearview mirror with the one from his work truck--which he cracked the mirror. (I don't know how--it's a straight crack down one side, which is oddly fitting considering the rest of the car). The radio doesn't work because the antenna broke, so I have to listen to the only CD in the car. Then I notice that no one cleaned the marinara sauce that exploded last month--so it looks like blood stain splatter. And the steering wheel and control console is sticky. (I don't know with what, but I used a LOT of hand sanitizer). And as if I hadn't used the phrase "What the fuck?" enough that morning, by the time I got to the entrance to my community, I began to notice my arse was wet.. someone left the window open, allowing the seat to absorb the 3"+ of rain we had gotten the previous 48 hours.
So on the 4th, my dad fixed my car door (turns out the interior handle stuck--some mechanic I am), and went to see if he couldn't find some physical evidence of the problem for my car. Ironically, we were supposed to throw a BBQ this weekend, but had to postpone it because of my dad's work schedule. Turns out, my car decided to throw her own little BBQ. The entire wiring harness for the transmission shorted and melted. It's a good thing it was raining, or there's a good thing my car would've gone up in flames.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Chasing Ghosts
The best way to move forward is to let go of the past and accept the present. I've accepted most of my current situation; I have an overlapping autoimmune disease that has most likely evolved into both RA and lupus--or very close to full blown lupus and RA. (I'll leave all that implies and entails for another blog). Just like everyone else, I have a past. Except every time I think I've made peace with it and put it completely behind me, it worms its way back into my present. No, I wasn't a drug addict, alcoholic, prostitute, hit man, mob boss, under cover secret double agent or anything like that. I don't even have anything that could come back to bite me in the arse (except a few old injuries and broken bones that help me better predict weather). It's just that even as I knew I was getting sicker and fighting through pain that was getting worse, I thought it would get better. Until one day it didn't. Then everything I knew, everything I was, my life as it was just stopped. At 22 years old. And it's been a long, hard battle since then.
Six years ago I thought I had finally stopped running into the circular brick wall of "what do you want to do? I want to be a mechanic. you can't anymore, so what do you want to do?" when I made the choice to return to college to get my degree in psychology. I had hoped that by the time I finished college, my doctors and I would have found the right combination of treatments so that I could return to work. I've been on medical leave now for a year and a half.
Last month was the first time in ages I truly missed being a mechanic and the reality hit home. While my car was in the shop, I was put in a position that made me realized I'm not a mechanic anymore. I can't fix my car--not even a small job (which was something I could do until last year). Then while I was at my rheumatologist's yesterday for a check up, she again recommended a pulmonary specialist because I have COPD and began the required lecture since I'm one of those dumbasses who also smokes. Except I was diagnosed with COPD BEFORE I started smoking. She didn't see that one coming! She stopped mid lecture as if she heard me wrong. Nope. I started after it was brought under control. Why? Because it was the only way to get a break working in the garage. Yes, there are labor laws that require a certain number of breaks for certain lengths of time plus lunch. But I was a woman working in an all male shop, in a very male dominated field. Spouting labor laws would've gotten me breaks, but would not have gotten me very far in my career. Working my ass off and being one of the guys (even if it stupidly meant smoking to get a 5 minute break here and there during 10-12 hour work days), however, would. And it made me miss the job. Again. It wasn't just a job to me. It was who I was. I was on my way to becoming one of the best. It was a family legacy, albeit I was the first female in the family, but still. I had come across guys who hated me simply because I was a woman and took everything they threw at me and then some. It was my passion. I may have been only 22, but I spent from the time I could walk learning and working on cars. Not many people can say they have a job, a career that they love. No two days were the same, but every day was challenging. It was more than a paycheck and it wasn't a job to me. And just like that, it was gone.
I figured I'd become a therapist to help others like myself who've lost their careers because of chronic illness or injury navigate through all that entails. I finished 2 Associates Degrees with an almost perfect GPA in 2 years before I became too sick and had to withdraw (temporarily). Like any endeavor I put my mind to, I excelled in the classroom. Except math, but I suck at word problems. But in recent weeks my mind keeps going back to the garage. I'm sure I would be a good psychologist, but the passion isn't there. It's fascinating. I've always found people interesting and have always loved helping people, but even if I become healthy enough, do I want to make a career out of it? I love school. It keeps my mind engaged, I get to meet new people, I get out of the house when my body allows it, but a career in psychology? I just don't know. I don't feel the same way I did when I decided to become a mechanic. And it scares me a bit. I've thought about maybe getting an associates degree in chemistry just to be able to do something.
Yesterday was just an unintentional eerie deja vu/walk down memory lane. I took a different route home from the rheumy's to avoid construction traffic and found myself passing the garage, taking the same route home when I still lived with my parents from the garage, driving past the technical school I went to after high school, the places my classmates and I would stop after class, the tiny side streets we used to race down trying to beat each other to the highway.... All these years later, I just don't know how to lay to rest that part of my past. How do you bury part of who you are, or should I say were?
Six years ago I thought I had finally stopped running into the circular brick wall of "what do you want to do? I want to be a mechanic. you can't anymore, so what do you want to do?" when I made the choice to return to college to get my degree in psychology. I had hoped that by the time I finished college, my doctors and I would have found the right combination of treatments so that I could return to work. I've been on medical leave now for a year and a half.
Last month was the first time in ages I truly missed being a mechanic and the reality hit home. While my car was in the shop, I was put in a position that made me realized I'm not a mechanic anymore. I can't fix my car--not even a small job (which was something I could do until last year). Then while I was at my rheumatologist's yesterday for a check up, she again recommended a pulmonary specialist because I have COPD and began the required lecture since I'm one of those dumbasses who also smokes. Except I was diagnosed with COPD BEFORE I started smoking. She didn't see that one coming! She stopped mid lecture as if she heard me wrong. Nope. I started after it was brought under control. Why? Because it was the only way to get a break working in the garage. Yes, there are labor laws that require a certain number of breaks for certain lengths of time plus lunch. But I was a woman working in an all male shop, in a very male dominated field. Spouting labor laws would've gotten me breaks, but would not have gotten me very far in my career. Working my ass off and being one of the guys (even if it stupidly meant smoking to get a 5 minute break here and there during 10-12 hour work days), however, would. And it made me miss the job. Again. It wasn't just a job to me. It was who I was. I was on my way to becoming one of the best. It was a family legacy, albeit I was the first female in the family, but still. I had come across guys who hated me simply because I was a woman and took everything they threw at me and then some. It was my passion. I may have been only 22, but I spent from the time I could walk learning and working on cars. Not many people can say they have a job, a career that they love. No two days were the same, but every day was challenging. It was more than a paycheck and it wasn't a job to me. And just like that, it was gone.
I figured I'd become a therapist to help others like myself who've lost their careers because of chronic illness or injury navigate through all that entails. I finished 2 Associates Degrees with an almost perfect GPA in 2 years before I became too sick and had to withdraw (temporarily). Like any endeavor I put my mind to, I excelled in the classroom. Except math, but I suck at word problems. But in recent weeks my mind keeps going back to the garage. I'm sure I would be a good psychologist, but the passion isn't there. It's fascinating. I've always found people interesting and have always loved helping people, but even if I become healthy enough, do I want to make a career out of it? I love school. It keeps my mind engaged, I get to meet new people, I get out of the house when my body allows it, but a career in psychology? I just don't know. I don't feel the same way I did when I decided to become a mechanic. And it scares me a bit. I've thought about maybe getting an associates degree in chemistry just to be able to do something.
Yesterday was just an unintentional eerie deja vu/walk down memory lane. I took a different route home from the rheumy's to avoid construction traffic and found myself passing the garage, taking the same route home when I still lived with my parents from the garage, driving past the technical school I went to after high school, the places my classmates and I would stop after class, the tiny side streets we used to race down trying to beat each other to the highway.... All these years later, I just don't know how to lay to rest that part of my past. How do you bury part of who you are, or should I say were?
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
I Know I'm Going to Pay For This...
It's a little after 7am, I'm milking my second cup of coffee (when I go out in a little while, I know I'll be getting another one, so I don't want to overdo it on the caffeine and decaf just sounds like a waste of money), have my Pink Blossoms candle burning, and some Doors playing. The mutt's laying at the bottom of the bed, occasionally giving me that "will you turn that down?" look; I guess she's not much of a Doors fan. Or she's still a bit pissy because until about a half hour ago I kept disturbing her and the loud-ish music is just another disturbance to her usual lazy morning routine. That's what she gets for waking me up at 4am barking her foolish furry head off at who knows what. After a poor night's sleep, I gave up trying, poured a cup of coffee and got to work.
I have a million things I want to finish by Friday morning. Except now it's more by the end of today, since I'll be spending most of my time at the shop tomorrow getting maintenance done on my car and a huge cold front is due to come through sometime tomorrow afternoon, so I know by the time I get home, I won't feel like doing much of anything. Why Friday morning (besides it's Memorial Day weekend)? Because it's my next Humira injection. If this one is anything like the next one, I'll pretty much be a useless rag doll until at least Tuesday. I'll be somewhat functional Monday, but the entire weekend is shot--between the dizziness, nausea, achiness--kinda like having the worst flu ever. It's like it takes all the crappy side effects of the medications I'm already on that I barely feel and intensifies them times 1,000 for a few days. Which, apparently is normal for awhile. Don't ask me what awhile is, because even my doctor isn't sure, except if in a few months my overall pain level isn't any less, the medication is a failure.
So what am I paying for? It's been in the low 80s the last few days, so my overall pain levels have been down a bit--okay, so instead of a steady 8-9ish on a scale of 1-10, they've been a 7-8ish, but I'll take it. So I decided I wanted to get a bunch of crap done that has been driving me nuts. Like getting the boxes of Christmas decorations in the attic that have been taking up 2 rooms in the house. I planned it out carefully as to not aggravate my back and shoulder. Of course that all went to hell when I discovered there are wasps living in the attic. My back is fine. My shoulder? It's a bit sorer, but it'll be fine. I did learn I can still shot put--I probably could've launched that box the length of the house if those support beams weren't in the way. :) (I was standing at the base of the ladder at the time because one wasp turned into about 7 or 8 at that point.) I went grocery shopping, did some cleaning... slept like hell. Then was up at 4am today.
Just this morning I've opened a bunch of storm windows, put my winter coats away, moved a few piles of books off my office floor (I WILL have my office at least 90% done or at least the back storage room 100% done by the end of this summer), pulled out my summer sheets and began washing my bedding, did some more light cleaning, and washed some dishes. I know I'm overdoing it. My body is slightly revolting at this point and my brain is screaming at me to knock it off already, but after being so inactive for the last almost 18 months and being in such incredible, unrelenting pain for at least that long, to have that little break brings with it an energy that makes me want to get up and do stuff. Yes, the pain level is still pretty high, but it's amazing what can be blocked out. Until that crash comes because I've overdone it. But I'll deal with paying for it later.
I have a million things I want to finish by Friday morning. Except now it's more by the end of today, since I'll be spending most of my time at the shop tomorrow getting maintenance done on my car and a huge cold front is due to come through sometime tomorrow afternoon, so I know by the time I get home, I won't feel like doing much of anything. Why Friday morning (besides it's Memorial Day weekend)? Because it's my next Humira injection. If this one is anything like the next one, I'll pretty much be a useless rag doll until at least Tuesday. I'll be somewhat functional Monday, but the entire weekend is shot--between the dizziness, nausea, achiness--kinda like having the worst flu ever. It's like it takes all the crappy side effects of the medications I'm already on that I barely feel and intensifies them times 1,000 for a few days. Which, apparently is normal for awhile. Don't ask me what awhile is, because even my doctor isn't sure, except if in a few months my overall pain level isn't any less, the medication is a failure.
So what am I paying for? It's been in the low 80s the last few days, so my overall pain levels have been down a bit--okay, so instead of a steady 8-9ish on a scale of 1-10, they've been a 7-8ish, but I'll take it. So I decided I wanted to get a bunch of crap done that has been driving me nuts. Like getting the boxes of Christmas decorations in the attic that have been taking up 2 rooms in the house. I planned it out carefully as to not aggravate my back and shoulder. Of course that all went to hell when I discovered there are wasps living in the attic. My back is fine. My shoulder? It's a bit sorer, but it'll be fine. I did learn I can still shot put--I probably could've launched that box the length of the house if those support beams weren't in the way. :) (I was standing at the base of the ladder at the time because one wasp turned into about 7 or 8 at that point.) I went grocery shopping, did some cleaning... slept like hell. Then was up at 4am today.
Just this morning I've opened a bunch of storm windows, put my winter coats away, moved a few piles of books off my office floor (I WILL have my office at least 90% done or at least the back storage room 100% done by the end of this summer), pulled out my summer sheets and began washing my bedding, did some more light cleaning, and washed some dishes. I know I'm overdoing it. My body is slightly revolting at this point and my brain is screaming at me to knock it off already, but after being so inactive for the last almost 18 months and being in such incredible, unrelenting pain for at least that long, to have that little break brings with it an energy that makes me want to get up and do stuff. Yes, the pain level is still pretty high, but it's amazing what can be blocked out. Until that crash comes because I've overdone it. But I'll deal with paying for it later.
Friday, May 17, 2013
I Did It!
I don't do needles. Even with my tattoos and after having had my ears pierced multiple times, my tongue pierced for several years, and my navel pierced (all I have left are 2 piercings in each ear and the tats left--I got bored with the rest and removed them. Except the eyebrow. I lost that in a softball incident and chose the sport over risking having it ripped from my eyebrow again). But if you're in a lab coat coming near me with a needle, I freak. I'm not so bad that I scream, cry, or like some people I've heard, pass out. It's more like whimpering, whining, squirming in my chair, cringing, and looking away waiting for it to be over. That includes any form of vaccine. My rational mind knows there's no difference, but still. For the last 18 months, I've had labs done at least once a month; some months two or three times. It still isn't any easier. So when my UCTD began to worsen and evolve into what my rheumatologist believes to be Rheumatoid Arthritis and Lupus and I was sent for a full spinal MRI to look for signs of at least RA (lab tests would be skewed from the anti-rheumatics and immunosuppressants, most likely leading to false negatives except for the climbing inflammation rates), the next step was to add Humira to my ever growing regimen of medications. One little catch: it's a self injectable medication. Awesome.
The good news, at least, is it does come in an injectable pen form, so I don't actually have to see the needle. Naturally, I'm on the higher dose and the more frequent injection--every other week. Many of my friends joked about a pool they had going as to whether I was going to puke, pass out, or go running to my mother to inject me when I had to start it. It was a pretty safe bet any of the above was going to happen, so it was decided that upstairs was the safest place for me. That and there was an excellent chance the side effects were going to be more intense because of my other medications. So my mother and I debated where upstairs as I impatiently waited for my TB test results. I could use her room, since I could keep the dog out and sit on the edge of her bed. That way if I did pass out, the bed was right there, but if I was going to puke, well... that would be a bit of a problem. The bathroom was a better choice because it's smaller and obviously if I did get sick, the toilet (or worst case, the bath tub) was right there. Downside? The bath tub was right there if I passed out and would prove painful. But I chose it anyway, figuring I'd take my chances.
The tests came back negative as expected, I'd start on a Friday since the side effects could last a few days and losing a whole weekend was fine. I do that all the time now because of pain. I psyched myself up, preparing to do this on my own. Then I opened the box and there were these 2 HUGE 3-4" syringes. What.The.Fuck!?!? Totally not the pens I was expecting and nothing like the practice pen I was given! I almost passed out on the kitchen floor!! The pharmacy screwed up and gave me the wrong injection! Of course by this point I can't drive, so I have to wait for my dad to come home from work in a few hours to exchange them. A Xanax later and with the right injection in my hand, I'm sitting there, my thigh prepped, hand shaking, holding the pen in my hand. I can't do it. I can't watch, but I have to, because I have to watch and wait for the indicator to fully show up to let me know it's finished. But I can't. Mom has to. But she can't, because I have to get used to doing this myself. I haven't touched anything, so it's still all sterile. Deep breaths. It only takes about 10 seconds. I can't do this. I have to do this.... It took me 10 minutes to finally inject myself, but I did it. Three times I almost called my mom in there to do it, but I did it. I managed to stay conscious, keep my stomach contents, and resisted the urge to call my mom. So I spent the entire weekend in bed feeling like a rag doll that had been tossed around in a tornado, but by Wednesday afternoon, I was okay. So far, I don't feel any different, except by Sunday I noticed it takes me less than 10 minutes to get out of bed. It normally takes me about 45 minutes because my joints are so stiff. It's a start. It will take months for the medication to fully take effect and hopefully my body will adjust to the injections so I'm not completely down for 3 days and kind of functional for another 2, but I conquered the hardest part--I did it myself. This time. We'll see if I can do it again next week.
The good news, at least, is it does come in an injectable pen form, so I don't actually have to see the needle. Naturally, I'm on the higher dose and the more frequent injection--every other week. Many of my friends joked about a pool they had going as to whether I was going to puke, pass out, or go running to my mother to inject me when I had to start it. It was a pretty safe bet any of the above was going to happen, so it was decided that upstairs was the safest place for me. That and there was an excellent chance the side effects were going to be more intense because of my other medications. So my mother and I debated where upstairs as I impatiently waited for my TB test results. I could use her room, since I could keep the dog out and sit on the edge of her bed. That way if I did pass out, the bed was right there, but if I was going to puke, well... that would be a bit of a problem. The bathroom was a better choice because it's smaller and obviously if I did get sick, the toilet (or worst case, the bath tub) was right there. Downside? The bath tub was right there if I passed out and would prove painful. But I chose it anyway, figuring I'd take my chances.
The tests came back negative as expected, I'd start on a Friday since the side effects could last a few days and losing a whole weekend was fine. I do that all the time now because of pain. I psyched myself up, preparing to do this on my own. Then I opened the box and there were these 2 HUGE 3-4" syringes. What.The.Fuck!?!? Totally not the pens I was expecting and nothing like the practice pen I was given! I almost passed out on the kitchen floor!! The pharmacy screwed up and gave me the wrong injection! Of course by this point I can't drive, so I have to wait for my dad to come home from work in a few hours to exchange them. A Xanax later and with the right injection in my hand, I'm sitting there, my thigh prepped, hand shaking, holding the pen in my hand. I can't do it. I can't watch, but I have to, because I have to watch and wait for the indicator to fully show up to let me know it's finished. But I can't. Mom has to. But she can't, because I have to get used to doing this myself. I haven't touched anything, so it's still all sterile. Deep breaths. It only takes about 10 seconds. I can't do this. I have to do this.... It took me 10 minutes to finally inject myself, but I did it. Three times I almost called my mom in there to do it, but I did it. I managed to stay conscious, keep my stomach contents, and resisted the urge to call my mom. So I spent the entire weekend in bed feeling like a rag doll that had been tossed around in a tornado, but by Wednesday afternoon, I was okay. So far, I don't feel any different, except by Sunday I noticed it takes me less than 10 minutes to get out of bed. It normally takes me about 45 minutes because my joints are so stiff. It's a start. It will take months for the medication to fully take effect and hopefully my body will adjust to the injections so I'm not completely down for 3 days and kind of functional for another 2, but I conquered the hardest part--I did it myself. This time. We'll see if I can do it again next week.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)