A Mama-shaped hole.

I've been reading the book "Before Green Gables" by Budge Wilson for book club. If you're at all familiar with the Anne of Green Gables character in the books by L. M. Montgomery, you'll probably know that her story begins as a twelve-year-old orphan girl who is accidentally placed with Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert at Green Gables when they had requested a boy to help on the farm. Her unique, imaginative wonderfulness ends up endearing her to them and they decide to keep her after all.

According to the acknowledgements in the book, the senior editor at Penguin books wanted the woman oddly (or interestingly) named "Budge" to write a prequel to the Anne books, answering a big question of mine: "What would possess someone to mess with my favorite book series of all time??" The voice of the writing is fairly similar to that of Lucy Maud Montgomery's, helping to fit this book into the series somewhat seamlessly. After I got over my initial annoyance that someone would decide to fill in the early years spoken of in the Anne books, I've actually enjoyed it.

"Enjoyed" may not be the best word, since it's brought up a lot of my own feelings of "orphan-ness." The irrepressable Anne Shirley lost her parents to illness when she was a baby, then spent her next years as an unpaid servant to two different families with many children, being forced to earn her keep by washing diapers, preparing dinner, and watching the younger children from an age at which most of us were still sucking our thumbs. She keeps from losing all hope of goodness in the world by imagining better and happier worlds.

My Favorite Mental Health Professional, Stephanie-the-therapist, told me that grief can stir up our old hurts. Since my sister's death in March I've been living that out. The Anne books give a whisper of her early trials, but the Prequel revels in fleshing those trials out--while showing how she maintains her hopeful nature. All that flesh is tough to see (I'm pretty modest.) And it's reminded me of the "mama-shaped-hole" in the middle of me, though I lack the awesomeness of Anne to compensate for it as she does (but then, she is fictional. But awesome.)

Be assured, this isn't meant to be a "poor me!" post, it's just a (really long) statement of the feelings the book has stirred in me. I've had people play the "I had it worse" game with me before, such as when one acquaintance said to me while bemoaning her absent father, "Well at least you HAD a father!" I refrained from speaking the thoughts in my head which ran something like this: "Ah yes, a father who when drunk might pull out his gun and hold us hostage on the living room couch threatening that he could 'put us all in the ground,' or who had a thing for handling my older sister in ways a daughter should never be handled. Yes, good ol' dad!" Instead I merely clamped my jaw shut and grimaced the pretense of a smile. I'm not trying to "one-up" anyone here, or invite you to my pity party, as I am fully capable of carrying that on by myself.

When I was young and I'd be home from school because I was sick, I loved that my mother would put a chair by my bed or the couch to put my book and water on, and she'd let me use the Special Blanket her mother had given her, made of yellow flowered fabric that felt like a entire blanket of satin binding. This for me was "love" and "nurture." Not to be mean, but she didn't enjoy giving of herself, so the nurturing was in things. But I missed out on the actual person.

BUT, both parents were creative, and my sister and I learned that from them. There are always positives to be found by those of us foolish enough to be optimistic while face to face with flesh-eating zombies ("well maybe I'll finally lose these hips!") And I am a Big Girl and know that Life Is About Choices--the choices I make every day in what I do, or who I choose to be.

I guess all that to say this: "Before Green Gables" has made me look again at the Mama-shaped-hole in me, the part of me that wishes she had a nurturing mama to cry to, to help mourn the too-early loss of Patti. That need seems to have stuck with me my entire life, but the recent sadness and then reading the story of unloved Anne has pushed it into visibility. Trust me, I hate that I'm an adult of 58 and can still feel that pain at times. Blecch. Grief is hateful. But neccessary (or so They tell me.)

SO MAMAS, love your babies and children, kiss on 'em and tell them how special they are to you simply because they're alive. Enjoy them, even when they're loud and driving you crazy making popping noises with their mouth non-stop (like a certain son I just might have.) Build that strong place in the middle of them, that warm mama-shaped love place that sticks with them even when they're 58.

And if you love the Anne of Green Gables books, and don't cry like a big baby over sad stories, read the book. It does manage to capture Anne's spirit (she admits begrudgingly.)

Skimmer's Recap: Not a bad book. Made me a little "Emo" though.

Oh well.

I tried. I really did. I tried to clear myself of Cymbalta and live a more naturally medicated life. But today, somehow fittingly on the 11th anniversary of the death of my mother, I embraced the fact that it isn't working. Maybe some would say I didn't give the 5 HTP a long enough chance, or that I lack the strength of character to somehow "tough it out." But they don't have to live in my head and my body.

The moments I've been able to step back and observe and assess myself, I've seen signs that point to the return of depression: lack of interest in things I'd normally be interested in, daily anxiety about every little thing of life, more difficulty than the usual "not a morning person" experiences getting going with the day, feeling chronically overwhelmed. And there's enough "chronic" in fibromyalgia to contend with. All these things have increased over the past few weeks. My trainer at the gym says I've remained more stiff off the Cymbalta, so apparently it really does do some good for the physical aspects of fibromyalgia. At any rate, my experiment has come to an end. I survived the withdrawals only to be unable to survive the absence of the drug in my system. But, "quality of life" being what it is, I choose to once again embrace my need for Better Living Through Pharmaceuticals.

Hopefully I will soon feel more hopeful and less anxious. I mean seriously, I have been anxious about eating, about cooking, about shopping, about every ridiculously small thing! Even my fatigue seems more pronounced to me, which (again) makes me anxious. *Sigh*

Time to move on and get some help for those synapses!

Things to do instead of shop on Black Friday.

Who knew that all the Thanksgiving feast loveliness would end in a Friday run to emergency? Too much creamy-goodness for my gall bladder, apparently.

I'd only recently found out I had a gallstone--it had shown up in a routine x-ray my doctor had done. She and  I had agreed that since it was giving me no trouble we wouldn't do anything about it. But now at least I knew where my gall bladder was, something I'd never given much thought to before. But Friday evening that bit of information became quite useful. Yup, that there's my gall bladder where that pain is!

Who needs Black Friday shopping when they can visit the emergency room instead? Dear hubby took me after I'd made a couple of calls to the advice nurses. The pain was reminiscent of labor, but to my knowledge, no baby was forthcoming. (Thankfully. I'd like to leave that kind of thing for the younger folk.)

By the time we arrived at the emergency room the pain had lessened, and I was begging quietly to just go home. But no, a couple of tests later and they had decided to keep me, and two very eager young surgeons visited me with their intentions to remove the offending organ on Saturday morning.

God bless intravenous drugs, everything after placing that cute little cap over my hair was a fog until I was back in a regular hospital room. My nurses were all great, and my baby-surgeons seemed pleased with their handiwork. (Well done, boys.)

And here it is, Monday. Got to sleep in my own bed without the distractions of various alarms going off in the night or doctors walking in at 5:30 to talk to my roommate, flipping on all the room lights. Finally got a shower too. (I knew you'd want to know that.)

How did you spend your Thanksgiving weekend?? Hopefully more traditionally. :-)

The As-Finished-As-It's-Gonna-Get Puzzle.

Round puzzles are tricky. The pieces are shaped strangely. Hubby-Dearest finished off the blue section for me in minutes--guess his brain works differently than mine, but then he's one of those sheet metal layout kind of guys who gets that spatially relative stuff.

The funny bit is, there's a piece missing. So it's as finished as it's ever going to get.

We have a kitty who thinks puzzle pieces are the bomb to play with. She even took some back into the bedroom with her. Did she steal the missing piece? Or is it that the puzzle came from a friend's father's house who must have gotten it second hand since the Christmas tag on the box has someone else's names on it entirely?

A Facebook friend said if you look at it really quickly it could be a WWII bomber or large winged creature. Made me giggle.

I'm good with the imperfection. It reminds me that nothing is perfect, this side of heaven. Our health is flawed. Puzzle pieces go missing. I need to keep my sense of humor and see the flaw as a large winged creature, since I get way too frustrated when I see these things as Interruptions rather than life.

Cymbalta Withdrawal is the B Word.

Wow. The things they do not tell you.

Take this, they say. It will improve your life! And maybe it does for a time before your body gets used to it and you end up with only the side effects and not the benefits. What then?

If you watch television at all, you've no doubt seen the commercials for Cymbalta, one of the wonder drugs of the 21st century. Their tag line: "Depression hurts." As does Fibromyalgia, one of the uses for Cymbalta. Quite honestly, I've dealt with depression over the years, so when I got clocked upside the head with Fibro it did cause some pretty depressed feelings. Chronic pain can drag you down no matter how Pollyanna you want to be.

Apparently, Cymbalta works with the central nervous system to reduce the pain of Fibromyalgia. My doctor and I decided to try it out. And soon I actually felt a difference, a lowered perception of pain at least. One thing about a person who hurts 24/7 is that they're willing to try most anything, (as I realized about myself during the "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger" Fentanyl era) with little thought to the aftermath. Common to most of the people I attended Pain Management class with, I would like something to just take the pain away! But we don't always go in with enough information to be clear on what the medication might take away along with the pain. Sometimes we lose more than we gain--like the ability to feel life or deeply enjoy things--and the withdrawals can be a b****!

Today, for example, I see that people from Georgia, Virginia, Texas, and Brussels Hoofdstedelijk Gewest (I couldn't tell you where that last one is, let alone pronounce it) have visited my post on "FENTANYL: the Withdrawal Experiment."  How many of the people who've started out innocently and trustingly enough on a plan to reduce their pain levels have found they are now in the pit as they try to pull back out of the pain medication fog? And I'm by no means saying we didn't NEED the help or even benefit from the medication, but boy howdy, we need help getting off!

Common withdrawal symptoms from Cymbalta that I've read on message boards online etc:

• headaches
• intestinal upsets, bloating
• brain zaps (electrical feeling/sounding jolts that go through your brain and body)
• dizziness
• nausea/vomiting
• "irritability"

And that's just to name the main few. I put irritability in quotes, because would you call Jack the Ripper "just a guy with poor social skills"?

What I personally experienced:

• loss of words (it's taken me weeks to write this post)
• PAIN and muscle fatigue
• brain zaps
• intestinal upsets
• minor dizziness
• DON'T LOOK AT ME WITH THAT TONE!!
• Oh, really? You don't like what I made for dinner? WELL YOU CAN JUST BLEEPING BUY A NEW SLAVE!! *sob*
• Um, "irritability."

I'm now 5 weeks off the Cymbalta. Still experiencing extra pain and muscle fatigue. Brain zaps are gone. I followed advice from Cymbalta withdrawal online boards (such as cymbaltawithdrawal.com and depressionforums) to take extra Omega 3s and drink lots of chamomile tea, and within 3 days the brain zaps were over. The extra dizziness is gone. The words are coming back and I can actually string a few together now to make a complete sentence. The intestinal upsets resolved within the first 2 weeks.

While it has improved, I'm still working on the irritability. Has my true self merely come forward and I am really an impatient, screaming lunatic? I really really hope not. As does my family.

Picture of me withdrawing from Cymbalta.

No, not standing above, the one at the bottom.



Skimmer's Recap: Cymbalta withdrawals are not for the weak. Or for our families.

Friends Don't Let Friends Buy La-Z-Boy.

Lousy La-Z-Boy

Dear La-Z-Boy:

With dreams of reclining comfort, we set out to purchase couches from you. No more low-cost disposable couches from Levitz, no more build-it-yourself from Ikea, we were going to Do It Right and buy grown-up furniture. Wads of money in hand (since your product does not come cheap) we set out for your Pleasanton store.

After much sitting and reclining, we decided on a couch and loveseat so new they weren't even in stores yet. Their lines were clean and pleasing, and we were assured they were practically identical to a chair we tried in store. Looking forward to many long years of happy lounging, I special ordered a sturdy fabric of chocolatey-brown loveliness and waited excitedly.

We repainted and scrubbed and organized in anticipation, and finally, two months later, they arrived. And just 2 short months after that, the cushions were breaking down and the mechanisms squawked and swayed. The previously fluffy back cushions were flat and the fabric hung loosely, the seat cushions were flattening uncomfortably. Hopefully a one time "mistake" at the factory, perhaps workers who decided to start their weekend drinking early?

Many emails and phone calls and photos and a service call later, you agreed to replace our couches with a different model. Back to the store we went--the store, I might add, that decided they would no longer carry the Braxton model we had purchased, due to its low quality.

Torn between the desire to have the fabric color of my choice or having somewhere comfortable to sit sooner rather than later, we decided to pick something readily available in your warehouse. So only 3 months after delivery of our first couches, we were sitting pretty on some different caramel-colored goodness. And we all lived happily ever after, right?

Wrong. We've had these couches for less than a year, 7 brief months to be exact. One entire seat cushion has needed replacing. The cable pull that releases the foot rest where my hubby sits broke off. His end of the couch slopes to the back corner. The back cushion in the same seat has flattened more than the rest of them.

Service calls take anywhere from 1 to 2 months to happen, parts take another 2 weeks to the more likely 8 weeks to receive, and not till those parts are received do you set up a visit to do the repair.

I've welcomed a variety of La-Z-Boy service technicians into my home. They've all been lovely people, but I don't want to meet the entire staff of the La-Z-Boy service department. I just want my thousands of dollars worth of couches to do their job and last longer than their much less expensive Ikea counterparts.

Yesterday I sent photos of the end of the couch where I sit and the end of the couch where my husband sits, to show the obvious difference between them. Your technician's advice was that we should "rotate" where we sit and not always sit the same place. Perhaps if the product you've designed for seating cannot be used for sitting, you should rename it "magazine rest" or "decorative flat area."

My friend Linda tells me that she and her hubby have the best La-Z-Boy recliners ever. Now this is beginning to feel personal. Have we somehow offended the La-Z-Boy gods? Could I perhaps sacrifice a young chair and break the curse? If you can help me please let me know.

Beleaguered in the Bay Area,
me.


Skimmer's recap: Having hoped that throwing large amounts of money at the La-Z-Boy gods was sacrifice enough to get a sturdy, working couch, julie begins to feel desperate. And don't even get her started on why she trusted someone who can't even spell "Lazy" correctly.

The Problem With Mother-Pain.

Papa Jean, my stepdad, in his horsey days.

Recently my aunt sent me an album my mother had put together in 1999, just a year plus before she died of cancer in January 2001. My mother had wanted my aunt to have it after her death, but now, 10 years later, my aunt felt I should have it as part of my family history.

I feared looking at it, so let it sit for days on the dining room table. With a relationship as complicated as mine was with my mom, many emotions come into play, not all of them belonging to Grown Julie. So I waited. But today I decided to Take The Plunge, Dive Right In, phrases that oddly refer to another fear of mine: water.

The album is the story of a life, Margie's, from childhood through marriage and parenting, back around to single-ness, and then into the last third of her life with the love of her life, Jean.

The photos are amazing--of her family and my father's family, of our family and of Jean's family, and some I'd long hoped to see of Jean in his cowboy garb on a horse. There are photos of the new "family" she gathered in her new life in Nebraska where she moved to be with Jean at about the same time I was getting married in California.

It's her edited life: "Margie's Life, Lite." Without most of the anger and pain and accusations that colored big parts of the Full Fat version. I marveled at all the smiling faces, the photos of outings and birthdays and holidays. Pretty pictures of the decorating and remodeling she did in the house I grew up in, not of the broken pieces of dishes and punched in walls in the photos she had sent to me after her death to remind me of things my father had done. If I didn't know better, I'd think it was all a pretty happy story. Looking at the pictures I can imagine her as the kind of mother I could call to chat and tell her something funny one of the kids said, rather than calling and ending up defending myself for not being willing to say my father did not do those things to my sister or me.

I finish the album and sob. In my head I'm writing the thank you letter to my aunt: "Thanks so much for the album, the pictures are great and let me into some parts of her life I wasn't there for. I always wished I was a stronger person: strong enough to see the person beneath the harsh words, stronger than her desire to hurt me, stronger than many things that kept me from being a part of Margie's life in her later years."

I don't know what I will really write. Will I mention the victories I have felt in my struggles toward Sound Mental Health over those same years? Will I mention how I finally feel the Mother-Pain will no longer cripple me for weeks after contact, but hopefully only hours? Will I say sure I regret that I wasn't always The Good Daughter, but I knew I would never be the Good Enough Daughter? Probably not. Probably I will thank her for the photos and for her thoughtfulness in sharing them with me.

The problem with Mother-Pain is that no matter how far I've come in life, it will apparently always be waiting to jump out and bite me. But at least now, after enough therapy and prayers and time, the pain doesn't last as long.


Skimmer's Recap: Just when Julie thinks she's getting a handle on that whole Mental Health thing, she realizes "a handle" is but an illusion, and there's always more to learn.

Losing things (besides my mind.)

This is a bride.

The reason I am using this picture? A photo of my wedding ring with A DIAMOND MISSING would not be attractive. In fact, it bears a striking resemblance to a person missing a front tooth.

I was shopping when I noticed it was gone, leaving only a gummy smile in its place. Fortunately Adina was willing to search the dressing room floor on her hands and knees, (I wasn't) but no success. I left a hopeful little note with the manager in the store in case someone happened to pick up a diamond and think, "I should turn this in rather than put it in my pocket!" I reminded myself "it is just 'stuff."

My dear hubby assures me we will replace it. I suggested cubic zirconium might be a better option for me.

But here's the burning question: since this ring is the only piece I own of any significant monetary value, why couldn't I lose a part from jewelry I'd picked up on the Kohl's clearance rack?


Skimmer's Recap: A diamond is after all but a worldly possession that will not follow me to the afterlife. But still, DANG. * sigh*

On my efforts to have a pain medication "fast."

And who is our favorite Vicodin abusing TV doctor? Why, Dr. Gregory House, that's who! Clearly it makes HIM a happy camper.

So why would this fibromyalgic blogger decide to be UNhappy? Maybe she's tired of being tired and foggy. Maybe she thinks that if she can rid her body of the Aleve, Vicodin, Motrin and Percocet, she can ascertain which are fibro symptoms and which are pain reliever symptoms. And which is worse?

Don't get me wrong--i did not quit taking the Cymbalta my doctor prescribed. i'm not crazy. You've probably seen it advertised, that depressing depression commercial (think "Who does depression hurt? Everybody," and lots of pictures of sad looking people. They need an ad for "Who does fibromyalgia hurt? EVERYBODY ELSE," with at least one picture of me scowling.)

The premise of the moment for fibromyalgia is extra "Substance P" in the spinal column that in turn makes the person's central nervous system waaaay more sensitive than it should be. This makes the pain feel like it's screaming for attention when it should be only mildly grumpy.

i've not had the pleasure (?) of abusing my pain meds like House by taking them 4 at a time countless times a day. i've used the Vicodin at the same dose prescribed to me two years ago by the doctor at Kaiser's Pain Management Clinic. And i'm not gonna lie: when that pain reliever washes over, what a relief it is.

i've tried Motrin. Aleve. Percocet as well as Vicodin. And while they all lessen my pain level, they do bad things for all other levels in my life--my stomach goes to a dark place, my creative abilities follow. My emotions are even more touchy than before. None of these do i desire.

It's been, thus far, a 2 week fast. i'm making good friends with the hand-me-down hot-tub again. The only downside to it is my proactivity with the chemicals has made it smell like a public pool (minus the urine.)

We shall see how it goes.

Skimmer's recap: Will fewer pain meds lead to more pain or simply more sanity?

My life as a toothpaste tube.

If the picture above symbolizes my energy level before the Fentanyl, Oxycontin, Morphine, & Methadone experiment....the one below is my energy level after.

From barely there to totally twisted, tweaked, and wrung out. (And a different brand and color, but who's counting?)

This week i have helped paint the house's front porch from top to bottom (new siding so new everything-gets-painted) and today i will help with either painting the trim on the house or cutting siding for the third outside wall of the house.

above: the new roof & dormer construction, with new siding, new windows, and new paint.

Therefore, i must assume i am beginning to come back from the dead! Maybe i will live past this Opiate Interruption after all. Woohoo.

Skimmer's recap: Ah come on, buck up!! This one was stinking short!!

Apricot Thoughts.

The bible verse that kept me going during my recent Fentanyl withdrawal experiment was the one about the vine and the branch, where Jesus says, "I am the vine and you are the branch. If anyone remains in me and I in them, he will bear much fruit. Without me you can do nothing." (That's a loose-ish paraphrase of John 15:5.) While i was feeling so detached from life i needed to feel attached still to my Creator, so i would repeat it but from my end of it: "You are my vine, i am your branch." It's yet another version of something i've said to God in the past while going through what seemed an impossible situation: "i may not be able to see You right now, but i will not turn my back on You."

You see, i remain aware of His thoughts toward me, and his persistence in loving me even when i don't seem to be able to carry off my end of the deal. Sometimes simply voicing that desire for connection with God has helped me hold on.

Anyway, later in reading a random bible verse i read something written by the apostle Paul to the Christians in Colosse, "Let your roots grow down into Him and draw up nourishment from Him so you will grow in faith, strong and vigorous in the truth you were taught." (Colossians 2:7.) These thoughts meshed for me. i choose to remain attached to the vine that is Jesus, and that is because i will then stay rooted to the source of nourishment, and will stay strong.

Recently i picked apricots from my daughter's tree with the help of her two girls, Haley and Cassidy. A few branches here and there had been broken away at their place of connection to the bigger tree. The only apricots they held were stunted and dried up, inedible. Other branches were heavy with apricots, growing vigorously from their solid connection to the tree, and were ripe and plump and beautifully colored.

Even i get the visual there--remaining strongly rooted to the source of nutrients grows plentiful, enjoyable fruit. The interruptions of life that we may let break us away from the tree causes dryness and immaturity of fruit.

Good stuff.

Skimmer's recap (and no, hubby of mine, i cannot set this blog up to send you only the skimmer section, sorry--): Attached to the tree= healthy growth. Not attached=little growth if any growth at all.

Habits of Happy People.

First off, welcome back to me! i say. Nearly a month is way too long for any self-respecting blogger to go between posts--

Friday i went back to the Chronic Pain Management Class at Kaiser for my 2 month follow-up day. Other than the nurses trying to kill me by having us do ALL the strength exercises i have not been doing faithfully, it was a good day. Even an encouraging day.

The last thing of the day was time spent with the psychologist--she spoke of Intentional Happiness. What is that, you ask? Why, i would be *happy* to tell you, i answer.

The psychologist started out by commenting that for all the years there have been studies to define the many types of mental/emotional illnesses and their treatments, no studies had been done on people who are well-balanced and happy in their lives. Surprising, you comment? Truthfully i had never given it a moment's thought, i respond.

This study was done with a goal of ascertaining what differentiates a person's capacity for happiness or unhappiness, thriving or failing. It encompassed people who had lived through horrible circumstances and events: the holocaust, loss of children, illnesses, etc. Those who survived and thrived had several habits in common. But first to set the stage:

If you draw a circle representing 100% happiness in your life, what percentage of that circle do you suppose genetics plays a part in? Take a guess--no really, just guess! i was totally off. It's FIFTY PERCENT! This would include things such as coming from a long line of family members with depression and/or anxiety, other illnesses both mental and physical such as a predisposition toward cancer, diabetes, etc. So HALF your happiness is affected by genetics. (Again i apologize, dear Corinne, child of birth--you are so screwed.)

Now, of the 50% remaining, what percentage do you think you are solely responsible for? This includes your behavior and habits, that sort of thing, the parts only you control. FORTY PERCENT!! That's right. A whole hunk of it is up to us. Our choices. Our habits.

This leaves 10%--that is the percentage determined by circumstances: events, disease, pain and such. A mere 10%. BUT, and here's the kicker, when that 10% starts taking over our thinking and actions, it swallows up the 40% that is our behavior and habits to become FIFTY PERCENT. Holy negativity, Batman!

So--this brings us to the answer to the original question: What are the common habits of happy people?

*Intentional happiness. This is the choice to look for the good--what happened today that was good? What went right? (NOW who's talkin' smack about Pollyanna, huh?)

*Support. The habit of seeking support and working to maintain and improve those supportive relationships.

*Hobbies. Those who thrived in the midst of bad circumstance had hobbies! Since i am a big hobby person i understand this one. My hobbies focus me on the immediate. i have no thoughts of past failure or present pain, i'm lost in the moment. And lest you think a hobby means craftiness, a hobby can be many things that don't mean having shelves full of yarn and scrapbooking supplies and fabric and....yeh. That would be me. A hobby can be as simple as reading a library book, or watching a movie. All hobbies don't require huge amounts of supply space and/or money, they simply are an activity that gives you something to focus on other than your circumstance.

*Flow. This was an unfamiliar term. As soon as the psychologist explained it i understood--that feeling you get when you're doing something that absorbs you and puts you in the moment? That's flow. For me all those hobbies i mentioned, the reading/creating and such, those put me in "flow."

*Meaning. Finding meaning for life is a habit of a happy person. For me there have been many things that contributed to that--none of which i can do as easily any more, given my energy-free life. Once upon a time i loved providing infant foster care, i loved being a part of students' lives for the years i worked in the church high school department. i loved providing a safe space for the occasional teen who needed a place to stay. i loved (and still love!) loving my kids. i find that i am in a time of redefining what i can do, given the change in health. But that's okay--no place does it say i have to do the exact same things to have meaning in my life. For me it has all been driven by the unconditional love i have known from my Creator God, and the desire to share that in my actions toward others. i need to accept that i will do this in my flawed way, but the desire is there and always has been. i just need to do some thinking to find a different way to perform the acts that give me meaning and purpose.

As simple as this all seems, the practice is the key. My choice to look for the good, to seek support, to find ways to be focused and absorbed and in the moment, to find meaning--these choices are the key to thriving in the midst of crappy circumstance. Crappy circumstances are the things we often see as interruptions in our real life, when in fact they are our life at that moment.

Skimmer's recap: Half your potential for thriving in life is determined by your genes. Only 10% is determined by your circumstance. That leaves 40% dependent on your personal choices and habits. That's a whole lot of control.

FENTANYL: The Withdrawal Experiment.

GOOD things about Fentanyl:

• It's a cheap drug on my medical plan.
• 
  
  It's legal, thus keeping me from skulking around alleyways looking to score my next hit. (do we even have alleyways in Castro Valley?)

BAD things about Fentanyl:

• Well, so far, pretty much everything.
• Wearing the Fentanyl patch means you must not get overly hot or it will dump ALL it's medicinal goods into your system at once, causing major overload and some nasty symptoms. Ways to get hot? Have a fever. Work in the sunny garden, then get in the hot tub (with the patch carefully above the water line) to soak your sore muscles from working in the sunny garden.
• Fentanyl sedates. EVERYthing. Your pain sensors, hopefully, but also your brain, your creativity, your internal workings, your....well, things best left unsaid, since this is a family friendly website. Plus, anybody who knows me is aware i'm already no Bundle of Energy. i've always worked at a lesser speed--clean part of the floor, sit down and read a magazine. Finish the floor, sit and read some more. Start on the kitchen tidying, sit down and have a cup of coffee and draw designs on a napkin. i always thought i was a bit lazy, but now it turns out i was "pacing." Who knew.
• Fentanyl withdrawals are a bi----i mean, a trial.

i originally wanted to name this post "Fentanyl: treatment for pain, or an evil plot to kill my creative mojo?" When i said that to my hubby, i followed it with, "but i thought that was excessively long for a post title." He leaned back in his chair and said, "That's never stopped you before." i guess, given his proclivity for skimming, i would have had to do a skimmer's version of the title as well.
Just a brief overview of my withdrawal symptoms to date:

• Very sick tummy, but on the upside i've lost some weight. Granted, it was weight i'd previously lost two years ago, but what the heck. i am getting tired of saltines, though.
• Creepy feeling of crawling out of my skin. Hard to explain, worse to go through.
• Excruciating pain on some days, for instance Wednesday being the worst i've had, worse than my most painful fibromyalgia day, 9 on a scale of 10, where 10 means "hospitalize me or shoot me with rhino tranquilizers, please."
• Extreme anxiety. But then, the whole opiate experiment had that same effect. So, let's see: March, April, May, and now into June, anxious, anxious,anxious, and anxious.
• Hypersensitivity to sounds. That also came along with the higher doses of Fentanyl, and again on the withdrawal path. Yesterday was the first day in months i'd been able to listen to music (well, besides American Idol, which goes without saying.)
• Fits of temper
• Personality changes
• Zombie-ness, in varying stages and amounts.

So, as you can see, symtoms aaaaall over the charts! Dr God at the pain clinic wanted me to wean from the Fentanyl by dropping from the 125 mcg dose to 100, then 75 for 6 days, then 50 for 6 days, then just take the dive. When i did not replace the 50 mcg patch quickly enough i had a long bad day of withdrawal, so i decided to use my remaining 25 mcg for three days, then my 12 mcg for another three to slow down the process. i felt that i was Dr God's child being taught to swim by being thrown into the deep end and walking away. No support, no "this is what you can expect to happen" or "this is what you can do to cope." Just throw me in and head for Starbucks.

i grew up in Portland, Oregon, and puddles are more my size, so my plan was to wean off to the point that i could simply drop into a puddle at the end where i could still keep my head above water. If this withdrawal is a puddle, what the heck must the deep end be like???

While looking up symptoms of withdrawal at the beginning of this ride, i saw ads for private clinics where you could stay to withdraw. Basically they keep you unconscious for the worst of it. i see why it's no big deal for those actors who love their Oxycontin and such--when it becomes a serious problem, just spend a tiny portion of your fortune and check into a clinic! Virtually no pain and all gain, for a measly 10 grand or so-- BUT, if they had to go through the actual pain of withdrawing, they might think twice before popping them bad-boys again.

My state of discomfort is odd even to me. In the early days of fibromyalgia i remember trying to find a position for sleep. i arrived at sleeping on my back with a pillow behind my knees as the only way that didn't hurt. In these withdrawal days, i'm so crawly uncomfortable that i find myself in bed doing the rotisserie chicken: on my back for a few minutes, then my right side, then my stomach, then my left side, only to start the spit on its next rotation. NOTHing is comfortable! Sitting up is no better, even in my nice thrift-store LazyGirl chair, place of all comfort.

It's a curious state of being. Soon to be behind me. Then i can at least simply deal with the fibromyalgia pain again. Woohoo.


*OH--forgot to add the skimmer's recap: Fentanyl: little good, mostly bad, withdrawal is hell. There ya go, it's short, but you miss the clever analogies/metaphors--whichever they are, i can never remember. *sigh*

Letting go.

As i sat in the waiting room before Pain Management class began, i did the usual people watching. i scribbled this on a piece of paper:

"Don't want to be a lumpy-bumpy old grandma with lumpy-bumpy clothes. But she looks happy. i know how to look happy, how to say, 'i'm fine!' when asked how i am, so i fit that Pain Class rule to a T. But i'm not so good at being peaceful on the inside. There i am a bunch/bundle/gaggle of shaky anxiety. 'i'm trying to learn to let go.'"

i was feeling pretty fragile, having to see Dean take Dynamo off to the vets for who knew how long at that point.

In the afternoon i took a few minutes to write this down:

"'Letting go'--seems to be the theme, especially for me. Cried halfway through the day, worried about our dog, feeling very much that it's out of my hands, but feeling the stress. Hard time with the heavy internal traffic, difficult to focus on the morning meditation and exercises. Pain was worse as the afternoon went n, but somehow released after the meditation and psychologist group session.

i want to get everything i can out of this class, improve myself and my life as much as i choose to. So i ask questions a lot--i seem more talkative than many. (Okay, no surprise there.)"

Letting go. i've been a worrier since birth. i think that things felt so out of my control as a child, subconciously i did feel very much the victim of my parents' craziness. i just as young learned to "put on a happy face." i mean, i was a cheerful child, i think that was honest and true to who i was, but i learned early that was the face that helped me slide by in my family and stay out of trouble. So i learned to smile and be outwardly happy in the face of all the things that made no sense to a small child surrounded by hostility and chaos.

This causes a a conflict in me. At Pain Class i feel well suited to shine it on for the folks, acting positive, answering "fine!" "good!" or other acceptable smiley-face responses. But another part of me says, "this is bull-pucky." i've spent so long learning to be a person of truth that being cheerful feels like a lie often times. I hurt! Why can't i call it that? The Pain chasers say it doesn't help, it only hurts to talk about our pain. i'm not quite there in my understanding. Sometimes i just want to be able to say, "i'm having a tough day." Not being a victim, just stating the facts.

This Pain class coinciding with Dynamo's troubles speaks to the letting go process as it relates to real life in its totality. Needing to let go of my useless fretting and trusting Dyno to the more capable hands of the vet requires a difficult level of "learning to let go." Needing to change the way i try to deal with my pain requires an even more difficult level. Having to chart hourly what i'm doing and what is my pain level has let me see the connection between the emotional part of my life and the pain part of my life, how much the emotional effects the physical. That's the point in this class--the body and mind connection.

Once again i have rambled--sorry, folks.

Skimmers: dog sick. Body hurts. Need to learn to let go of both.

Oh, the things people say--

i sometimes disappoint my friends (*cough*Melimbo) by not having quick come-backs. My response in this case was that i was simply too polite. The real answer was closer to being in shock.

Another friend was waiting for me in the car after we'd shared pizza. i'd told her i wanted to ask a friend of hers in the pizza place about her adorable little girl's hair. You see, i have an adorable BIG boy who does not like the feel of any hair product on his hands. He's black, i'm hopelessly white where his hair is concerned, so it's been a lifelong struggle to keep his hair looking neat and cared for. So whenever there's a chance to ask for ideas without feeling like i'm mugging a total stranger, i ask.

This mom was sitting with a friend. As the mom and i discussed products and where to find them, her friend piped up. "I used to have hair like yours," she said. Several things ran through my mind: the shape, the great color, something along those lines. i put a humble smile on my face. An entirely different expression came to rest as i heard these words, "You know, fly-away."

Learning to disengage, & grief.

Yesterday was quite a day. First, after finding out that my youngest daughter's travel plans were about to be decimated by United's unfriendly skies being too full for standby, she and her hubby and i spent several hours refiguring plans and looking up flights to buy online. By last night they had things pretty much rearranged. But the thing i practiced during this time was The Art of Disengagement.

As i was driving back home i realized, AHAH. What she and her father have in common, and i have in total opposite, is the way they deal with bumps in the road. i tend to be a "oh, we'll figure it out somehow" while secretly hoping i'm not lying. She and her father start with total annihilation: "The sky is falling! Everything is ruined!" and move toward "we'll figure it out somehow." The trick for me, anxiety-wise, is to realize we both actually want the same thing, we just take different roads to get there.

Regarding grief, that was the sad part of the day. A long time acquaintance just lost her husband suddenly, and the memorial was yesterday. It was a beautiful memorial, with all of their children and children-in-law and grandchildren sharing memories of his love and humor. But at the end of the service, as the wife was walking out on the arm of her son, i wondered, Can grief shrink a person? i mean, she has never been a big person in stature, but she has walked big. She is a very grounded and assured person, and has affected many people with her love of God, sharing hope and comfort, and being a person to walk alongside others in their hard times.

i remember a time back in college when i was thin enough to wear flowered pants without looking like a sofa, and being told by a much taller guy (i'm only 5 foot 4) that i "walked tall for a short girl." i guess that's what i'm thinking of, this woman has always walked tall. But when i saw her coming up the aisle of the chapel, headed to the next phase of saying goodbye to her husband of many years, she looked tiny and frail, and not a bit like the woman i ran into at the grocery store a few weeks ago. So her face haunted me all night when i'd close my eyes trying to sleep. And i'm really tired today.

the "fun with fibromyalgia" interruption.

Okay, so it isn't really fun, but i liked the "f"s (what's that called? Alliteration maybe? School was a looong time ago...)

When i started wondering a couple of years ago if the aches and pains and dizzyness and extreme fatigue and foggy head were symptoms of something besides being over 50, i went where i always go when learning something new: into the obsession-land of reading, reading, reading. Web searches for this combination of symptoms brought up a number of possibilities, fibromyalgia among them. My doctor, bless her, saw my history of depression and put on her Doctorly Face of Compassion and said, "Often when the issues in our lives are resolved, a person will start to feel better." Okay, and maybe if i didn't always feel like i'd been hit by a bus i'd be less depressed. Just a thought.

Bloodwork showed i didn't have some of the other (scarier) things i was worried about, and the fibromyalgia tender points proved on examination to be, well, tender. Go figure. Unpleasant news, but at least there was a (not terminal) name to go with the face of my symptoms.

i guess what i've been trying to learn since is that i may as well stop arguing and instead try to make friends with this stranger, this interruption of my "real" life. i have some thoughts on what caused it to drop by for an extended visit, but i can't change that. So i'm trying to be the good hostess and learn what i can do to make its stay more comfortable. That's an easier job on some days than others.