Day 325
No news is so often good news, but not when it concerns one's health. I am so tired of feeling shitty as all hell, then giving in to pressure and going to the doc's, only to have tests that reveal absolutely nothing.
According to all the tests I have ever had, I am not only fine, but also possibly, in the very peak of health. Nothing EVER shows up as being wrong. The fact that I am also registered as disabled would seem to counter this notion, but there you are.
Now, normally this would not bother me. I lean towards an holistic point of view, and regard my healing as a personal matter. My body is communicating 'dis-ease' and I look for alternative ways to re-balance and heal.
Sometimes, however, I need a bit of traditional help. I'm not above taking Ibuprofen when I have period pains or having surgery when my appendix burst, to name two extremes.
Right now I know my hormone balance is so out of whack that my Thyroid is being beyond troublesome. That this is due to the menopause pushing me further out of kilter than usual is not unreasonable, but the chances of anything showing up on a blood test are zero - I know because I have tried many times before.
In the meantime, my weight has rocketed, I could sleep for England and win gold (even over teenagers!), and I'm so exhausted I can barely lift my arms to drink a cup of water half the time. Walking slowly up the stairs has me puffing and red in the face, shaky, dizzy, and needing to lie down.
But none of my symptoms count unless a blood test confirms them.
Which it never does, (even when I had a goitre that stuck out of my neck for a full inch).
I don't go to the Doc's for attention. I just want then to work with me to find a way for me to feel better.
Or even just to function adequately.
But they view patients with suspicion and condescension, in my book. I remember when my eldest son was crippled with constipation as a young, premature baby. He would scream with pain most of the time, eventually causing a hernia in his groin.
At the time, I had not heard of milk allergy - it was not common then. I only knew something was terribly wrong. The doctors treated me as if I couldn't possibly know my own baby better than them. I was sent away over and over.
Eventually I figured it out, with no help from them, but not until he had suffered nearly a year of pain and sleeplessness, and endured two operations.
What struck me most about it was not how long it took to find out what was wrong, but how I was continually dismissed as having no information worth considering, being 'only the parent'.
Since Sam was born and I became ill, I have faced the same attitude over and over again - my experiences, and the records I keep of my symptoms, are often considered irrelevant, or even unnecessarily intrusive. Certainly, they are rarely taken into account and mostly ignored.
So here I am again. Needing a bit of help with my Thyroid until the menopause is over.
I will go to the doc's again. I will take their tests again.
And then, I strongly suspect, absolutely nothing will happen.
But wouldn't it be nice if this time it did?
Fingers crossed, everybody, please.
Wednesday 28 July 2010
Wednesday 21 July 2010
Loving like Haddi
Day 318
Finally! I get to the computer! Life with a husband at home and a son out of college is not my normal life, let alone my new life. Fitting around others all the time, at the moment, and finding it a trifle draining. Oh well.
Now. Updates.
Have done lots of sewing for Denise, my clever, clever friend who makes stage costumes. These were for the Globe Theatre's production of Anne Boleyn. I did all the lace and beads and fiddly diddles for two frocks. Very proud of myself.
Have received another rejection for my colour book for kids, but they were ever so complimentary about it, which is nice. Reason for rejection was that they had two similar books on their list already but the quality of the illustrations had made them consider it nonetheless. Very sweet way to say 'No', I thought.
Have started doing some voluntary work at a local charity shop. Wanted something to do that wouldn't be too taxing (as health bloody awful right now), but was community minded. Wanted to give back something as feel rather 'taking' at the moment, and that doesn't sit well with me. Am bringing home all the things with buttons missing or hems down to repair for them.
Also, made a little girl cry.
The little girl is called Haddi, and she is four years old and adorable. She is the grand-daughter of the lady who runs the charity shop and is all big green eyes, fuzzy dreadlocks, and chatter, and she adopted me as her playmate on my first afternoon on the job.
This was great. We played with lots of toy animals and a cardboard box, with endless variety. Then it was time for me to leave and she crumbled like a souffle in the wind. She hurled herself onto her mother's lap and sobbed.
What a humbling and heartfelt reminder about the true nature of love. The heart of a child simply opens to encompass you fully, with no reserve. You do not have to prove yourself or meet any expectations, and yet they take you into their world so completely that they are devastated at your leaving.
I look at my husband and my sons. Do I open myself that fully to them? No I do not - I keep something in reserve. I do not fling myself into my hubby's arms when he steps through the door, nor feel an aching loss at his parting. 'Real life' is, apparently, not like that. (Most of the time I don't even remember to give him a kiss.)
But perhaps we take too much for granted, play it all a bit too cool. When I remember the joy of little Haddi, I realise I want to open up more than I do, to appreciate those I say I love more openly, emphatically and enthusiastically. Why not, after all - they deserve it!
My love for them is in there somewhere, a little buried under everyday chores and niggles and worries, perhaps, but real enough in it's own way. If I look a little foolish pulling it up to the surface and choosing to show it abundantly, then where's the harm? I have stayed safe and subdued far too long.
Life can be draining and others take far more of one's energy than is comfortable, but - and it's a big but - what if they weren't there at all? How would I feel then? And one day they won't be. My last child will leave home and start his new life. My husband won't live forever. Have I made the best use of this time that I have with them?
Have I loved them like Haddi?
I want to love them like Haddi.
I just forget sometimes.
Finally! I get to the computer! Life with a husband at home and a son out of college is not my normal life, let alone my new life. Fitting around others all the time, at the moment, and finding it a trifle draining. Oh well.
Now. Updates.
Have done lots of sewing for Denise, my clever, clever friend who makes stage costumes. These were for the Globe Theatre's production of Anne Boleyn. I did all the lace and beads and fiddly diddles for two frocks. Very proud of myself.
Have received another rejection for my colour book for kids, but they were ever so complimentary about it, which is nice. Reason for rejection was that they had two similar books on their list already but the quality of the illustrations had made them consider it nonetheless. Very sweet way to say 'No', I thought.
Have started doing some voluntary work at a local charity shop. Wanted something to do that wouldn't be too taxing (as health bloody awful right now), but was community minded. Wanted to give back something as feel rather 'taking' at the moment, and that doesn't sit well with me. Am bringing home all the things with buttons missing or hems down to repair for them.
Also, made a little girl cry.
The little girl is called Haddi, and she is four years old and adorable. She is the grand-daughter of the lady who runs the charity shop and is all big green eyes, fuzzy dreadlocks, and chatter, and she adopted me as her playmate on my first afternoon on the job.
This was great. We played with lots of toy animals and a cardboard box, with endless variety. Then it was time for me to leave and she crumbled like a souffle in the wind. She hurled herself onto her mother's lap and sobbed.
What a humbling and heartfelt reminder about the true nature of love. The heart of a child simply opens to encompass you fully, with no reserve. You do not have to prove yourself or meet any expectations, and yet they take you into their world so completely that they are devastated at your leaving.
I look at my husband and my sons. Do I open myself that fully to them? No I do not - I keep something in reserve. I do not fling myself into my hubby's arms when he steps through the door, nor feel an aching loss at his parting. 'Real life' is, apparently, not like that. (Most of the time I don't even remember to give him a kiss.)
But perhaps we take too much for granted, play it all a bit too cool. When I remember the joy of little Haddi, I realise I want to open up more than I do, to appreciate those I say I love more openly, emphatically and enthusiastically. Why not, after all - they deserve it!
My love for them is in there somewhere, a little buried under everyday chores and niggles and worries, perhaps, but real enough in it's own way. If I look a little foolish pulling it up to the surface and choosing to show it abundantly, then where's the harm? I have stayed safe and subdued far too long.
Life can be draining and others take far more of one's energy than is comfortable, but - and it's a big but - what if they weren't there at all? How would I feel then? And one day they won't be. My last child will leave home and start his new life. My husband won't live forever. Have I made the best use of this time that I have with them?
Have I loved them like Haddi?
I want to love them like Haddi.
I just forget sometimes.
Monday 5 July 2010
Delaying tactics
Day 302
There is a space between the past and the future where one is not necessarily present. A waiting room of a place, a limbo, a holding area. This is where I am firmly ensconced. Part of me is happy with this state of affairs, part of me wants to scream. I imagine myself battering on the windows, fists flailing, a primal yell erupting. I also see a waiting chair, where I meditate quietly, allowing the old to become the new in it's own good time.
I have no paintings to produce, and no studio to experiment in. No funds to buy paint with either, come to that. My first book is waiting in a pile on a publisher's desk, (take your time, Emily, give it a chance to grow on you), and my second has progressed enough for me to see how many re-writes it is likely to need, (I'm hoping only about four).
Meanwhile, time pootles along and the sense of urgency I once had is swallowed up in a deep pool of exhaustion, boredom, housekeeping and family problems. I am hemmed in by other peoples lives, ergo, I see no space for my own. Small niggles are starting to overwhelm me. The mess has crowded out all other thoughts. I have no creativity, only a longing, a yearning, and a tiredness that is bone-deep.
Tears sit to attention, ready for 'the off' like good little soldiers. My feet and back have gone on strike. They have withdrawn their support until working conditions improve. My eyes are traitors. Everywhere I look I am reminded of something I want but can't have - a clean place to sit, a project finished, a dream realised, a space of a few hours where there is literally nothing that I am supposed to do.
There is a growing list waiting for me which, at time of going to press, includes buying sawdust and cleaning out the guinea pigs, giving them baths and cutting Sandra's hair, the laundry, this weeks ironing and last weeks, packing away my painting stuff and getting out my sewing stuff, cleaning the bathroom and hoovering the stairs, laying the lino in the bathroom and making and hanging the roman blind, tidying up everywhere, weeding the garden and dead-heading the flowers, taking garden rubbish to the tip and finishing off pruning the trees, buying something to stop the cherry re-sprouting where it is cut and applying it, putting weedkiller on the paths and patio, and slug pellets around the pots and hostas, writing thank-you letters for my birthday and other thank-you letters for recent hospitality from friends, writing to Arnol, our sponsored child in Honduras, packing up catalogue rejects and phoning the courier to come and collect them, feeding the cat and the family, working out menus to fit our very limited budget and doing the food shopping and the cooking, turning on lights and opening curtains because our house is too dark, making the bed and sorting out all the stuff that didn't get sorted out when I changed the room around so I could paint, putting the loo-roll on the holder because nobody else does, picking some flowers to put in the house so it feels more like a nurturing place, picking up a book from the library and taking others back, paying the fines, emptying the compost bin in the kitchen and cleaning out the fridge, cooker and microwave, cleaning all the insides of the windows, changing the cat litter, and washing the downstairs floors.
Steve has been doing all the washing up and a fair bit of the shopping and cooking. Although lovely, this is not taking a lot from my list, and all the time that both Sam and Steve are in the house, the mess grows ever larger.
I am helpless within it because the menopause has cranked up my PMS to unbelievable proportions, and the Chronic Fatigue Syndrome has gone stratospheric. My Progesterone levels have been ridiculously low since I got ill after Sam was born. Progesterone is like Insulin, you see - part of a bio-feedback system that allows the brain to work out how much sugar is in the blood, and too little Progesterone gives a faulty reading. Consequently, the brain demands that you eat to correct the balance.
This is not hunger. I know hunger. This is a severe craving along the lines of cold turkey drug withdrawal. If I try to resist, the brain goes to it's emergency supply and produces Adrenalin to get the process going. This, the 'fight or flight' hormone, leaves me edgy, anxious, tearful, irritable, pacing the floor, unable to function or make decisions (even about what I want to eat), snappy, shaky, nauseous, and head-achey. If I persist in not eating, or am unable to get to food, it can lead to a complete system shut-down where I pretty much collapse and can't talk, or raise my arms, or even support my own head, for several hours. I've ended up in hospital like this a few times, but the doctors were baffled and unsympathetic.
To avoid this I eat, and I am now thirteen and a half stone and getting fed up with the whole process. I lie exhausted on the sofa, and I eat. I do use a Progesterone supplement but, after nearly twenty years, this is how my body is used to operating and it doesn't want to change. So I am intending to fast today because I have read that this can help with food cravings - I wish them to be back to manageable levels, a place where I don't weep on the hour, every hour, if I can't get chocolate (which I don't like that much and leaves me feeling sick). Perhaps this will at least nudge my brain into a re-think - a complete re-boot would be a lot to ask, I suspect.
A time of limbo is perhaps not such a disaster when I am as knocked out as this as, although I rest a lot, my batteries fail to recharge. My space is not nurturing and my family demanding. Seeing friends and doing things that are fun seem to help, but the effect is short-lived without a structure to support it.
The mantra that pulled me out of depression was 'This too will pass', and it is just as apposite here. When it passes, as all things must, I hope I will have learnt something other than how to blind myself to chaos, clutter and mess. That would be a sad thing.
I may have no will within me that I can harness to complete any of the chores, but I do have a cup of hot lemon. And I do have hope. It is just as well that no-one is battering down my door with commissions or contracts, and although I'm sure that would galvanise me for a while, the problem would still persist. I prefer solutions when I can, I'm not much of a one for a hamster-wheel sort of life.
I am in limbo. I am waiting. I am stuck between the past and the future. I take another sip from my cup, I look out of the window, and I hope.
There is a space between the past and the future where one is not necessarily present. A waiting room of a place, a limbo, a holding area. This is where I am firmly ensconced. Part of me is happy with this state of affairs, part of me wants to scream. I imagine myself battering on the windows, fists flailing, a primal yell erupting. I also see a waiting chair, where I meditate quietly, allowing the old to become the new in it's own good time.
I have no paintings to produce, and no studio to experiment in. No funds to buy paint with either, come to that. My first book is waiting in a pile on a publisher's desk, (take your time, Emily, give it a chance to grow on you), and my second has progressed enough for me to see how many re-writes it is likely to need, (I'm hoping only about four).
Meanwhile, time pootles along and the sense of urgency I once had is swallowed up in a deep pool of exhaustion, boredom, housekeeping and family problems. I am hemmed in by other peoples lives, ergo, I see no space for my own. Small niggles are starting to overwhelm me. The mess has crowded out all other thoughts. I have no creativity, only a longing, a yearning, and a tiredness that is bone-deep.
Tears sit to attention, ready for 'the off' like good little soldiers. My feet and back have gone on strike. They have withdrawn their support until working conditions improve. My eyes are traitors. Everywhere I look I am reminded of something I want but can't have - a clean place to sit, a project finished, a dream realised, a space of a few hours where there is literally nothing that I am supposed to do.
There is a growing list waiting for me which, at time of going to press, includes buying sawdust and cleaning out the guinea pigs, giving them baths and cutting Sandra's hair, the laundry, this weeks ironing and last weeks, packing away my painting stuff and getting out my sewing stuff, cleaning the bathroom and hoovering the stairs, laying the lino in the bathroom and making and hanging the roman blind, tidying up everywhere, weeding the garden and dead-heading the flowers, taking garden rubbish to the tip and finishing off pruning the trees, buying something to stop the cherry re-sprouting where it is cut and applying it, putting weedkiller on the paths and patio, and slug pellets around the pots and hostas, writing thank-you letters for my birthday and other thank-you letters for recent hospitality from friends, writing to Arnol, our sponsored child in Honduras, packing up catalogue rejects and phoning the courier to come and collect them, feeding the cat and the family, working out menus to fit our very limited budget and doing the food shopping and the cooking, turning on lights and opening curtains because our house is too dark, making the bed and sorting out all the stuff that didn't get sorted out when I changed the room around so I could paint, putting the loo-roll on the holder because nobody else does, picking some flowers to put in the house so it feels more like a nurturing place, picking up a book from the library and taking others back, paying the fines, emptying the compost bin in the kitchen and cleaning out the fridge, cooker and microwave, cleaning all the insides of the windows, changing the cat litter, and washing the downstairs floors.
Steve has been doing all the washing up and a fair bit of the shopping and cooking. Although lovely, this is not taking a lot from my list, and all the time that both Sam and Steve are in the house, the mess grows ever larger.
I am helpless within it because the menopause has cranked up my PMS to unbelievable proportions, and the Chronic Fatigue Syndrome has gone stratospheric. My Progesterone levels have been ridiculously low since I got ill after Sam was born. Progesterone is like Insulin, you see - part of a bio-feedback system that allows the brain to work out how much sugar is in the blood, and too little Progesterone gives a faulty reading. Consequently, the brain demands that you eat to correct the balance.
This is not hunger. I know hunger. This is a severe craving along the lines of cold turkey drug withdrawal. If I try to resist, the brain goes to it's emergency supply and produces Adrenalin to get the process going. This, the 'fight or flight' hormone, leaves me edgy, anxious, tearful, irritable, pacing the floor, unable to function or make decisions (even about what I want to eat), snappy, shaky, nauseous, and head-achey. If I persist in not eating, or am unable to get to food, it can lead to a complete system shut-down where I pretty much collapse and can't talk, or raise my arms, or even support my own head, for several hours. I've ended up in hospital like this a few times, but the doctors were baffled and unsympathetic.
To avoid this I eat, and I am now thirteen and a half stone and getting fed up with the whole process. I lie exhausted on the sofa, and I eat. I do use a Progesterone supplement but, after nearly twenty years, this is how my body is used to operating and it doesn't want to change. So I am intending to fast today because I have read that this can help with food cravings - I wish them to be back to manageable levels, a place where I don't weep on the hour, every hour, if I can't get chocolate (which I don't like that much and leaves me feeling sick). Perhaps this will at least nudge my brain into a re-think - a complete re-boot would be a lot to ask, I suspect.
A time of limbo is perhaps not such a disaster when I am as knocked out as this as, although I rest a lot, my batteries fail to recharge. My space is not nurturing and my family demanding. Seeing friends and doing things that are fun seem to help, but the effect is short-lived without a structure to support it.
The mantra that pulled me out of depression was 'This too will pass', and it is just as apposite here. When it passes, as all things must, I hope I will have learnt something other than how to blind myself to chaos, clutter and mess. That would be a sad thing.
I may have no will within me that I can harness to complete any of the chores, but I do have a cup of hot lemon. And I do have hope. It is just as well that no-one is battering down my door with commissions or contracts, and although I'm sure that would galvanise me for a while, the problem would still persist. I prefer solutions when I can, I'm not much of a one for a hamster-wheel sort of life.
I am in limbo. I am waiting. I am stuck between the past and the future. I take another sip from my cup, I look out of the window, and I hope.
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