Ohhhhhhh, the things I could say... And the things I can't say... Let's just say that the things I can't say, far outweigh the things I can say. Or maybe it's that I won't say those things. I struggle to know what I want the world to know and what I don't. I leave a lot of comments on other blogs, comments that track back here. I say things on other blogs that I am afraid to say here for fear that certain people may somehow find this. That sounds like I'm in the CIA or something... In which case I'd be much better at hiding my identity huh? And I'd have a cooler blog name, not the only thing I could think of at the time... ...Anyway, I meant people I know, like my 2nd Mom. For the record, my second mom isn't technically my mom at all. I babysat her kids for years and she taught me pretty much everything I know about being a mom/wife/woman/etc. I sent her the link to a post I wrote last year, and I get paranoid that she'll somehow stumble on this and read something inappropriate.
Except for my husband, she's the only person I know, face-to-face, that I have ever shared this link with. I have a t-shirt that says "I'm blogging this" but no one has ever commented on it. No one has ever asked. I'm not ever sure how I feel about that.
After a couple of fights where I changed my Facebook status, I promised Andy I would never post arguments or things that are just between us online. Not like "fit of rage" posts anyway. Some days, though, I feel like he doesn't know me, know who I am, or what I am about, and I write little "journal" entries to myself. I never post them, but I feel better getting them out. I worry about that though.
I'm really rambling now, especially since I started thinking about the things I say and don't say after entering a contest at another blog. The entry was to post the oddest place you've done the Nasssssty. I entered a story and started thinking about how it is a funny story, but I would probably never share it here. Which is a shame, cuz let's face it, I need all the personality I can get on this blog! And if a friend asked, I would tell them the story. I've shared it online before. But I don't know if I could sleep if I posted it here. Cuz What IF?
Friday, October 30, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
I'm going to hell in a handbasket, because my minivan won't start
I've been really absent lately. I've been tweeting but I haven't had much more than 140 characters to say. I find myself writing things in my head, but when I get to Peasley, I have no words. My fingers don't want to type and I can't string together more than 2 thoughts.
Stuff has been happening, I just haven't had the heart to type up all my thoughts and publish them for the world to see. (And by "world" I, of course, mean my 3 readers. Hi Kris, Sarah, and Analise!)
In August, I finished my year as an AmeriCorps VISTA. The dean asked me to stay in part time until they got a new VISTA. They were hoping to get a new one in November, but they missed the deadline, so the earliest they can get one now is February. At any rate, I was asked to work a certain number of hours at a certain rate. The rate is higher than my time was as a VISTA, obviously. However, due to the time differences (part time vs full time) I make less in a month than I did in 2 weeks as a VISTA. Isn't that a bitch?
The same week I finished my VISTA term, Andy, Punk and I "officially" moved into our new apartment. I say "officially" because we had keys all of August and moved our stuff slowly over, but we stayed at the old apartment every night until we had to check out because I could walk to work. Once we finally slept a night in the new apartment, we stayed all nights there. That was probably best for Punk, but it was really hard for me.
Also that week, we switched cars with Andy's brother.
The first week of both Andy and I commuting to work (we live about 10 miles from M'side now) It rained a solid day and when Andy picked me up from work, the was water inside the dash. As we turned corners, it sloshed around and leaked out, INTO the van in the passenger side foot-well. It wasn't in the glove compartment and it didn't seem to damage anything, and even with several rainy days, it hasn't happened again, But it doesn't make my any happier about the situation. Andy thinks there is just a leaky seal where the wipers meet the windshield or somewhere thereabouts, but who knows. A leak near wiring doesn't sound very safe to me... but no one's died yet.
In the last 2 weeks, the van has refused to start 3 times. Andy had it checked out today and apparently this is a problem with a lot of these vans. (F U Chrysler!) The battery and alternator are fine, the battery just won't start the van.
So Andy bought this thing the Red Cross that is supposed to start the battery when this happens. So hopefully that fixes it.. or I'm gonna sick the CrackCat on someone....
Punk has been a jerk lately. I'm hoping it's just the weather and all the back-and-forth between seasons we seem to be having. He's been biting and scratching a lot though. I'm not sure how to discourage it. He's also developed a fascination with the sink. He likes to jump up on the counter and try to bite the water. Or he'll try to catch it with his paws. Sometimes he'll just stick his head or foot in the water and not even realize he's getting wet. He still gets annoyed by bath time though. I find that super weird since he'll crawl INTO the sink or hop in the shower to lick the water off the walls. He'll also crack-out at weird times, for no apprent reason, or make strange noises and freak Andy out. Punk has never made much noise in the form of meows or whatnot, so it really bothers me when he meows from the literbox at 6am. Is he in distress? What does he want me to do about it?!?! My only theory is this: Boys are WEIRD.
Punk does really enjoy the new apartment though. He loves being allowed to sit in the windows and he's met 3 of the maintenance men and he really likes them. He's met 3 maintenance men because of several bizarre incidents, which we be featured in a later post because this is long and kinda ramble-y and I really need to get something to eat.
Since I'm hungry, I'll leave you with a picture of the Cutest. Lobster. EVER.
Stuff has been happening, I just haven't had the heart to type up all my thoughts and publish them for the world to see. (And by "world" I, of course, mean my 3 readers. Hi Kris, Sarah, and Analise!)
In August, I finished my year as an AmeriCorps VISTA. The dean asked me to stay in part time until they got a new VISTA. They were hoping to get a new one in November, but they missed the deadline, so the earliest they can get one now is February. At any rate, I was asked to work a certain number of hours at a certain rate. The rate is higher than my time was as a VISTA, obviously. However, due to the time differences (part time vs full time) I make less in a month than I did in 2 weeks as a VISTA. Isn't that a bitch?
The same week I finished my VISTA term, Andy, Punk and I "officially" moved into our new apartment. I say "officially" because we had keys all of August and moved our stuff slowly over, but we stayed at the old apartment every night until we had to check out because I could walk to work. Once we finally slept a night in the new apartment, we stayed all nights there. That was probably best for Punk, but it was really hard for me.
Also that week, we switched cars with Andy's brother.
The first week of both Andy and I commuting to work (we live about 10 miles from M'side now) It rained a solid day and when Andy picked me up from work, the was water inside the dash. As we turned corners, it sloshed around and leaked out, INTO the van in the passenger side foot-well. It wasn't in the glove compartment and it didn't seem to damage anything, and even with several rainy days, it hasn't happened again, But it doesn't make my any happier about the situation. Andy thinks there is just a leaky seal where the wipers meet the windshield or somewhere thereabouts, but who knows. A leak near wiring doesn't sound very safe to me... but no one's died yet.
In the last 2 weeks, the van has refused to start 3 times. Andy had it checked out today and apparently this is a problem with a lot of these vans. (F U Chrysler!) The battery and alternator are fine, the battery just won't start the van.
So Andy bought this thing the Red Cross that is supposed to start the battery when this happens. So hopefully that fixes it.. or I'm gonna sick the CrackCat on someone....
Punk has been a jerk lately. I'm hoping it's just the weather and all the back-and-forth between seasons we seem to be having. He's been biting and scratching a lot though. I'm not sure how to discourage it. He's also developed a fascination with the sink. He likes to jump up on the counter and try to bite the water. Or he'll try to catch it with his paws. Sometimes he'll just stick his head or foot in the water and not even realize he's getting wet. He still gets annoyed by bath time though. I find that super weird since he'll crawl INTO the sink or hop in the shower to lick the water off the walls. He'll also crack-out at weird times, for no apprent reason, or make strange noises and freak Andy out. Punk has never made much noise in the form of meows or whatnot, so it really bothers me when he meows from the literbox at 6am. Is he in distress? What does he want me to do about it?!?! My only theory is this: Boys are WEIRD.
Punk does really enjoy the new apartment though. He loves being allowed to sit in the windows and he's met 3 of the maintenance men and he really likes them. He's met 3 maintenance men because of several bizarre incidents, which we be featured in a later post because this is long and kinda ramble-y and I really need to get something to eat.
Since I'm hungry, I'll leave you with a picture of the Cutest. Lobster. EVER.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Friday, October 2, 2009
The Birthday Gift: Diagnosis
Kevin of Always Home and Uncool has asked a whole slew of blogs to post this as part of his effort to raise awareness in the blogosphere of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with on this day seven years ago. The day also happens to be his wife's birthday.
*
Our pediatrician admitted it early on.
The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.
The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.
He rattled off the names of several skins conditions -- none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner -- then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.
The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.
The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source -- obvious and otherwise -- that we could.
The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.
She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:
The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.
The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.
The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.
The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.
She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.
That was seven years ago -- Oct. 2, 2002 -- the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.
Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.
Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.
What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.
I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.
That, too, is my purpose today.
It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.
To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation atwww.curejm.org.
To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeeveror www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.
*****
Want to participate, but can't contribute? Re-post this on your blog today and leave a comment on Kevin's blog!
*
Our pediatrician admitted it early on.
The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.
The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.
He rattled off the names of several skins conditions -- none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner -- then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.
The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.
The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source -- obvious and otherwise -- that we could.
The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.
She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:
The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.
The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.
The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.
The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.
She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.
That was seven years ago -- Oct. 2, 2002 -- the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.
Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.
Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.
What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.
I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.
That, too, is my purpose today.
It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.
To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation atwww.curejm.org.
To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeeveror www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.
*****
Want to participate, but can't contribute? Re-post this on your blog today and leave a comment on Kevin's blog!
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