Just when you think you know someone...[A Long Story]

I've been struggling with a recent event that absolutely begs to be a blog topic. Every time I think I've got it outlined and ready to go, something else occurs to me, then I try to add it but it only results in my practically rewriting the whole bloody thing.

I need to share this...but I also kind of want to let it go...but I kind of can't...so, here's the jist:

- My friends of over 20 years, Nita and Jim came to the conclusion they have to walk away from the mortgage payments on their condo and let the bank take it. They told me their plan about three months ago.

- A lovely relative in another state offered them a place in her home. They told me this about two months ago.

- They had a move date of October 24th. They told me this in mid-September.

- I offered to bring over breakfast on the morning of the 24th, to give them fuel for their journey and also to visit with Nita's sons whom I've known since they were young teenagers.

Moving Day
- I arrive at 9:30 in the morning. The 24-foot long truck they rented is about 75% full. Inside the house is a mess, with so much stuff still to be packed and loaded that I can't imagine how they're going to get it done.

- Nita seemed to wander around directionless and Jim was surfing the web. Nita's sons were running around, packing for them. Since I wasn't there to actually work - and they hadn't warned me how much was still left to do - I just walked around unplugging electrical things, tying the cords up all neat and organized, and placing them by the front door. Things were grungy and kinda smelly, which I blamed on sloppy housekeeping and the fact they both smoke.

- 1:00 in the afternoon, one of the sons was disassembling a bird cage [yes, they have two birds] when I realized he was going to lose his grip on a piece of the cage. While he looked at me with a face that said, "Oh, shit!" I looked down at the falling section and saw the thickest crust of old, dried bird shit I've ever seen in my life. I put my hands up and said, "I've got a compromised immune system and I'm not wearing gloves, sorry dude, can't touch it." He said something like, "Oh, no, don't worry," and "I don't want you to touch this." He meant it, he has always been a sweetie. I left shortly thereafter.

- 4:00pm, they are ready to take off but Nita calls to tell me they can't find their cat. I advised her to sit quietly in the place, by herself, and gently call for the kitty. I'm sure kitty was freaked out by the racket all day and was hiding somewhere. Either that or she ran out one of the open doors.

- 4:20pm, Nita calls again. They are on the road. Didn't find the cat. Left me a key under the front door mat, would I go by the place and see if I can find the cat, capture her, bring her to my house and keep her for a couple of weeks. They'll drive back down to get her. I agreed to do so but made it clear her cat needed to be checked out by my vet before she'd be allowed to interact with my animals. Nita agreed.

- 8:30pm, Bo and I go back to see if we see the cat anywhere. I swear to you, we entered an episode of that A&E reality show Hoarders. Garbage all over the place. Stacks and stacks and boxes and boxes of newspapers. The newspaper was what they trained their two dogs to pee and poop on. In the dining room. A bucket of water with a mop left in the kitchen. There had been some kind of an insect infestation in the pantry and by the look of it, this occurred last spring or summer, but neither one of them cleaned the dead bug bodies out. Kids, I can bore you to death with details, but what's the point, right? Suffice to say, Bo and I put on masks and gloves right away.

- 10:45pm, we're back home. Didn't see any sign of the cat, but Bo struck a rummager's treasure in their basement. Tools and home project materials that really only a guy can appreciate. Me, I found animal droppings of some kind [probably rodent] and something that looked like black mold. Honestly, I was down there less than five minutes before feeling faint and queasy and Bo had to help me out the basement door for air. It was at that moment I began referring to the place as a bio-hazard.

The Next Day
Bo was so pumped by all the cool "guy" things in the basement that we didn't have room enough to take out the night before, he wanted to go back. I didn't want to go, but he didn't want anyone to think he was a criminal or something, so I rode along and stayed in the truck. He was probably loading his goodies into the truck for two hours. Through the window, I saw the cat! So I went inside, mask and gloves securely fastened, and made sure she had plenty of food and water. I called Nita and Jim and they were very happy.

The Second Day
We took a night off. I picked up a fresh bag of litter and a clean box.

The Third Day
I stopped by that afternoon. The kitty was sunning herself in the front window but she disappeared before I got out of the car. So, I just replenished her food, gave her fresh water and set up the clean litter box.

The Sixth Day
We were not leaving without the cat. We met up with another friend of Nita and Jim's who I found out was the person who - with the help of his wife and kids - packed and loaded the moving van up to the point where it was when I had first arrived on moving day. Nita was useless and Jim was glued to the computer. Anyway, Bo caught the cat, and he and the other guy divvied up as much as they could, then we came home. I set the cat up in a relatively large crate here, with water and kibble and yet another clean box. We left her alone the rest of the night because the poor thing had been traumatized.

The Seventh Day
I called and spoke to Jim. Told him we got the cat, she was fine and had an appointment with my vet the following day. I also made sure Nita had told him that she had promised to reimburse me for the vet bill. He said absolutely, sounded happy and thanked me.

Less than three hours later, Nita calls me. She says, "Jim wanted me to tell you to just have the cat put to sleep." I said, "Why, is she sick? Or, does Jim just not want to reimburse me the vet bill?" She said, "No, of course we'll pay you, he just doesn't want to inconvenience you guys because we don't know when we're going to be able to get back there." I said, "Well sorry, I am not going to kill your cat. And unless my vet finds a fatal illness when he examines her, he won't either. So, just don't even think about it, I will make sure your cat finds a good home."

The Eighth Day
Some conclusions were reached over my morning coffee. Friends don't do to friends what they did to me. Friends of mine don't abandon their pets. And finally, I have let go of toxic situations, people, even some family members since my diagnosis. Nita and Jim are now toxic. Buh-bye.

Anybody want a cat?

Ladies and gentlemen...

...Mr. Leonard Cohen. Performing at the fabulous Fox Theater in Atlanta. Tomorrow night, October 20, 2009. And one of those seats is going to have my butt in it. Absolutely a dream come true for me, kids!

Cleared for takeoff

So, I had my labs redone to see how my WBCs are behaving and if I can restart Fingolimod. Everything is back to where it should be and I can start Fingolimod again on Wednesday, the 21st! Woo-hoo, I have been really missing that little capsule of joy! That means Wednesday is going to be an all day affair at the MS clinic, just like my first first dose was.

You boob! [part two]

Okay, this is where it gets funny. It's about a week before my surgery and I get a call from this guy who says he's Dr. S' partner and Dr. S had taken ill, so he is going to do this lumpectomy if it's alright with me, and if I'm not comfortable with that and say no, he would understand. I think I said something to the effect of, "I assume you can cut on anything he can, so I'm fine with you, go ahead." I only asked that he come to pre-op before I'm pumped with meds so I can meet the man who will be cutting on me. He laughingly agreed.

So, day of surgery. My sister-in-law takes me to the hospital where I do all the registration stuff and get a bed in pre-op. A nurse comes in and tells me to go to the radiology department, where another ultrasound is going to be done for the surgeon to use when he goes in. I think they said something about a wire, which will leave a path for the surgeon. Yeah, yeah, OK, whatever, you lost me at "Radiology".

Some of the minutiae here is vague - sorry, it's been a few years - but I'm sure my breast was numbed, the ultrasound machine was moved to the perfect spot the radiologist wanted, and a tech moved in to hold the thing absolutely still so the radiologist could thread a wire through my breast and into the lump. Yikes, right? The description is worse than the actual event was, I promise. What I remember most about this is, I was freezing. Why do they keep hospitals so frigging cold?

So, that's done. A nurse says to me, repeatedly, "DON'T MOVE!" Now come in here, we need to take a couple of pictures." I manage to get up off the table without jarring the EIGHTEEN INCHES of wire hanging out my right breast and shuffle into this other room which contains....you guessed it...a mammography machine. Yes ladies and gentlemen, the breast that just had a wire stuck in it is now going to be flattened like only a mammogram can. While I was standing there, arm up, boob down, I ask the tech, "Does anyone else see the humor in the fact that I am not allowed to bump this wire, but you all are allowed to maneuver it into a mammography machine?!" Apparently, I was in fact the only person who was entertained by the absurdity. Either that, or she was just a cranky bitch who hated her job.

Anyway, she's done with me and can now protect the wire from jostling by....you're not gonna believe this...seriously....you're gonna laugh out loud...taping a Styrofoam coffee cup to the side of my breast with medical tape.

Now, return to pre-op where I regale my sister-in-law with the details of the trip up to radiology. We wait for awhile, so I take my glasses off and close my eyes to nap. After not too long, the curtain to my little area opens, and the. most. beautiful. man. in. the. world. enters and says, "Hello Ms. Pappas, I'm Dr. Knockyoursocksoff, I'll be doing your surgery today. Do you have any questions about anything?" I was abolutely not capable of actual speech, but I'm pretty sure I grunted out a "Nuh-uh" before he said, "OK, let's do this!", turned on his heel and was gone. My sister-in-law and I turned to one another with our mouths hanging open like a couple of fools, right? Then she leans over and whispers in my ear. "I want what you have."

Immediately a nurse comes in holding a piece of paper with two stickers on it - Red means No and Green means Yes - and instructs me to place them on my breasts to prevent the surgeon from cutting the wrong one. Being the smart ass I usually am, and not having learned my lesson with the radiology tech, I said, "EXCUSE ME, but is the Styrofoam cup and wire not enough of a clue?" Yep, she liked that. At least somebody other than me had a sense of humor.

Epilogue to follow, if you care...

You boob! [part one]

So I'm reading a new post from one of my favorite bloggers, Jeri. Yes, it's October - Breast Cancer Awareness month for those of you living under a rock - and I never converse on that topic because I don't feel right about talking about that with which I have no experience. However, having always been one of those good girls who does her monthly self-exams and never misses a mammogram, I do have a boob story. And here it is:

In December of 2000 I had my yearly pelvic, pap and mammo visits (or as I like to call them, "poke, scrape and shmush"). My gyno was palpitating my right breast and seemed to be spending a longer than normal time at it. Just when I was about to ask her if she was kneading a biscuit or something, she says, "You have a lump here." My response was something like, "Well, I've never felt anything and I examine myself every month, where....?" She grabs my left hand and puts it to the ten o'clock area of my breast and holy hell, what is THAT?!?

Okay, so now off to the mammogram. I'm one of those women with lumpy breast tissue so I never get a mammogram without also getting an ultrasound, and this day was no different. Between the 934 pictures the tech took and two (!) ultrasounds - one by the technician and one by the radiologist - I was there for probably three hours. Turns out there was an "area of concern" in my left breast as well as the nasty something in my right. Blah, blah, when it was all over I'd had a needle aspiration of a fluid-filled cyst on the left side and a needle biopsy of a mass on the right.

It's funny, but I was so easily able to separate my breasts from myself during all of this. It was like my breasts had become aliens, and what was happening to them was not happening to me. But I digress.

So the radiology report comes back and my gyno calls me and says the mass in my right breast is not cancer but it is a cluster of atypical cells and if I am willing, she'd like the whole thing removed. I am absolutely cool with that, I found a surgeon, had a consult and we set a date for surgery. I can't remember why now, but there was something going on in my life that made me say, "If this isn't an emergency, I need to wait about six weeks," He was stunned, he'd probably never had a breast surgery patient be as cavalier about it as I guess I was. Anyway, it made sense to me at the time.

To be continued and it will get better I promise...

A.D.D. much?

In the past 24 hours, various things - stuff I've witnessed, stuff on TV, stuff that came up in conversations - have occurred that make me think, "Hey, there's a blog topic!" Here's the rub...I forget them within about a half hour. That is damned irritating because a) is it MS making yet another hole in my brain, and b) .....well damn, I've already forgotten what b was.

So right now I'm going to write about my mood and my dogs. And how much my dogs help my mood. I've been reading a lot about MS and depression. Depression is a different thing in different people and I think it can also manifest itself differently in the same person because it is fluid. For example, after the sudden death of my father a few years ago, I got angry. At everything and everyone. I was very aware of what was going on and I took great pains not to take my anger out on friends and family. I internalized it, which made me miserable and I knew needed some counseling. Thank God my employer at the time had good insurance and I was able to hook up with a therapist for a couple of years who really helped me get my head straight. Zoloft helped, too. Things were so good it got to where I was forgetting to take my Zoloft regularly and was still feeling fine, so I just weaned myself off.

Fast forward to the spring of 2008. The Avonex I'd been on since 1998 for MS was starting to majorly disagree with me. The side effects were always there, but I'd found that Celebrex right before the injection had been taking care of the fever and aches. Suddenly, that stopped working, and it was taking two days to recover from the weekly Avonex injection. So, long story that has been well documented here, I enter the Fingolimod study and everything is rosy. Except I find I'm not particularly happy. With anything. I'm not particularly unhappy, but I'm not happy. Great, what the bloody hell am I supposed to do with that??

Speaking of bloody hell, my menstrual life (LOL, menstrual life? WTH is that Anne?) is also changing. I'm still regular calendar-wise, but occasionally an additional bleeding episode appears during the month, my PMS is off the chart and the blood itself is different (yick). My point is, are my moods related to MS or to changing hormones? Since I don't have insurance, gynecologists and psychiatrists are not an option right now. Besides, for hundreds of thousands of years, women have gone through this change of life bullshit without the help of pharmaceuticals. I'm just going to deal. The only thing I can say with confidence is that when I'm short-tempered and weepy, I think it's hormones. The apathy I think is MS. Armed with that belief, I soldier on...

Now, the dogs. Maggie and Little Bo have become my non-prescription mood enhancers. Maggie has this way of sitting down in front of me and gazing intently into my eyes that just melts me. Does she love me as much as her eyes say she does? Sure, probably, but she also knows that look pretty much guarantees a doggy biscuit. She is manipulator extraordinaire, and I don't have a problem giving in to her.

Little Bo is not the manipulator Maggie is. I think he knows we rescued him from a certain death in that stinky kennel and is forever happy and grateful. When he sees me, his tail starts wagging. When he hears my voice, either directed at him or when I'm on the phone, his tail starts wagging. When I get up from this chair after I post this, his tail will start wagging.

It's been said ad nauseum, by bloggers, authors, emails: Probably the purest, truest love anyone can get comes from their dog. Dog spelled backward is god. And if there are no dogs in heaven, I'm not going.

Watch this movie

One of the joys of paying the outrageous cable bill every month is that there are seemingly endless movie channels on it. i am a real documentary hound and love it when I run across one on a gray and rainy Sunday morning. Today, was this (sorry, the link wasn't working so you're gonna have to paste it into your browser) :

http://www.littlemanthemovie.com/home.html

Beautiful, beautiful film. Find it. Rent it. Watch it. Feel it.

My stay-cation

So, the boyfriend is still in NJ dealing with the momma-drama, which - as I suspected - is not at DEFCON 3. His sister needs a xanax. Anyway, this trip has totally been worth his time, because his family has been able to spend the most productive time together than they have in years and are getting all the necessary ducks in a row for their 86 year-old mother's future.

I have had the house to myself for FOUR DAYS now and am simply having a blast. No television on for 24 consecutive hours. No blow-some-shit-up shows on the Military channel. No bang-bang-kill-something shows on the Outdoor channel. Me and the critters are just chilling out. The cat and one of the dogs are both sleeping with me on the bed at night, which hasn't happened in months. This weekend has just been filled with quite peace.

As much as I love the guy, I still struggle with co-habitating, and it's been nearly four years! A long time ago, while on the phone with my grandmother trying to find out if there was something wrong with me that marriage was so unappealing she said, "Maybe you're just not the marrying kind." If I was still in my childbearing years, and had a maternal instinct greater than that of a towel rack, marriage and children might interest me. But, just like everything else in my life, I bloomed late. I was 43 when I met this man, the first relationship I'd had to last over three months. By then I'd already been living alone for over 20 years. My singleness is so much a part of who I am and what makes me me, for better or worse.

Yesterday, we were on the phone and he said he wants to buy me a ring soon. I think I screamed a little. I wonder what the world record is for the longest engagement period...