The Minutiae of Life as a Militant Squirrel

Sigh.

I'm wearing my new progressive lenses.

I kinda hate them.

The frames are really cute, at least, but it's taking a lot of work to get used to all the different ways I have to move my head in order to see. Everybody tells me that I *will* get accustomed to them eventually, but in the meantime, it's giving me an eye strain headache.

Also, I'm still sulking about needing them in the first place.

Friggin' bifocals, for God's sake.

Jeez, I'm old.

So last night I get a call from my mom . . . her younger brother, my Uncle Tony, was rushed to the hospital in very serious condition. It turns out that his liver has failed, and possibly his kidneys as well. Right now, he's in a medically-induced coma while they wait to see if his kidneys start functioning again.

Transplants are not an option; they don't hand out replacement organs to alcoholics, evidently.

Apparently nobody realized how much he's been drinking. I guess he was just that good at hiding it . . . and really, unless you see someone in a frequent state of obvious inebriation, or smell liquor on the person, you're not going to put together the mood swings and the memory loss as being alcohol-related.

Uncle Tony has never been, from what I could see, the classic fall-down drunk like Uncle Mike was, before he sobered up. I always thought that he drank a lot, but then again, I have a bit of a skewed perspective on just what consititutes "too much". And everyone on that side of the family drinks more than what I think they should. I guess Uncle Tony was the kind of alcoholic who was a steady, constant drinker, rather than drinking to the point of drunkenness.

Kristin asked me if Grandpop drank a lot, before he died, that both my uncles turned out to be alcoholics.

I can't really remember that he did. Liquor always flowed very freely, from what I recall, but I was a kid and not really paying attention to that kind of thing. It wasn't until late in high school that Uncle Mike's drinking got really out of control, and Aunt Nancy threw him out of their house when I was maybe a year or two into college. College was really when I started becoming more alcohol-aware, myself, and at least part of that awareness had to do with Uncle Mike's problems.

Prior to that, I don't really remember specifics. Everybody drank at family get-togethers, just like everybody smoked. It's just how things were at any social occasion. I remember being maybe five or six years old, when Uncle Richie threw Aunt Anne in the pool at a summer barbecue. I remember how everyone laughed uproariously. I was a little freaked out, probably because I was pretty shy as a kid. What I didn't find out until many years later was that the incident occurred because everyone was completely wasted, and that it was pretty commonplace.

My dad always had a couple of beers when he came home from work, when I was a kid. When he quit the Navy Yard, he pretty much stopped drinking, too. There was always a lot of alcohol around the house, probably because Dad believed in being able to offer a guest any kind of drink they might request, but it didn't get much use until my brother started getting into it. And of course we all know how *that* ended.

I'm just rambling, I guess. Seems like there's a lot of addictive behavior on both sides of the family.

Makes me worry, a little bit, about myself.

Anyway, I'm lucky in a way, because I wasn't terribly close to Uncle Tony . . . maybe because he and Mom got along kind of the way me and my brother always did-- which is to say that we existed in a state of more-or-less cordial hostility from the time that we were old enough to know what the words meant. And I was the only girl cousin for years, and shy to boot, so I didn't even feel like I could talk to the boys until the last ten years or so, once we were all older and had, I guess, more in common.

It's funny that Mom has said on a number of occasions that she and Uncle Tony were never close, but he's still her brother and I can tell that she's having a difficult time of it. I know I'd be upset if my brother were in the same situation, and we haven't even spoken to each other since 1999.

*sigh*

I dunno. It's all a big mess.

Or, at least, to have the immune system of one. Although I would imagine that it sucks all-aorund to be a chinchilla, because people are probably always trying to make coats out of you.

Anyway, I'm feeling better, yes, thank you for asking. I slept almost constantly and drank enough water to float a battleship, but the fever finally broke and the congestion is down to a manageable level.

I returned to work to find a shiny new (recycled from another campus) computer waiting for me! Yay! I've been desperately needing a speedier one for some time now, so this is great! Just have to finish tweaking it to make it look the way I like, but all in all, it's a great surprise. One thing that annoys me is that music is playing in triple time, no matter what music player I use, and I have to figure out what's up with that. I find it difficult to concentrate without music, so I am especially edgy.

I found myself watching Las Vegas the other night, and was pleasantly surprised to find Bailey Chase, who was Graham on BtVS, playing a slimy defense lawyer.

How cute. He's still getting work.

Over the weekend, I watched a really dumb horror movie that costarred Riley. Yeah, yeah, Marc Blucas. Whatever. He's still playing Riley. I want him to come and rescue me from the monsters now, please.

Oh, great. I just got off the phone with the appliance-repair people . . . I have to be home in an hour for them to fix my washer/dryer.

Bye!

So. It's been a crazy week.

I finished the assignment from hell and turned it in on Tuesday night. I still can't quite believe that I managed to complete an eight-week project in thirty-six hours. We shall see if that is reflected in the grade. Sigh.

( Health scare. )

( Weekend round-up, cut for length. )

Perhaps a nice, soothing cup of tea is in order.

*wanders off*

*happy sigh*

It's been a pretty good week.

My friend Amanda kidnapped me and took me shopping on Saturday. I've lost just enough weight that a lot of my clothes don't fit properly anymore . . . but not quite enough to fit into the clothes that used to fit.

I also have the unfortunate distinction of being the only person in the world who gets overheated from being on blood thinners.

So I picked up a few short-sleeved sweaters and the world's most perfect "little black dress", which my mother always warned me I would one day wish I had.

And now, I do. Have it, that is.

On Monday, I went to my new outpatient physical therapy. The therapist thinks I'll be back up to snuff within a few weeks. I'm greatly excited.

And on Wednesday, I went back to work!

Whoo-hoo!!!

Who'd ever have thought that I'd ever be excited about going to work?

It's good that I only signed up for a half-day, because I had to punk out after only about four hours. That really surprised me. I didn't expect to be so uncomfortable, or so exhausted.

Then today was Turkey Day!

My friend Kristin and I usually take turns hosting holiday dinners. Of course, since I've been sick, we knew that she would have to field Thanksgiving this year. It went a lot more smoothly than last year, when I basically came over and cooked the whole thing.

Everyone had a fine time, and since most of her family are vegetarians, there were plenty of leftovers for me!

Then my mom and I went over to Aunt Jinny's for dessert and coffee, which was also very nice. I would have liked to stay longer, but I'd already had a really long day, and my leg was warning me that I'd better trot on home and rest it.

Hopefully tomorrow, I can talk my mom into putting up the outdoor Christmas decorations while the weather is still pleasant.

I really feel grateful for so many things, this year, not the least of which are :

My family and friends, without whom I could not have made it through my recent health crisis;

And my health, which is certainly improving, and which could have been so much worse and had such potentially severe consequences.

Well, I'm off to an early bedtime.

I hope you all had a wonderful holiday!

Listening to my father say, "Birth control pills" just sends me to an entirely new level of hell.

Like I could go back to sleep after that.

I have recently developed a few new definitions for hell.

1. Hell is . . . being trapped in the backseat of the car with both of your parents, listening on the radio to the world's longest informercial about erectile dysfunction.

2. Hell is . . . your dog has inexplicable diarrhea, and being crippled herself, needs help from her currently crippled owner to make it outside. Said owner does not move fast enough on crutches, slips and lands fully on recovering leg, screams in agony and falls into . . . you guessed it. Dogshit.

Given a choice between the two? I'm not sure which is worse.

My neighbors, whom I normally castigate for their heavy smoking (which drifts into my house when the windows are open) and their inconsiderate noisemaking at all hours of the night, heard me sobbing in pain and frustration and rescued me.

I am severely indebted to them. Not only did they pick me up and hose me off, they also moved the dog outside and hosed her off. Then they cleaned the carpet, put down a tarpulin that covers most of the living room, and put me and the dog back in the house.

They have just moved into fruit-basket territory.

On another note, I discovered a Law & Order episode airing late last night, and stayed up 'til something like 4am to watch it. I am still not over my embarrassing girlcrush on Elisabeth Rohm, dammit.

And bouncing to another topic . . . .

While I was in the hospital, my mom arranged for a priest to visit me, which is just her Catholic upbringing talking, not any indication that I was near death or anything. I think. I'm strictly a holiday Catholic, myself. Christmas and Easter, that's it.

Anyway, I made my confession, surprised at how much better I felt afterwards. Funny how it began, "Bless me father, for I have sinned. It's been . . . umm. Ah . . . er."

The priest said, quite calmly, "Just pick a number."

"I guess . . . fifteen years since my last confession."

I didn't expect absolution to feel . . . I dunno. Like so much of a relief? It really has been at least fifteen years since my last confession, and I don't remember ever feeling so overwhelmed by the sacrament.

I'm not a particularly religious person, but when the sun burst out from behind the clouds that had been hiding it all morning, it felt a lot like the closest thing I might ever get to A Sign From God.

The priest only assigned me one rosary as my penance, but he said something that I found interesting, and that I certainly didn't remember from any CCD classes in my youth. He said that saying the rosary isn't just about saying the prayers; it's about using the rote words as a way to free your mind to think about your life. Not much different than sitting in lotus position and chanting "Om", from what I understand. If you say the rosary with only the goal of getting the prayers over as quickly as possible, he said, you're not actually achieving what you should be, which is coming to understand why you committed the sins you did in the first place.

Religion is a weird thing for me. Despite all the horrors revealed in the headlines about the Catholic Church, to me it is still a comfort and a balm. Maybe that's just my well-developed sense of compartmentalization talking, but the fact remains that I have always thought of the Church in the same way I think of "home" -- as something that will always be there whenever I am ready to go to it.

Maybe this health scare was just what I needed to be ready.

Like I said yesterday, I'm not sure how long this newfound spirituality will last. Sometimes it's hard to count my blessings instead of just bitching about how miserable I might be at this particular second. But you know . . . I could have had a stroke. Or a pulmonary embolism. Or a heart attack. I could have died.

Instead, I'm lucky enough to be sitting on the couch with my leg propped up, whining about how I can't walk. I'm lucky enough to have family close by, with my mom staying with me to help out. I'm lucky enough to have neighbors who surprise me with their caring, and friends who always ask what they can do -- even if it's just to listen to me itemize the non-existent details of my (currently) tiny little world.

I hope that all the rest of you out there, whether we're on each other's friendslist or not, are doing well. And I hope that it doesn't take a life-threatening experience to make you realize that we all have things for which we should be thankful.

No matter how hard that is to remember, sometimes.

It's so easy to get caught up in the daily grind . . . to focus on the negative rather than the positive. And, granted, I'm not exactly the poster child for sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows . . . but I'm trying. So, please, bear with me.

I have the feeling it's going to be a bumpy ride.

So. Evidently, I have a serious problem tolerating anything in the sedative department. I've been hungover on Xanax for two days now.

See, I had to have blood drawn on Saturday. I am phobic about hypodermic needles. As in, will-go-crazy-and-tear-you-to-pieces-if-you-come-near-me-with-one.

Actually, I'll probably just take one look at it and boom! Flat on the floor, passed out. Still. Seriously panic-stricken over going for blood work. So the doc prescribed me Xanax, and it did help.

And kept on helping.

I was still stupid as of high noon on Sunday morning.

Finally, I stopped walking into walls and giggling randomly, only to be overtaken by exhaustion so extreme that I would have called the doctor if I'd had the energy. However, the weariness may well be attributible to blood loss. Apparently, they siphoned more than eight tubes of blood out of me -- which I had not been expecting. So I guess I am suffering from mild anemia and some dehydration.

Thus, steak for dinner last night. Roast beef for lunch today. Just in case. And a whole lotta water. I'm practically floating.

Another long-ass boring day at work. Coming in at ten should've made the day go much faster, but I guess that a morning that starts with one's yearly gynecological exam isn't going to improve much after that.

Eh. Yearly exams aren't that big of a deal . . . they're more of an inconvenience than anything else. Next year, when I turn thirty-five, I can look forward to the joys of my first mammogram!

You should hear my doc when she says this. It's like I've just won a prize or something.

Goofy lady.

Cut for the modest, squeamish, or disinterested. :)

( New birth control information! )

So I guess we'll see how it works out. I'll keep you all posted.

Feel free to ask me questions about it . . . I'm not shy about stuff like that.

To those of you wondering why I've been incommunicado for two weeks . . . typing is tough with only one hand. I'll be out of action for four more weeks, with my left hand in splints.

Word to the wise: you remember when you were a kid, and your mom told you not to stick your hand in the car door?

Well, there was a good reason for that. Trust me.