Living the Lymelife

I seem to be harboring a gross misconception. Everyone tells me that a positive attitude is the best way to heal. I think I've done a pretty damn good job (pat, pat) of staying upbeat and trying to just 'tape my guts in' and get on with my day.

Some days it works.

Other days the Lyme infections are stronger.

I'm just starting to realize that this is not a battle, it's a war. That two days of feeling relatively OK do not equate to normal. I have no normal anymore.

Yesterday was horrible. I wish there were a funnier way to say it but there's not. I've laughed through a lot but seizing and foaming at the mouth is just really not very funny.

I woke up feeling lousier than 'normal' but shot up and tried to get on with my day. Fire alarm testing day at the condo. I'm hyper-sensitive to noise, particularly certain pitches. The sirens were making me trip the hell out. Like Rain Man, cover my ears and howl kind of trip out. My dad was yelling at me to GET OUT, then, meaning go outside. I went downstairs to Starbucks to try to avoid the noise but there were three ladies outside shrieking at each other in almost the same pitch.

I couldn't get away.

I couldn't hide.

The afternoon went steadily downhill although I conquered a bee. Yep. A bee...that got himself stuck in my PICC line mesh. I killed the bastard before he could sting me. I'm not allergic to bee stings but I suspect it's not recommend to be stung next to the catheter that runs directly to your heart.

By the time Leslie picked me up for acupuncture I was a steaming mess. We got there and the second I laid down on the table it was like a faucet turned on in my head and the tears and snot just poured. I couldn't even be treated, I just convulsed on the table until I was calm enough to be brought home. I was seeing double and drooling all over myself.

Leslie had to escort me home and by escort I mean drag my sloppy ass down the looooooooooooooooong hallway while I literally bounced off the walls trying to stumble on feet that were locked into knots of curled toes.

If any of my 'shots' would have put me to sleep for good, I'd have done it in a heartbeat yesterday. It was that bad.

But today is a new day.

I woke up shaky and hurting everywhere. Having fits must burn an immense number of calories because right now I feel like I could eat a horse...if I could muster the energy to go upstairs and open the fridge.

I promise this won't turn into a wrist-slitty Lyme blog and I promise I won't always be such a pisser. But I'm honest, and honestly yesterday was terrifying and it really shook me up. It was a reminder that positive attitudes are great, but my body is truly at war with itself.

And people need to know what Lyme disease can do.

I can only tell my side of it, but I suspect it was pretty scary for Leslie and my family to see me like that.

Today I'm closing my post with a picture. A watercolor Mark did for the benefit. He depicted me as a fighter, kicking tick ass and taking names. I need to believe in this version of myself right now.

I'm SO Gonna Launch a Greeting Card Line

I don't know if you know this but there are a lot of cards that Hallmark doesn't make. Someecards.com can handle a surprising number of life's occasions but rarely when you try to find them specifically.

My hands cramp a lot and my fingers lock up in sweet contortions. I'm probably going to get shot because someone mistakes me for a gang member. I've been wearing lots of dresses lately so as to look more like a cracked-out hippie than drive-by target practice. Please don't worry, I wear leggings underneath them in case of sudden herxy flopping.

The point being, writing by hand is painful. And I have a lot of thank you cards to write. Did you know, for example, that I have never once seen a THANK FOR THE BEAVER SKIN BEER COOZIE card? Ever.

I grew up with a grandma who mailed me dead animal parts. To be fair, it was only once and it was actually UPS who delivered the chicken feet and windpipe that she said I'd forgotten there when I last visited. Also she was only in my life until I was twelve, which isn't actually all that grown up.

That point being, I saw a package from Mama Shelley and opened it excitedly but my initial reaction upon seeing a blob of fur was terror. You can't tell anyone this part because I protected their identities in my book but Mama Shelley's husband Captain Doug is the murderer. The one on page 149. Yeah. The squirrels. It was a double homocide with a twist of irony. The Captain is retired military AND police so nobody probably even believed he killed them except I saw it with my own eyeballs. So I thought maybe it was a squirrel sent in warning.

Don't you write any more shit about me in your next book.

But then I remembered that just because my grandma mailed me festering animal remains does not mean that other people will. And I saw that it was, in fact, a beaver skin beer coozie. And I laughed and laughed and laughed and then I snorted. All alone in the house. I snorted like a hog.

Because I know that Shelley did when she saw it, and that's why she sent it to me. She send me laughs. And if I wrote all that in a card my hands would go on lockdown and I'd cry.

Typing is easier so I need to just launch my own line of greeting cards. My illustrations also require focused small motor skills, so forgive any decrease in the quality of my stick figures. Here is a sample of my new line of cards:

I think Patina will want to stock my greeting cards. They are clamoring for my books. I sent them samples four months ago and followed up three times but they're too busy reading it over and over to respond.

Minnesota Nice

Why do I live in a bipolar state where Mother Nature feels it's appropriate to throw freezing temps at us one night and 93-degree highs 72 hours later?

Where winter sometimes last nine months but we skip spring and fall altogether?

Because we're Minnesota Nice.

And that means respecting one another's freedoms whether we agree with their choices or not.

I'm so proud that MN senate has voted to legalize same-sex marriage!! It's about time that the gay couples I know and love have the same rights that I do.

What the hell do I know about marriage?

Clearly nothing. I'm 36 and twice divorced. And until this week, that was OK, yet my friends P & P who have stood by one another through almost 30 years of their lives were until now denied that same 'privilege'.

It's time.

It's time to recognize and value strong relationships. Strong partnerships.

I don't care if you're gay or straight, it's irrelevant. What you do in your bedroom is not my business. What you do in our community is everyone's business. Some of my dear friends are gay and also happen to be some of the kindest, most generous, community-minded people I know.

So now that we can stop fussing over who is getting married, maybe we can move onto more important issues like pre-marital counseling for all couples. Marriage is hard, yo. You don't get a driver's license or college degree without passing tests. You shouldn't get married unless you've studied what that means, together, as a couple. Peckers and tacos have nothing to do with it.

My vag has absolutely nothing to do with whether I'm equipped to make a lifelong commitment to another person. Let's leave the genitals out of it and start using our brains, people.

That being said, I sure hope P & P have a big ol crazy wedding. Nothing would make me happier than doing the chicken dance at their reception, which clearly would be fabulous because duh - they are gay men. I met them over champagne and crustless cucumber sandwiches.

Monday Marvels with a Twist of Lyme

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, May 13th

 

 

10. The other day after an assplosion I was confused to see string in the pot. I immediately texted my Lymie Coach (aka Bossy #2) and was informed that I pooped a worm. Worse, I was informed that this will continue. Worse still, as I sat upon my throne, pooping worms and crying and gagging, there came a knock at the door. A knock that I ignored. A knock that persisted until I wiped and waddled. I flung the front door open (right by the bathroom, of course) and the stench walloped the courier in the face. He recoiled in horror, thrust a large box at me and ran. I flung the box aside and raced back to finish my biznatch, but after the trauma of excreting a little shop of horrors, I was overcome with gratitude when I finally opened the box...

 

 

 

9. ....to find pretty much everything from France but their fancy shmancy tower. My lovely friend Barb heard I'd not experienced the joy (JOY!) that is French chocolate and took it upon herself to correct this promptly. For this my friends and I are very thankful. Holy Yummies, I bow to thee and I praise your King, the French dark chocolate beast loaded with orange rind. The courier who took the poop-stench-punch to the face? Maybe not so thankful. 

LOOK at this! A zillion treats, each with a sweet note attached

translating and giving a little bit of history about why it's popular in France.

And the sweetest card with a lucky coin. I'm lucky to call Barb my friend.

 



8. I'm grateful to Fat Bailey the cat for spooning me on Friday night. I like to tell myself it's because she loves me although everyone knows she's just a heat whore, and I let her under the four blankets with me. Whatever. I needed the cuddles.

 

7. It's bizarre to see that the herx cramps are so tight that my joints are bruised from the pressure after my toes relax. I'm thankful I wasn't a world famous foot model or this would be devastating - like the model who walked facefirst into the helicopter blade. I wonder if she'll do that again to prove she's resilient like that surfer girl who got her leg snacked on by a shark and still surfs on her other leg?

Soaking my bruised and swollen piggies, who have gone insane.

 

6. I'm so thankful for Neil and Reena loaning me use of one of their bedrooms. My brother knows how much I hate bicoastalhousel living, and he unpacked a bunch of my stuff and decorated their basement bedroom with it to make it look like my own room. It was so sweet and of course I cried but that seems to happen spontaneously six times a day lately. I'm glad to get to spend time with them again.

 

5. I'm so lucky to have the parents I do. We spent Mother's Day together just eating and laughing and admiring Neil and Reena's new house. Then they toted me back to the nest and fed me dinner which I repaid by assploding in their bathroom, doubled over in pain. I swear the SWAT team is gonna show up looking for dead bodies if this continues, and still they let me stay. 

 

4. The upside to all the vicious cramping is that I have to stretch constantly or I'll just curl up into myself like the Wicked Witch's feet. This has resulted in greater flexibility which will come in handy when I compete in the Special Olympics. I think I might actually have a shot at a medal with the Cirque du Soleil floor routine I can do with my feet now! Last time I wanted to enter my brother rudely told me that being disabled was not the only qualification and that I wasn't a fraction of the athlete required to compete.

Just a little stretch trying to soften up cramps. The fire

in the background is an unfortunate photo-bomb given

what's been going on behind me lately.

 

3. I was excited to be offered a guest slot on the Wise, Ink. blog writing about the difference between delusion and reality - check it out!

 

2. I'm really, really proud that I've been able to direct all explosions issuing forth from my body so far. Those who know me too well know that when I vomit, it's often instant and violent. I haven't yet blown an oriface in a mortifying public manner and this pleases me immensely.

 

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, May 12th?

 

1. I'm totally overwhelmed at the sheer amount of love and support people have shown me lately. I'm a little terrified at the responsibility I feel to get well and pay it forward. My whole world has turned upside down these past nine months but I'm plugging along and taking it a day at a time and I'm finding an army of angels falling into step with me. Literally. Pocket angels and French angels and agate angels and silver angels - and the lucky ladybug, of course.

Why, Yes! I WOULD Like Some Cheese with my Whine...

  

I get it, I SWEAR I get it. (MOSTLY.)

In the grand scheme of the world my problems are teensier than a spirochete.

Butt....butt...butt...

I'm supposed to be on a date with my friend at a comedy show tonight because laughter is the best medicine. Except that my prescription medicine has turned my butthole into a volcano today and I really don't care to erupt in front of a professional comedian - no good can come of that.

Yes, I realize I just lost half of my twelve readers with that paragraph, but this is me, folks. The good, the bad and the poop. Lyme disease is UGLY. Life can be ugly. I write about my life so expect further ugliness interrupted with as many bursts of Polyanna Sunshine as I can muster. Unsubscribe accordingly if you must, though I warn you - there are kernels of actual educational information about Lyme disease in my recent posts. Sometimes you have to wade through the shit to get to the important stuff. In this case, we'll wade through my shit. Together. Doesn't that sound lovely?

I feel like a POS for whining, especially in light of all the kindnesses people have extended.

Butt...butt...butt...

My butt hurts.

Remember the Charley horses in my butt cheeks last weekend? The ones I had my dad stomp out with his feet? Well, my butt cheeks are still incredibly sore, in the manner of any horribly overworked muscle. Pretend you went to the gym every day for a week and worked on nothing but your glutes. You know that sore? That's the sore my muscles get after prolonged herx contractions.

So sitting on the toilet is painful to start.

Enter habanero salsa and multiple IV antibiotics. The good news is I'm pooping. I often don't - I can go weeks - I think my standing record is sixteen days of pigging out and drinking heavily on a cross country road trip, only to blow immediately upon returning home to my safe potty.

Remember THAT smell, Neil Lorntson? I know he does because when he entered our townhome's front door (one floor and two closed doors away from where I was squatting) he immediately screamed in outrage because 'allegedly' the 'odor' hit him in the face like an uppercut.

Pooping spirochetes is tenfold worse. Like, Satan's minions are sliding out of my ass waving their stench directly up my nostrils, which then clearly results in vomiting. Multitasking saves time.

I expect the cops to arrive any minute with a search warrant to look for the decaying corpse, but it's just me. I'm still alive. Butt....I'm not at a comedy show and I'm not laughing right now.

I have acupuncture tomorrow and I'm terrified. What's gonna spew out when she pokes me? All my orifaces are going haywire and acupuncture creates dozens of new ones. The other day I was crying and laughing simultaneously like a psychopath and when I snorted (from laughter) I snorted my own tears up my nose. That stings, y'all.

And now I conclude my whine of the day because the toilet is singing its siren song and as when a sailor's mermaid beckons, I must follow the call.

Monday Mockery

This week will not be a list of gratitude. It will be a list of mockery. Not because I'm not grateful, but

because the only way I'm getting through this is laughter.

You may have heard me rave about a man named LTC Mark Weber, a man with terminal cancer and a terminally amazing attitude. At a book signing, his abdominal wounds burst open. My dad ran to get duct tape and Mark taped his guts in and got on with his day.

I'm trying to live like he does. I could sit at home and feel sorry for myself all day. But honestly, having a treatment plan (albeit one that sucks) is SO much better than not knowing. So I'm trying to TAPE MY GUTS IN and just get on with my day.

Which leads to today's list. My herx reactions (normal part of treatment) come out of nowhere and I can't control or predict them. They are incredibly painful but are also, I'm learning, a fairly endless source of amusement for my warped and twisted family.

 

With that, I give you the Top Ten Reasons to Mock Me today...

10. Whilst sitting at Starbucks with Mama Bird, we noticed a gentleman reading a book about how to be a better parent. It was all my mom could do not to tap his shoulder, point at me and say "Just don't DO it! They NEVER go away!"

9. During a herx that locked my ass muscles into charley horses, I hit the floor and begged my mom to use this roller thing we have on my butt. It wasn't enough, though, to calm the cramps, so I begged my dad to step on my butt. Repeatedly. "H-h-h-harder!" I yelled through the tears.

Afterward, my mom asked him if he could feel my butt muscles spasming beneath his feet. His response? "I DON'T WANNA TALK ABOUT IT!"

8. After my butt calmed down we went to see our friends Peter and Paul to celebrate the opening of their new business. OK, that's a total lie. Paul told me he'd be wearing a penguin suit, and that's why I wanted to go. What's better than a man in a penguin suit? An awesome gay man in a penguin suit. I offered to bring him a fishy for a treat - becuase penguins eat fish. His response? "Honey, I gave up fish in college. Tube steak is a much tastier treat." I cannot even express how much I love this man penguin.

THAT IS NOT A DORKY POSE I WAS DOING -

MY HAND WAS CRAMPED LIKE THAT

7. After I molested the penguin for a bit, the folks took me to Chino to celebrate Cinco de Mayo. Last year on May 5th, I was gorgeously attired for Neil and Reena's wedding. Saris, bling, henna, and my hair was did. This year, I sat at Chino among the crowds doing tequila shots with my Diet Coke. But I did don the free mustache they gave me in order to try to feel festive. I think one must be drunk to feel festive while wearing a fake mustache. I just looked creepy as shit, especially with the red lighting at Chino, which nicely accentuated the gigantic dark circles under my eyes.

6. Because my brother Neil and I look alike, I texted the mustache picture to his wife Reena, who informed me that I look like a pedophile.

5. I cropped the photo and realized she's right. I would never let a child near someone who looks like this.

4. My toes developed new positions yet again, and I have no doubt that I looked like an insane person walking down the street on curled toes, weaving from side to side with my mother clutching a fistful of the back of my dress like a leash.

3. Also, while visiting my penguin, the butt spasms joined the party again. The business opening? An adorable tiki-themed Kona Ice truck for children. Behind the truck? A crazy woman crying and rubbing her own ass frantically.

2. My chores make me barf. I'm telling you, this living with the parents is hard work. They asked me to take out the garbage and I threw up. OK, that's not exactly how it went. They said 'what stinks?' and I said 'not me!' Then I helpfully went to change the garbage in case that was it (it was) and had to abort the mission to vomit. So really my dad took the garbage out. But I should still totally get a star on my chore chart for effort.

And the number one reason to mock me today?

1. While at Chino Latino, while celebrating Cinco with my soda, while wearing my fake mustache, I had a brand new herx spasm. The right side of my face went psycho and completely independent of the left. I could feel it, but my parents (sitting across from me) were in hysterics. Someone may have said they couldn't eat while looking at my face.

I naturally assumed they were mean and my face looked fine. So I took a quick selfie video to see for myself.

And that's when I realized the truth. I have two choices right now. Tape my guts in and laugh at myself or jump off a bridge. I choose to laugh. Feel free to do so at my expense. Everyone else does.

What does Lyme Look Like? A Day in the Life...

So people have asked what a typical day is like for me now. OK, not people, the guy from the disability insurance office, but let's not split hairs. I've also heard through the grapevine that I'm pretty boring to hang with these days, so maybe this will help explain. I warn you, it's a boring post, but if you want to know what a day in my life is like, here it is in all its glory.

I wake up and sterilize my PICC line for the first round of four morning injections, then I gobble a fistful of pills. I then wait a bit to make certain no oriface will blow before making my next move.

I then have an hour or so to kill before prepping the next infusions so often I walk downstairs to Starbucks. Is that a luxury? Absolutely. Do I feel guilty? Not particularly. It's the extent of my social life, so for three dollars and sixteen cents I am able to feel like a normal person, out and about, for a few minutes. Though I need to meter my visits or my allowance will run out.

Yes, allowance. I am no longer in control of my finances. This, although incredibly frustrating, is a wise choice, given my brainpower.

Back upstairs for four more injections, one of which takes an hour to infuse. Not that big of a deal except I have to be careful not to catch the lines on anything and tear them out. Another handful of pills.

On a good day, this is nap time. On a bad day, I just cry and drool and have muscle seizures.

Dinner time I get to skip shots and just eat pills, and this time is generally spent watching my parents have a cocktail or two. I'm learning that happy hour is not a spectator sport.

Around 9 PM I sterilize again for another round of four injections and my final fistful of pills.

Showers have been replaced with baby wipes until absolutely required as per the level of offensiveness my funk is causing. I haven't yet mastered the one-armed shower, especially the hair-washing part.

During any of these days I might feel up to blogging or hanging out with a friend for an hour or two. Or I might just roll around on the floor with my muscles on lockdown. I've learned that my feet are independent of my body and in training for Cirque du Soleil. Or a really creepy foot fetish website. I'm flexible. Anything to make a buck...

...because my treatment, though covered partially by insurance for two months, will likely continue for a minimum of five months. It often takes far longer than that to reverse symptoms in late-stage Lyme disease.

And it? Is ex-effing-pensive.

Couriers hand-deliver huge boxes of supplies of syringes and medication and nurses come weekly to redress the PICC, clean it out and take blood for labs.

I can't even begin to compute the numbers, but I do know that one antibiotic alone is over $2000.00 a month. I'm on four antibiotics, plus the myriad other medications to temper side effects, keep me from vomiting, and replenish the nutrients my body seems to just reject.

I've learned to just roll with things, quite literally. During a recent outing with Mama Bird and Leslie, my right buttcheek decided to contract. So I walked through the store, tears running down my face, dragging my leg behind me while trying to massage my own ass before it Charley'd enough to take me to the ground. I've gotten beyond worrying what I look like to others.

Some people think I'm injured because 'I walk funny'. Others hear my speech and speak back slowly or loudly as though perhaps I'm retarded, deaf or both. Still others see IV lines and assume cancer. But most, I'm certain, just think I look like a crazy person. Kids are my favorite because they just ASK what the heck my problem is.

I write this not to complain, but to explain.

And I've also been incredibly blessed during this time. I have a huge network of angels around the world and it's a rare day that I open the mailbox and don't find a card from someone. To anyone who wonders what the value is of sending your thoughts to someone, it is priceless.

Many days I've been ready to just scream in frustration (though I can't even scream!) and just when I think I can't take it, a note arrives. Or a text. Or an email.

To all of you, you are a lifeline. Know that.

The most important part of my days now is working on changing my focus and my attitude. When I'm herxing, I try to pray for others I know of who are in worse situations. When I'm feeling (my version of) well, I try to use that time to spread kindness in whatever little ways I can find (again, cards, notes and little gifts - you never know when you will make someone's day and touch them when they most need their heart lifted).

So that's my life, right now.

Boring? A bit.

Preparation for something bigger? It had better be.

My Season of Stripping

Nope, not that kind of stripping. I've lost quite a bit of weight but I'm still not coordinated enough for a pole and if I were, I'm pretty sure nobody wants to see my pancake boobs hanging upside down from one.

Lyme disease is stripping me to my core, peeling away the layers of independence, armor and vice.

I can't drive, and I've finally given up my car. All winter I spent $500 a month for it to sit on the street and get snowed on. My world has shrunk to where I can walk and where people will drive my sorry ass. Don't even talk to me about getting on a bus yet, please. I'd try to go downtown and end up in Gary, Indiana somehow. Trust me. This would happen.

I live with my parents, and I've turned over my finances to my family. Math was never a strong skill and since the Lyme hit, I couldn't balance a checkbook if you paid me. So now they do. Pay me. An allowance. Out of my own money. I guess we'll put a chore chart on the fridge. I did the laundry today, Mom!

I cannot justify buying a pack of cigarettes when so many people are helping me. Even though it's the first place my mind turns when I'm freaking out, the guilt is helping me grit it out. Whatever works, right?

My other vice, the one that isn't exactly legal (YET) in MN, well, that's another story. Some call it recreational but others have watched it calm down my muscles when they are tweaking. Call it medicinal or call it naughty, but four surreptitious puffs OUTSIDE on the balcony and Wild Bill walks in an hour later demanding to know why we let a skunk in the house. I think I lost a star on my allowance chart.

No cocktails or swimming, and here I thought that was the whole point of summer. Then again, it's May and it's snowing, so maybe I won't miss much this year.

I've lost my speech, my job, my husband, my step-cat, my driving privileges, my mind and control of my bank account. I'm a 36-year-old child. I even cry and drool like a baby, but no diaper changes have been needed as of yet and for that we are ALL thankful.

I'm being stripped down to my core because apparently I didn't learn whatever lesson in humility and

grace that I was supposed to learn in 2008 when my femur was cut in half. Perhaps screaming obscenities at my mother while she showered me didn't exhibit much grace under stress. Well, now I CAN'T scream and I'm guessing that wasn't an accident. The Big Guy has a wicked sense of humor at times.

This has to be preparation for something better.

Hopefully when life finishes peeling my rotten onion layers away, there will be a healthy core inside ready to be replanted elsewhere.

Photo: Beliefnet.com

Traveling Light...AGAIN.

Seems I'm traveling in circles. In 2011 I wrote about having lots of keys but no real home. Here I am again and I have spread no roots as I had hoped. Guess that means I have to learn to fly.

The awesome part of packing up your life every sixteen minutes is....well, there's not really anything awesome about it - but it does force spring cleaning. And fall cleaning. And winter cleaning. And every time you move cleaning.

It's yet another three-way, but not the kind anyone gets excited about.

 - Stuff coming to my parents' house (ie: stuff I NEED)
 - Crap going into storage
 - Belongings going to Neil and Reena's for staying there when my folks need a break from me

This move was made more challenging by, oh - you know - the Lyme disease. I was packing in a hurry and a complete brain fog and people were (very kindly and helpfully) schlepping my stuff where I directed.

Well, after close to a week I'm trying to deny my denial by unpacking - because, yup. I'm living with my parents again. Imagine my surprise and delight to see that somehow during my packing things got mixed up, undoubtedly by me and not any of the helpers.

I just moved in with my parents with only three pairs of underwear. I have no idea where all the rest went.

I do, though, have an evening gown here, which is important since I'll surely be going to many black-tie events with my imaginary date and my IV. Anyone wanna take me to a gala? I am a hot piece of arm candy right now.

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, April 29th

10. I'm thankful for my beautiful friend Gretchen, who sent me a brand new pair of Chucks. Not even the knock-offs - the real thing! They may not have arch support, but they are full of love and they are purple on the inside. Also, flip-flops aren't good for me now, considering my toes have a mind of their own.

9. I'm grateful to my lovely sisters for buying me a personalized drug bag from Initials, Inc. so I can take all my syringes on the go. Now I'm a portable junkie! (Also, they make super cute bags of all kinds and you can order them from Reepal at the Lyme benefit June 9th. Stay tuned for details.)

8. I'm thankful for Mama Bird and Wild Bill, who DIDN'T lock the door  when I showed up on Thursday with my sad little pile of belongings.

7. I'm grateful to my Vivian for bringing me  love and hugs and a book of poems written by cats. Did you ever know what your cat was thinking? I have the translation manual if you'd like to borrow it.

6. I'm thankful to Mark for bringing me a painting of my ex-Gabby. I can't cuddle with it or cry on it, but it also won't lick my PICC line until I'm dead.

5. I'm so blessed with people who are teaching me grace during trials. Kathy F., Kate L., Lt. Col Mark Weber, Paul S. and so many more. I see your struggles and mine feel insignificant. I pray for you and my own prayers feel unnecessary.

4. I am proud to be an organ donor. Yesterday a three-year-old boy's life was saved by the miracle of a liver transplant. I'm sending thanks upward to the poor little child and their family who shared that ultimate gift so that little Miles has a shot at a whole life of his own.

3. I'm so happy I blog, because I've developed the most amazing network of awesomeness that extends far beyond people I've even ever MET. To everyone who sends love and encouragement in the form of comments and emails, thank you. I read every single message and I let them soak right into my heart. I think they are as strong a medicine as any of the antibiotics.

2. I'm still very thankful I haven't accidentally injected air bubbles into my heart. Or tripped and caught the line on something and torn it out. Those who know me realize that those are far greater risks than infection.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, April 29th?

1. I. Have. Not. Puked. In. FIVE. DAYS!

Holy Full Moon!

Yesterday began with moving the rest of my belongings out of the house.

Then to the hospital for a PICC line.

Then training on how to properly sterilize and inject myself with drugs.

Then we watched fifteen squad cars cordone our block after a car hit a light post and the driver fled. There were police running everywhere with their guns drawn and a helicopter circling above. The police dog made a mad run toward our building and I thought for a moment they were coming for me but then I remembered I'm allowed to shoot up. Supposed to, actually.

Wow. What a day.

On the plus side, I've thrown up NO new drugs. On the downside, my parents' living room looks like a pharmacy and I look like a junkie. Forty pills, three injections and six saline flushes a day.

But this is my new life for now and I'm going to be positive dammit!

So I'm thankful that I didn't get shot whilst gawking at the all the police activity from the balcony, and I'm grateful that I have not accidentally injected an air bubble into my heart.

I'll leave you with this less than exciting photo-map of last night's activities (taken an hour into the festivities so the squads had spread out everywhere by then to close down our block) and the reminder that the only time I've walked into to path of guns drawn before was in this SAME parking lot of this SAME building a few years ago.

I'm beginning to suspect that maybe, just perhaps, I am a drama-magnet. Or my parents live in the hood. Not sure which. Possibly both.

I'd write more about being positive but I have to go shoot up again.

Peace out. No guns today, okay?

To Do

Cry?

Check.

Pack remaining belongings?

Check.

Cry on heterosexual female friend?

Check.

Laugh with heterosexual female friend?

CHECK.

Cry on lesbian (also female!) friend?

Check.

Laugh with lesbian (also female!) friend?

CHECK.

Cry on Facebook friends?

Check.

Laugh with Facebook friends?

CHECK.

Cry on Mark?

Check.

Laugh with Mark?

CHECKMATE.

My to-do list is completed for the day and I'm motherlovin' exhausted.

Tomorrow's list includes a morning coffee date, a trip to the Lyme doc then off to the hospital for implantation and then an adventure to another part of the hospital for the infusions. Then I'll move out of St. Paul to Richfield. I'm tired just thinking about it.

But you know what? Mark is tired, too. He's been working every day then lugging my stuff all over town to all my new houses. He's hurting too. I am like a land mine and the shrapnel hits everyone around me.

This isn't what either of us wanted but we're moving forward and hopefully both into better, stronger, ass-kickinger people. And we did it without being mean to one another, inasmuch as that is ever possible. Tonight he brought me my favorite magazine to take to the hospital tomorrow and he cooked me dinner and we hugged each other before he went to bed. Friday he's hauling the rest of my furniture to my brother and sister's house.

Mark likes to read comic books and I think in them its often clear - a villian and a hero. Real life isn't a comic book though and it doesn't do any good to villify anyone. To anyone who assumes that he's automatically The Bad Guy in this chapter of our lives, let's just remember I'm no picnic, either.

Just ask my folks.  Or friends. Or exes. Or most people who know me.

Right now, I'm ready to focus on my treatment and kick some spirochetes' squiggly little butts. Thank you to everyone who cheered me up today, when I asked for it. And thank you to Bossy #1 for teaching me how to ask for what I need.

So now I'm going to ask you for something.

Yes, YOU.

Do something nice for someone today for no reason. I don't give a shit if you know them or not. I don't care if it's free and you just compliment someone or you're rich and throw handfuls of money at someone. Just do something nice today.

I know all you sweet people are out there, I've been blessed to cross paths with so many of you. All the people who have shown me kindness. All the people I see doing good for others. All the helpers that Mr. Rogers said to watch for but I still think he's creepy despite his sage advice.

While I'm getting my infusion catheter that runs from my arm to my heart, you do something nice for somebody, okay? Because that's what I'm going to think about while it's happening. Happy thoughts to muscle through a day that may be tough.

A Poem about Prophylactics, Written 36 Years and 10 Months too Late

An ode to Mama Bird and Wild Bill, and the middle-aged kid they cannot shake.

You decide to have a baby,

because what could go wrong?

But she comes out screaming

and screams all day long.

The first two years are terrible

but for that at least you were warned...

Next came the lull of a decent kid

Who by nary a teacher was scorned.

But something went wrong

around the time she grew boobs...

and from that day forth

parenting became lose-lose.

She left home first at age fifteen -

too soon they thought at the time,

never knowing she'd be back

more times than urban crime.

Every time she tried to move on

she got dumped or broke or hurt,

so back she'd come right to that nest

bringing along her dirt*

So strong is their love that

they let her back in

while surely throwing their hands up

time and time - and time - again.

Ellen says that for grown 'kids'

who keep on coming 'home'

simply buy yourself a tiger -

one big chomp and you're finally alone.

But they can't afford a tiger

with a Tricia in their life

so instead they're stuck - yes, again

with Tricia and her strife

She swears this time's the last

but they may have heard those words

already, and they've only managed to 

rid their nest of one of their two birds.

Tomorrow she gets her PICC line
and the IV meds begin
So once again she's at their door
and of course, they let her in.

And so goes the tale of their ruination

at the hands of this gift of a 'child'

who has insured that retirement will never be

an option for Mama Bird and Wild**.

Unless of course she kicks tick ass

and tells the most riveting tale

that she finally gets a book deal -

enough to pay off FAIL.

Plus enough to buy a house that she

can FINALLY call her own

into which the folks can move,

old and beaten down.

And so we end with a final note,

this tale of teaching caution...

You never know what kid you'll get

so just wear that damn condom.

*Dirt is metaphorical for drama and baggage here, but I am not having an easy time making all this shit rhyme..

**Wild is my dad's nickname. Don't ask.