Dancing With Daughters

Last night I committed a sin, a major sin, according to my 15 and a half-year old daughter. She didn’t tell me in words; she didn’t have to. I was in the bedroom listening to music that I like, feeling happy and I started to dance. Alone. It was just one of those moments when I felt energetic enough to do some minor dancing by myself, Ellen Degeneres style.  Having Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis, an auto-immune disease, and Fibromyalgia, I don’t feel this way all too often. Methotrexate, one of the drugs I am taking twice a week is also a total kill joy. That night, however, I was given a break and I celebrated. I felt good!

On the way out of my daughter’s room she passed me, stopped, and gave me the dirtiest look I have received to date, complete with the eye roll upwards and “the look.” You know which look I mean, moms and dads, the look of hate and utter disgust.  Why? I guess because I am a “mom” and  I embarrassed her. To quote my daughter:” it was weird.” Why?  It’s NOT as if all my daughter’s friends were over or that we were in public. I was in my soft, pretty white nightgown that had petite fir- green flowers printed on it (probably the first major mistake) and happily swaying to the music from The Black Eyed Peas. I wasn’t EVEN listening to John Denver or Josh Groban, this was a bona fide group that she likes.

Yet this afternoon when my daughter was asked to go to a movie this evening with her friend, she trudged into my room asking me to give her a few reasons (hint, hint, I don’t want to go) why I wouldn’t “allow” her to go. I suggested a few things which did not suit her, and then she suddenly looks happier and says “I know! I’ll tell her you’re really annoying and that you are freaking out about all the snow we are getting.”  Mission accomplished, glad I could be of help, dear. “You’re welcome” I shouted and she glanced back at me all golden blonde hair swinging down her back, brilliant blue eyes and Forever 21 outfit and replies somewhat sheepishly: “thanks.” No problem.

I know, I know, hormones mixed with the emotional turmoil of having an embarrassing mom (didn’t we all have one of those?”) combined with the separation process. I get it. I understand it on a rational and psychological level. It doesn’t mean I have to like it  but I accept it (face it, what choice do I have?).

The next time my illness or the dreaded Methotrexate medicine gives me a reprieve, I will continue to dance to the music that makes me happy. And when I do, I will wear my 1970’s  faded neon orange T-shirt that my husband gave me and my flannel pink and rose flowered pajama pants. My door will be wide open and my voice will be loud and clear and strong.

Pop Cop: The Who?

I am not a big fan of football and frankly, did not watch the Superbowl with the exception of the half-time show and the commercials.  What I learned from Sunday night’s game is not a greater understanding of football but really, how very old I was. Apparently there was a large amount of people , ok, young people who had no idea who The Who was. Who, they asked?  The Who, we answered which give way to a lot of head shaking, grumbling and some requests for people that the kids at least knew and liked. The Who was not it.

Bruce Springsteen is someone we can all relate to. Paul McCartney too. Bring on Beyonce and The Black Eyed Peas. But, The Who? It really dated the viewing audience and from what I heard the performance was not a spectacular one.

Maybe next year they will select a half-time performance that we can all enjoy. Like that’s possible.

Callie Love

Callie, my beautiful 9-year-old dog lies curled up at the end of my bed; her black, white and tan fur as soft as down feathers.  Her paws are white with tan freckles, her stomach is pure white. Her long tail is like a sweeping paintbrush, like a peacock’s plume, black and tan, its softness tickles my nose.   Sometimes she shudders and shakes when she is sleeping and I reach out to stroke her fur and wake her up; she looks around and stretches one paw directly up into the air and audibly sighs.

Callie knows, instinctively, how I feel;  she is sensitive to my moods and especially to my sorrow.  She jumps up on my bed  and looks at me with her liquid brown eyes, knowingly.   After my father died, Callie spent a lot of time with me, she could comfort me as no one else could. She licked the tears away from my face and would not leave my side until I felt better.  I didn’t need to explain, I didn’t need to talk, she understood my pain at the most primitive level. Her fur was often damp from my tears, my arms curled around her body. Wherever I went, she went; she still follows me everywhere; I still call her “my little shadow.”

Nine years ago I drove to a few shelters, “just looking.” One day I arrived at a shelter to see a woman who worked there cradling two, tiny, adorable puppies in her hands, one to her left cheek, the other to her right. Apparently the pup’s mom had abandoned them and wouldn’t nurse them.  I arrived five minutes after a man who had adopted them for a week came back and brought   the puppies back to the shelter, because “they were too much trouble.”

I sat myself down on the dirty floor and the two, six-week old  puppies were placed next to me.  One was frisky and started eating telephone wires, the other crawled into my lap and stayed. It was love at first sight, for both of us.  I identified with the little ball of mush snuggling into my lap, sighing with contentment; if she had been a cat she would have purred.

I  watch Callie from the window, frolicking in the snow, barking happily, and hopping and skipping like a bunny. Snow is her favorite element and in it she acts like the same young pup we’ve always known.   Her favorite time is when we have a snowstorm and my husband shovels snow directly to her.  She can literally jump up to two feet in the air so she is just about vertical and she yelps and barks with utter joy.

I was never able to understand the bond between a human being and a dog, until we adopted Callie and then I knew what unconditional love was.   My children whisper their secrets to her, I have seen them bend down, close to her ear. She is the keeper of secrets and of sorrow, and she is constantly happy, even if we are away for five minutes, she greets us with great joy.

Now, her once black whiskers are turning white; the fur under her chin has also changed from black to white. My daughter asked me the other day “How long do dogs live?”  It’s the same thing I have thought about from time to time.  I hesitated, and  my daughter said the following:” Mom, I need to know. I need to be prepared.”   I told her what I knew and what the veterinarian had said and that I understood her completely because I needed to be prepared too.  What I did not tell her is that no matter what, you can never be prepared for death. Ever.

My daughter and I and our closest neighbors celebrate her birthday every year on March 1st. We buy her a present or two and she always gets a really good meal. The boys in our family want nothing to do with us. But, for my daughter and me, it’s a celebration of her life, year after year. I hope she is with us for a very long time but when the  day comes, I know that I will always cling to the image in my mind, of my dog, crazy happy, jumping into the air, covered with snowflakes.

Good For You, Great For Me

Today is a HAPPY day for me; for most others they would call it “normal.” After a good, solid night’s sleep (waking up only once and then able to go back to sleep immediately), I woke up at 11AM and felt good. Good, as in the absence of, pain and aches. Not just good, but GOOD, almost great. I had enough energy to get out of the bed and go down the stairs.  Feeling good is taken for granted by a whole lot of people but NOT to those of us who have auto-immune diseases, fibromyalgia or ANY chronic illness for that matter. Good to us is great. Unfortunately for some of us, to experience it  is sometimes rare.

When I feel sick I don’t know if it’s a side effect of the methotrexate (and plaquannel) that I am taking, whether it is my illness (Hashimoto’s Thyroiditis and Fibromyalgia) OR a new virus or bug I picked up (probably at another Dr’s appointment.)  Last week I took, (yes, I asked my doctor’s permission)  gulp,  double the amount of methotrexate, 8 pills (bad idea, really bad idea) on one day instead of splitting the medication, 4 pills, twice a week.  I did get approval  from the doctor to try….but it was definitely a really bad experiment.  My fault. Entirely. I take full responsibility for it.  Big, bad, miserable mistake but I  thought it could turn out to my advantage (so not) and I wanted to try to feel good for a few days in between the two doses.  It backfired, I was sick for an entire, miserable, can’t-get-out-of-bed- week. Never will that happen again. Maybe the lessons I needed to learn from this are:  when I go back to taking the dose twice a week (starting Monday) it won’t feel AS bad as it was last week AND see how much sicker I could feel every day?

I took advantage of THE DAY (wish I could light this up with sparklers)  by doing “normal” things which to me were thrilling. I went to the Orthodontist with my kids (just being able to GO was a treat)   and then I took them out to eat at the local diner. First, having teenagers by themselves, outside the house, is a joy in itself. There was barely any fighting and a lot of sharing food and actual conversation. Anyone who has teenagers knows this is a rare gift. Besides my son taking illegal sips out of my daughter’s  strawberry smoothie and my daughter continually playing with the straw in her water-glass, it was calm and very enjoyable. My son ate his brunch, thinly layered pieces of a croissant, french toast style, with bacon in less than 4 minutes. My scrambled eggs and toast (why do they taste so much better when I am not cooking them??) and fruit served as the extra filling station for both the kids. It was fun to see them reach over and grab bites and an even greater joy just to be with them. Outside the house. Like a real person.  Most people would take this meal for granted. Not I.

Being on a roll on this celebratory day,  my husband and I plan to go to dinner at the Asian Fusion restaurant we used to go to.  We have not gone out anywhere for months so Carpe Diem (seize the day).  For me, a good day, like today, is a celebration. I can honestly say that I don’t know when I will feel this good again. I wish it was more frequent, I wish I could predict it  but I can’t and I have to accept that.

I hope people who don’t have any illnesses will read this to know how good they have it, that just having an ordinary day makes us feel so special. I may not feel like this for a few more weeks or months but it allows me to remember how it feels and that there is the promise of another day, somewhere…. in the future.

Find Me A Crocus

Winter is alone. Spring is for friends. Summer is for families.  Fall is for children. I need that tiny glimmer of hope when I look outside at 5 PM and see a bit of the sun still whispering down at me from the sky.  Is the gloomy darkness giving us a chance to take a gulp of winter air and not get lost and turned around in the frost?  How much longer can I see my breath outside as the car shudders and shakes itself to start? Is there a chance, a hope, a tremor, a twinge that Spring may actually be coming in the next few months?

I can minimally handle these cold and frigid days when the sun is out and the sky is a mellow blue. It’s when the limbs of strong, sturdy trees fight, swaying against the gray, dark clouds that I become a hermit and don’t want to leave my cozy house. That’s when I stay inside, if I can, and sip Eggnog Tea and pat my dog on her sweet head so that she closes her eyes and sighs a gracious thank-you.

Stronger and stronger I am feeling the connection between mood and weather, temperature to temperament. I don’t think it’s a fast science but a personal assessment. Some people like the sun; I need the sun. I crave it with my body that is still dry and rough from the long winter. Red, raw hands fighting inside the mittens that promise warmth and comfort but deliver neither.

How can one NOT feel better when you see the spry young spots of purple and yellow crocus’ emerging from the strong, solid earth? The first blush of downy yellow from the forsythia tree in the backyard. The texture of pussy willows as I stroke my thumb against them back and forth like a calming mantra.

Let this bitter cold winter end. The soft billowy snow that once was fresh is now a dull gray mixed with mud.  We have been through this for many years as we  mutter “I hate the winter” to anyone who passes by. Or we say it out loud to ourselves,  over and over again.

We all need a break from the earth, from the world and from ourselves. We need to shine, to stretch like a cat after a long nap, to take long deep breaths that smell like daffodils or mowed lawns, or red wine. Let the spring come to us like a long-awaited for present, no expectation on when it will arrive but always deeply grateful when it does.

iPad

As soon as the iPad came out the advertising rain- man in my head thought:

The iPad, like a Maxi Pad, only fresher.

The Reasons Why

I wake up each night every two hours.  I fall asleep quickly but two hours later these horrible mind games occur.  I wake up, not groggy, but alert as if an alarm inside me has gone off like a very loud siren.  Last night the ghost of anxiety past, present and future  filled my brain so much that I felt confused and uncertain. My mind was a mixture of headlines and dark thoughts twisted together like a  tree with very weak limbs. If there was a blast of wind I know the tree would ultimately go down, lying decrepit and lost by the side of the snow-covered road.

Why were there two teenagers admitted to the ICU with blood clots in an arm and in the brain. They are from the same town and know each other.  What are the chances of that happening, and why? The messages that terrorists are likely to attack again, soon frighten me.   I see the images of their faces in the newspapers and on television, over and over again.  I felt uneasy rereading the thirty-seven pages I read of The Bell Jar for my son.  The Methotrexate drug I take  haunts me and hates me, as I do it. The intense images of my daughter’s presentation on Haiti sticks in my mind, mud and blood, and half-dead children, with red gauze across their eyes, mothers reaching out for their dead children, crying. Grandmothers and fathers stretching their arms out to pray while tears are flowing down their cheeks. I also dream about evil rats, dorm rooms and multiplying green and black snakes. Nothing is too silly to taunt me.

Every two hours I rise from my bed to try to shake the demons away but they will not go, they stick to me like honey and  burrs and laugh when I try to shake them off. I am so tired that I try to stay awake during the day but sometimes I cannot.  I don’t  feel well physically, my stomach hurts, my body aches, my energy is at an all time low. I think about going back to the guru Dr. in the city and I feel like I am a failure.  My body is slow but my mind is racing, on over- drive. I cannot adjust the two to be synchronized. I wish I could. My legs are jumpy and my body cold, I trek to the bathroom back and forth as if I was pacing for a baby to be born, except there is no joy.

I have tried everything from deep breathing, telling myself an imaginary story, drugs, walking around, having a cookie,  but nothing seems to work.   I lie in bed awake and tense, I try to pull my fluffy pink blanket close by just to finger its texture but that doesn’t work either. I find myself turning over and over, asking myself questions that I don’t know the answer to. I am too tired to go downstairs and watch TV and our house is too small for me to wander around without waking someone up. For the first time in a long time, along with these physical maladies is fear; and I don’t know where that is coming from.

I am not even sure of what I am afraid of. If I knew, I could sort it out and try to solve it. Except I am afraid that this pattern will continue and my lack of sleep will only ravage me further.  I tried to sleep with the moon on my face last night but that gave me no sense of comfort either. I think I am going backwards in my physical health and that in itself is a nightmare.

I write now with a cup of coffee that I gulped down, fast enough that I don’t remember the flavor or the taste. I need to write but nothing comes to mind. Nothing but the puzzle pieces of my brain that are not fitting together. I ask for help in my silent plea to my deceased father  but nothing comes and then I am left with pure longing. I cringe because I am forgetting what my father’s voice used to sound like and that makes me terribly unhappy and lost.

I am feeling a bit disoriented. Where is my peace? Why can’t I find my gratitude guide? Why is everything scary and troubling and unlike the nightmares, I am wide awake enough to continue to feel these emotions. I am scared of nothing and everything, I feel sad and anxious and confused. I want to destroy these night-time monsters but they are indestructible. I am not Max of the Wild Things, I cannot make these evenings an adventure. they are in control of me and I surrender because I have no strength left to fight. I try to talk to myself but I cannot listen.

Pop Cop: Jay Leno, I Used To Like You

Jay Leno was the man of the people. Down to earth.  Affable. A big lug.  Liked cars. Big, expensive cars. Tons of cars.  I used to trust Jay Leno but with all the press about him and Conan, I don’t anymore.  I thought Jay Leno’s interview with Oprah would somehow, some way, redeem him in my eyes and in the eyes of others.  She skewered him, lightly, with the gentle grace that only Oprah could pull off. Like a James Frey redo.  She asked questions in a fair, even way but somehow he couldn’t quite get his act together. He whined, he expressed NO remorse about Conan and said he never talked to Conan personally nor does he plan too.  He could have somehow come out of this mess a little less dirty, a little less oily but he didn’t.  The Oprah interview showed him as a cold-hearted celebrity, needing fame more than friendship; greed over greatness.

He COULD have stepped down and made way for Conan. I was never a big Conan fan to begin with but after this brouhaha he started looking a lot better. I watched Conan O’ Brien for the first time in my life; it was humbling. The show  portrayed Jay Leno as the rottweiler and Conan as the poor, abused, puppy. When I watched Conan I felt sad; when I watched Jay I felt angry. Here’s the reason why, according to Jay Leno “ratings” are what counts, according to Conan, life is about way more than that. I agree with Conan, there’s more to life than ratings. There’s kindness and doing the right thing.

Kudos to Jimmy Kimmel for appearing on Leno and “sucker-punching” Leno. Kimmel was straight and to the point and actually said to Jay Leno (and I am paraphrasing) what many of us were feeling. “You had your chance, you had the show for 16 years, it’s just you and Mavis and a lot of cars, you have 18 billion dollars. Conan and I are family guys, we have families. Leave us alone.” Those remarks made a direct hit to our hearts and seemed to bounce off Leno like a boomerang.

After that Jay Leno should have stopped, checked his incredibly large ego at the door and said good-bye to NBC and The Tonight Show. He should have left graciously instead of greedily. He wouldn’t give a little bit and I don’t think he’s the nice guy that he used to appear to be.

Have you learned nothing about the world? How many more billions will make you happier?  Doing the right thing may be very different than doing things for ratings. There’s kindness, there’s being a good man, and then, there’s karma.

I’ll stay with Letterman, who even if he is acerbic, is smart, quick and honest. Jay, I used to like you but I don’t anymore. If I could predict I would say that a lot of people are with me on this. Even when you go back to NBC to the time-slot of your choice, it may feel very, very different  and you deserve whatever you get. And then some.

Political Pop Cop: John and Elizabeth Edwards

1/29/10

Come here John Edwards and your little baby too! Wait. How’s this instead? Come here John Edwards and bring your sex video tape too. Does it sound like the Wicked Witch of the West running after Dorothy and little Toto? Great, it’s supposed to. Herewith are the makings  of a very dirty, dramatic soap opera filled with love triangles, babies out-of-wedlock, political conniving, incurable diseases and a sex tape…..which are unfortunately and undeniably true. Allegedly.

I have to begin by declaring that I never liked John Edwards. I  got bad vibes from him right from the start. It was something about his slick hair and apple-polished face.  I was never a fan and can’t really say why except for something in the guy turned me off, he had a disingenuous feel about him; I didn’t trust him, nothing more, nothing less.  Later this personal  assessment was proven; this asshole decided to run on the Presidential ticket right about the time that his (as we thought then) precious wife was diagnosed with terminable cancer. Is it fair to judge his political expertise on that? No?  Sorry, I did.  The second he didn’t drop out of the Presidential race because his wife had cancer, he was lost to me. Gone. Done. No Do- overs.   I did not want a man to run this country who wouldn’t want to be with his dying wife.  Priorities. Oh, Poor Elizabeth, I tsked. Poor, poor Elizabeth. I truly felt sorry for this remarkable woman whose personal courage resonated in every part of me.  Until….

I read that Elizabeth Edwards and her dear hubby John, both used her illness as STRATEGY for his campaign.  “Let’s use your cancer diagnosis, we’ll get the sympathy vote.”( I’m paraphrasing.) What the hell? They used the “C” word, cancer,  to work for them in his campaign?   That’s low , in my opinion, not to mention tacky and heartless.   It’s enough that I never liked him but now her too? She was pushing for this strategy?  Oh no, tell me she didn’t!

This might be too much for my sensitive  soul to take. I am running on emotional disgust fumes. Don’t like liars. Don’t like manipulators.  On the other hand, I generally don’t like snitches but actually, in this case, I do. The snitches aka best friend and campaign manager, told the public, the truth. (Do I have to say allegedly again?)

I forgave Bill Clinton, I decided his private life  was his business. I wasn’t thrilled when Monica Lewinsky found foster care in  his office but I did not write him off. After all, that is one  intense family and I know there is more to it than meets the eye.  It was not my business (not that this is) and Bill was in office already when his state of “affairs” become more complicated.

John Edwards is now a new baby daddy.  I can even, somewhat remotely, forgive a mistake BUT NOT  this MANY and not with INTENT and MANIPULATION.   He blamed his “fertility” on his friend and supposedly wanted to dupe the public with a fake diaper DNA test. I don’t even know how you can do that!   Who thought up THIS storyline?

Supposedly,  disgustingly, disturbingly,  John Edwards told his lover that once his wife died they would get married and have their own family and that the Dave Matthews band would play at their wedding. Is that even believable?  Really, you can’t get lower than that. Just hearing that makes me crazy and I can’t get rid of the image in my head and I have tried really hard!

John, you blew it, big time.  Elizabeth, I still feel sorry for you that you have cancer but I would feel that way for anyone struggling with that horrid disease.   I read that when Elizabeth Edwards heard about the love child that Johnny  had with his lover “it made her throw up.” After reading about your escapades and writing about them, I know the feeling all too well. Both of you make me want to throw up.

Pop Cop: Heidi Montag

1/24/2010

Heidi WHO?   There has been a lot of media attention about some actress named Heidi and I have no idea why. Her name and tons of photos of her have been shown relentlessly on TV and articles have been written about her in all the gossip rags. Why? Supposedly, this  TV” star”( and I use that term VERY loosely) recently had ten cosmetic surgical procedures done in one day. She’s getting all this media attention for THAT? Now, won’t that certainly assure her of getting her a star on Hollywood Boulevard…..? Not.

Frankly, I don’t give a crap about Heidi Montag and all her surgeries.  The only people who SHOULD be concerned and involved are her mother, husband, best friend and the psychiatrist she apparently really needs to meet.   I could care less whether Heidi Montag or Jane Fame have ten surgeries in a day,  let them have 20 procedures for all I care. Can’t we just keep it under wraps and not give her this shameful publicity?  In my opinion, I think she needs serious psychiatric help instead of  fame.  I read that she was/is on a tv show with some dude, Spencer Pratt. From what I have read, I thinks she is married to him but there’s a bit of controversy regarding that.  Incredible Hall of Fame. Fabulous resume too.

Heidi,  you famous thing. Apparently you are an actress so why don’t we  just put you in the same category of say, the invincible Meryl Streep while we are at it? The difference? Meryl Streep deserves to be famous; Meryl Streep is an unbelievable actress and a true star. A woman I would be honored to meet, an icon.   Heidi -Who, in my opinion should get help for her mind, not her body. Does anyone else hear the word Dysmorphic syndrome?  And, why, why, when girls are just getting exposed (finally) to full-figured models and “real” women are we showcasing this person?  Think, people, think. Do you think it’s a good message?  Right. NO, it isn’t. I’m all for freedom of speech but really?    TMZ,  I actually really like you but come on, even you?

Heidi, and I quote, says that “she feels like plastic”and basically, she is plastic, from top to bottom and ten times over.   She says she is not addicted to plastic surgery, umm, ok if you say so but I beg to differ. If you want to emulate Barbie, fine. Barbie is a GOOD role model compared to you. She has different types of careers and areas of expertise. She can be a veterinarian or a pilot, or a brain surgeon, a mom or an Olympic gold medalist.

Heidi-Who on the other hand? I’ve got it.  She will be a contender for the silver medal in the Nip/Tuck category of the Olympics. For representing a really bad role model to others,  and a disturbing image of herself.