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Inspirational song: Jump (Van Halen)

There is comfort in familiarity. Since I was a young woman, I have never tolerated having blood drawn well. My mother was always one of those regular donors of the best kind of blood, but I didn't inherit her genetics. My husband's veins are so good, he might as well have a permanent tap with one of those cute handles like they have for craft beers. My kids have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about when I say I get dizzy from the slightest blood loss--they take after their father and both grandmothers. I'm not afraid of needles. I went years giving myself daily injections (although I'm super glad I don't do that anymore, and I will never volunteer for it again). I just get sleepy, brainless, and limp after every test. Naps are no longer optional on those days. They are inevitable and involuntary. And today, after trying yet one more time to get the ratio of anti-nuclear antibodies so we can figure out where to start lupus treatment, I barely made it into the house before I started babbling as I kicked off my shoes and dropped my hoodie somewhere on the floor on my way to bed. But while it was nice to know what to expect, it didn't make it any more dignified to feel like a kitten who fell asleep face down in a dish of milk.

I did stuff today. I really did. I even got back into the work groove and took over responsibilities on the back side of the web site, after a week and a half where I wouldn't even log in. But I did very little to spark creativity on my writer's side. I read other people's words. I don't think I have enough of my own. I may have to cut this off here, and show the one family member who showed a bit of initiative today, Mr Murray who pulled himself up onto the top stair once he was removed from his wheelchair. Seems like a lot of work just to go pee on a pair of shoes, but who am I to judge?

Sewn Up

Inspirational song: Murder By Numbers (The Police)

When I was in my mid-twenties, my entire world revolved around designing costumes. I did it day and night, sketching, dreaming, planning. I spent more time looking at people from the neck down than I ever did looking in anyone's eyes. Sure, there was shyness involved, but I was also fascinated by how fabric draped and stretched across human bodies. We went to a touring production of Jesus Christ Superstar, and when members of the cast were in the lobby, raising donations for some cause, I gravitated toward the actor who played King Herod, and I never once looked at his face. I stared at his body, or rather, his costume, which was a completely showy cabaret-type costume, with lots of feathers and assless chaps. What I creep I must have seemed. But I couldn't help myself. I was obsessed with design. My friends and fellow seamstresses and I watched every award show "together" (in front of our own TVs, connected by the telephone throughout), critiquing every gown, every nominated costume designer's work. We watched skating competitions the same way, for the same reasons. I'm watching the Oscars as I write, missing my designing women as I do every time I see these shows now. You can bet that when the costume award was announced, my typing fingers were still, while I stared unblinkingly at the television. My purest joy when I go to movies is still and always has been the ability to see costumes on a larger-than-life screen, so they are big enough and clear enough to see each seam, study each fabric for texture and fiber composition, deduce construction techniques in every dart and pleat. I burned out on the act of sewing decades ago, but I do not believe I will ever lose the obsession with fabric and design.

I tested my physical progress again today. This time when I took my gentle walk to the end of the block, I went without any sort of cane or walking stick. I was all the way back to the house next door before any real soreness set in. It was a preview of how well I would endure my plans for today. I was fortunate that my dear friend who had invited me to see a touring production of A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder happened to need to postpone our date by one week. She and her daughter were under the weather, so she changed our tickets from Sunday the 21st to today. I didn't have to miss it for being in the hospital. (I wasn't fortunate that any of us were sick, to be clear, just the timing of it.) I knew sitting in the theater in Denver for nearly three hours was going to be difficult, but there was no way I was going to miss it. I'm glad I took the chance. The production was marvelous. It was hilarious, well-written, well-acted, and beautifully sung and choreographed. I love my friend so much for taking me. After the week I've had... After the month I've had, I needed this escapism so much.

And to be certain, I spent the entire two and a half hours of the show enraptured by the costumes. It was set in the early 1900s, and the clothes were heavenly. The primary love interest of the lead character had the most lush, feminine dresses. She wore a lot of pink, a lot of ruffles and peplums, and near the end, she had the most marvelous jewel-encrusted evening gown that sparkled in the stage lights. But for practicality's sake, what I really want to copy are the long, dark, pleated skirts that were worn by the supporting characters, like the house servants and funeral attendees. I wonder whether I could pull off that look. Might be fun to try.

No BLTs

Inspirational song: Walk of Life (Dire Straits)

So, want the good news? I do not qualify as an invalid or a shut-in. Woohoo!

It's not like this was really a surprise. I knew every day I was getting a little stronger, and that by the time the home health care nurse arrived today, she wasn't going to tell me that I'm the perfect candidate for physical therapy out of my home. My doctor told me yesterday that she would prefer I do it that way, because of the whole "avoid fluorescent lights at all costs" thing, but there are rules that these companies have to follow to qualify for Medicare and Medicaid, and apparently a woman who is only supposed to avoid UV light doesn't meet those criteria. I'm totally fine with this. I was just following the doctor's orders, and letting the home health nurse come evaluate me as a formality. She was a terrific lady, and she stayed at least an hour longer than she had planned, because she was very conscientious and helpful. I never tried to scam her, never lied about the level of movement I've achieved over the past week, and never faked a spasm when one wasn't really happening (and there was only one really bad one the whole time she was here). I was upfront and said I didn't think I counted as a shut-in, not even a little bit. So she gave me a full evaluation, looked at every room where I hang out, watched me walk, sit, stand, and even had me demonstrate how I've been getting in and out of bed. She gave me a couple stretches she wants me to do, and she repeated what the hospital physical therapist cautioned against, that I am not allowed to do "BLTs," or bending, lifting, or twisting. Until I get a green light, I'm not even allowed to load or unload the dishwasher. I can't lift anything over 10 or 15 pounds, and so far I've barely managed maybe 10. This means the only animal I can truly cuddle is Athena, because everyone else is too heavy for me to lift. Not to worry, though. Rabbit and Alfred have been more than happy to come to me (and sleep on my legs, pinning me down). Jackie seems to be content with me whispering sweet nothings to her from across a room. I think she understands.

I asked about what sorts of activities and exercises beyond the basic lie-on-your-back stretches she thinks I should be doing, and she said walking is the absolute best. How convenient that it is the things that feels the best for me, produces the least amount of pain of everything (even better than sitting, standing, or lying down), and gets me a change of scenery to keep my spirits up. So after she left, I asked the Mr to accompany me on a slow shamble down to the corner of the block and back. I relied a bit on my new cane, but I'm still working on coordination with that. I mostly just use it to get out of chairs and steady me when I stand those first twenty seconds anyway. We talked to a family clearing out the house of our neighbor a couple doors down, and learned that he passed away two weeks ago. This was the guy who had Christmas lights on his lawn year round, who had a garage sale the same day we attended an open house at the place we ultimately purchased. We bought a rock bar from him, and it has come in frighteningly handy while the Mr had to break up the concrete footing that was underneath the entire chain link fence we replaced. It's sad to think of that guy as gone. This block of late 50s/early 60s ranch houses was all original occupants for decades, and over the last ten or fifteen years, it has been replaced with new residents, several in the last year alone.

The home health nurse also had 26 pages of notes from my hospital stay, and I got to read the text that accompanied the MRI (although I didn't see the film itself). They said from my L2 to my SI showed noticeable spondylosis, which I now know relates to the little bone spurs that were the first sign of arthritis I was warned of in the late 90s after a car wreck. And remember how before the lupus diagnosis I kept saying there had to be something wrong with the discs to make this hurt this badly for this long? Yes. All of those discs show degeneration, and the L2-L3 and L3-L4 are definitely bulging out one side. Nothing calls for surgery (whew), but I knew this was more than just a pinched nerve. So from now on, I don't ever have to feel obligated to do high-impact exercise, pretty much forever. I asked whether I was still allowed water aerobics for when I feel up to cardio, and she said that would be perfect. Now, I need to figure out where to go for them, and how to pay for them. Anyone know a friend interested in buying or selling real estate so I can get back to work? No, really.

That's What She Said

Inspirational song: Golden Years (David Bowie)

I used "Mother's Little Helper" as my daily song too recently to repeat it today, but can I just stress the most memorable lyric from that song? What a drag it is getting old. We were at the grocery store today, getting a bucketful of supplements that my doc told me she wanted me on immediately. I used one of those stubby little two-tiered shopping carts today, and my reusable bags and purse took up a third of the top basket. Yet still, the pile of pills, daily pill organizer, and sapphire blue cane I bought (okay, plus some frijoles, veggies, and cheese for naked burritos) that filled the other two thirds of the basket, added up to over a hundred bucks even after the discount for my loyalty card for this grocery store. I felt old and broke all at the same time. Four years ago I was disgusted by how many drugs I was on, from the prescription allergy meds that are now available OTC, to the daily diabetes meds I was on to aggressively treat my polycystic ovaries, and the frequently needed powerful drugs I was prescribed to handle my weekly migraines. I felt like I was way too young to be on that many medications. It pissed me off. So I went cold turkey off of everything. I went months without taking anything at all and reset all of my tolerances, so that when I had a headache months later, a single Tylenol was enough to knock it down. I felt free for the first time in years, but I paid for my rebellion. I gained about forty pounds over the two years that followed. I don't dare guess whether my avoidance of all drugs, even supplements and probiotics, led to my intractable intestinal infection that was so charmingly called "smoldering diverticulitis." But here I am, only a few years later, parceling out handfuls of supplements into a daily pill reminder. I feel old.

My doctor visit this morning was a little unsatisfying. I felt a lot of that "you listen to me but I won't listen to you even when you're answering my question" that pisses me off about MDs. I kept my cool, but inside I was fuming. And still the blood results are not what she needs to start the next phase of treatment. We re-ran the ANA panel, and it once again came back "positive" rather than providing the titers that tell us exactly how advanced and severe my disease is. This is the difference between treating with anti-malarial drugs (which frightens me a little, with my allergy to Cipro and Levaquin -- I'm deathly afraid of anything chemically related and I don't know whether the -quin part is the same as the quinine in anti-malarials) and treating with immunosuppressants or corticosteroids. So I have to go back to that same lab in Boulder one more time. I don't know that I have a good vein left after the hospital stay. This is going to blow.

We also talked about the physical therapy today. I was approved for home health care, but I told them I'd be good on an outpatient basis. So I told the doc this. She scolded me. She asked me what sort of lights I have in my house. (LED) Then she said what sort of lights do I suppose the physical therapy clinics have. (Fluorescent) I'm supposed to be very careful about the light I expose myself to. I had to call back the in-home company, and say I would try it after all. So then we had the talk about whether I'm allowed to have it at all, if I'm not a home-bound invalid. Apparently I can go to doctor's appointments and the grocery store, but if they find out I'm going clubbing then I'd be in big trouble. Good thing I don't ever go dancing, I guess. But what about sitting at lunch for Rotary? Is that allowed? So I also had a talk with the outpatient folks, just in case. Will know soon who I work with and when. It's all so confusing, and I feel too old to sort this out.

Tangible Progress

Inspirational song: A Little Good News (Anne Murray)

I had a wonderful day today. No I was not entirely pain free, but compared to the weekend, I might as well have been. I have this all figured out. I get out of bed in five minutes or less, with only trivial pain. If I don't sit for too long, I can stand up out of chairs in even less time, with only slightly more pain. And even better, I've backed off on how many pain pills I take already. I think I had a total of four all day. I'll probably take one more right before I crawl in bed, and I have every reason to believe that it will be enough to get me through the whole night. My goal is to be taking no more than one half pill at a time by the end of the weekend.

The very nice lady who handles the arrangements for home health care for one of the companies in town called me today to follow up and keep working for my case. She had visited me right before I was discharged from the hospital, and then she called yesterday at home to say that her company wasn't in my insurance network. So she worked to put me in touch with someone else who was. That company said I was approved, but by the time I talked to them this morning, I felt like I was already beyond needing physical therapy in my own house. We agreed to put my approval on a pending status, just in case something backslides, but the first lady and I will be working to find me an outpatient clinic for physical therapy. It was exactly the progress I hoped to make.

I see regular doc tomorrow morning, for the first time since the crisis Friday night. I'll give a full report of that when it's done.

And can I brag one more time about what a terrific boss I have? I wasn't physically up to driving 45 minutes into the office this morning, for my weekly mentoring meeting. So I was allowed to call in and participate in the meeting via speakerphone, and I never once felt like I was a disappointment to him for needing the extra accommodation. I am a very lucky woman. And I'm excited about being able to get back to work very soon.

I feel like of all the members of the animal kingdom living in this house, the one who gets the least screen time is Accidental Agnes the Adventurous Anole. So I took several portraits of her this week, while she cleverly hid behind her plant and stared down the fluffy cat on her hot tin roof. No, Athena, you are not allowed to kill and eat Agnes.

Baby Steps

Inspirational song: This Is It (One Day at a Time theme)

My first night home was like living in a horror movie. I couldn't get out of bed, I couldn't get out of chairs. I couldn't get comfortable. I will never again scoff at the television commercials for people who suffer from opioid constipation. I owe my husband a serious boon for everything he had to do to take care of me overnight, especially when my screaming woke him up at 2 this morning. He's been really good to me today also, even in between all the hard work he put in building another stretch of raised garden beds on the north side of the lawn. I am taking nothing for granted, and he deserves a public thanks for keeping a good attitude through all of this.

Somewhere around 4 am Saturday, the ER staff gave me three prednisone pills. That was the last time I received anything I recognized for inflammation the entire time I was hospitalized. I can't express how shocking I find this. It seemed pretty obvious to me that massive inflammation was the big thing keeping me from feeling better, in the face of powerful narcotic painkillers and muscle relaxants. When I came home last night, I started back up on my twice daily prescription NSAIDs. By tonight, an hour or so after the third pill, I started thinking that I was feeling less pain when I was stationary. Movement still sucks, but I am finding it much easier to sit in a chair. Perhaps it wasn't wise that I sat in a rocking chair watching a very exciting basketball game, trying to celebrate without waving my arms and pumping my fists when CU knocked off 9th-ranked Arizona, but my little jolts of pain were short-lived. I have made a point of pushing myself up every hour, no matter how stiff I am, and walking around the house. I've even added a trip up and down the stairs to most promenades. I see very real progress.

After the unrepeatably terrible experiences I had overnight, I think I have found the correct method to get out of my overly tall bed. I roll onto my stomach, gently lower one leg down to the floor at a time, and then do a push-up until my legs can take over and hold me up. My rising time has shortened from 20-45 minutes, down to about 5. I'm feeling so confident that I emailed the woman who was working to get home health care approved through my insurance (there was one failure for a clinic being out of network), and suggested I may be able to go just to outpatient physical therapy. I don't know whether clinics around here have any sort of hydrotherapy, where I could be in a pool to gain strength without having to hold up my entire body weight against gravity, but I did ask about it. Who knows, maybe it exists but needs a specific prescription to get it. At least this way I've planted the idea.

I wonder whether it is the drugs making me feel so hopeful and confident. Am I foolish for having this much optimism? Is it just because I got to be surrounded by my family that I feel stronger and braver? I'm so tired of hurting. I am going to put all my effort into going forward, and trying to avoid setbacks. But I'm not so stupid that I won't take it one day at a time. Anything could happen tomorrow.

Comforts of Home

Inspirational song: The Longest Time (Billy Joel)

I was sprung from the joint this afternoon. I don't know that I'm ready to be an independent adult or anything, but I'm definitely ready not to be lying in a narrow bed with a mind of its own (will explain) and under the care of very nice people who liked to wake me up every two hours. I had all the tests they were going to give me, and we learned a little. The good thing was there's no scary words to discuss like "mass" or anything stupid. But the bad news is it appears to be really just massive inflammation from arthritis, and there's nothing that can be done in a hospital except pump me so full of narcotics I may never poop normally again. (Don't ask. No really, DO NOT ASK.) So I'm home now, using the cute little walking stick I gave the Mr as a present to use on the way to his mining claim, and being on the receiving end of angry feline glares, as they accuse me of the worst sort of betrayal (disappearing for four days, and not feeding them meals plus "sprinkles"--which is little handfuls of six or seven kibbles which stop them from nagging me about empty bellies). I slept in my own bed for a couple hours, which was nice, but getting out of it was a whole new trick. The hospital bed was adjustable in ways that helped pick me up when I needed it, and in ways that annoyed the snot out of me as the mattress inflated randomly every time I shifted in the bed. My own bed is much taller than the average height they allowed me to keep my hospital bed. I need more chances to try it, but I think the height will be to my advantage when I roll out. Getting out of low chairs is pretty rough too. It will all take practice, and I won't predict how long it will take to get easy.

It's possible I may have significant help getting the practice I need getting around the house. When I left today, the discharge administrator (I forget her title) was in the process of finding out whether my insurance covers home visits by physical therapists. I don't expect to need them forever, but it sure would be nice to have someone work with me here for the first week or two, until getting into a car is easier to go to a physical therapy gym. We made sure we told everyone associated with this decision not to send any therapists who are allergic to cats. I can guarantee the little furballs will be in the way.

This has been an extremely tiring experience, all to learn that I probably just have an extreme lupus flare aggravating my athritic back. I'm terrified to learn what my copay for all of this will be. Before the man retired, I had no copays whatsoever. A year ago, I had that week-long stay in the hospital for the biggest surgery of my life, and I never once saw a bill. The only out of pocket expense I had was the nominal payment to the Publix pharmacy for antibiotics I took the day before I went in. This is going to be a whole different world. And here I am still without a solid real estate client to provide income. Hoo-freaking-ray. On that note, I'm going to move the white cat pressing against me with all her might, purring because her mommy is finally home, and I'm going to bed. Maybe things will look brighter tomorrow.

Who Knows

Inspirational song: Question (Moody Blues)

Yeah, I'm still here, in the same room, with the same IV port in my hand, with all the same back spasms that brought me here Friday night. We really have no idea what set it off. I've had a set of x-rays that showed nothing indicative. Today I was referred to a neurologist who had the best conversation with me to date (as opposed to 30 seconds of face time with an MD who read his phone half the time, both times). I had to be transferred via backboard to the gurney and then MRI table. For the record, that does not prevent sudden, horrible back spasms. And it's probably a good thing I opted to have my eyes covered in the machine. It was a tight fit, and when I brushed my arm against it going in, I wasn't sure I was getting back out again.

Mr S-P waited and waited with me to hear results. He has been the patient advocate I needed. But he didn't arrive in this room for the first time until 1 this morning, just long enough to grab my car keys and the computer I'd had with me when I arrived. He needed bed then, and by mid day today he needed a nap. He decided to risk it and head home for a little sleep, saying the doc would probably come in as soon as he left. I swear to you, his elevator hadn't reached the ground floor when the neurologist came in with test results. Of course that was the case.

The MRI didn't show us anything startling either. There were obvious signs of arthritis, and what I have been told is a normal level of bulging disc action. I really had hoped that if there was muscular damage, it would be clearly evident. No such luck.

So we are left thinking this is really just the inflammation associated with a lupus flare. If this is what my future holds, I make this sweeping decision right now: I will take whatever meds it takes to get rid of this. I have been a huge advocate for healing primarily through diet and lifestyle changes for years. But if I'm facing this kind of pain two to three years into a fantastic, whole food, clean diet, then there is no way I want to face this disease without help. I find myself watching ads for Humira or Enbrel, or all these other drugs I ignored or scoffed at previously, and now I wonder which sort of drug will be prescribed to me.

I am emotionally ready to go home. Physically it will be a monumental challenge, but I don't feel like I'm getting anything here I can't get there. The discharge nurse is working on finding out whether my insurance covers in home physical therapy, and if it does, I would much rather be in my own bed, surrounded by purring cats. No more hospital food. No more self-adjusting beds. Hope for me that I get sprung tomorrow. I'm ready.

Up and Down

Inspirational song: Spinning Wheel (Blood Sweat & Tears)

It has been a roller coaster of a day. My highs were high, my lows abysmally low. My pain levels have been all over the place, from many of the top of the pain chart, back arching muscle seizures, to "If I stay in this position and don't breathe" relaxing poses. I never know what to expect minute to minute. The simplest things cause spasms, like dipping my chin down an inch so I can reach my face to scratch it. But by the same token, this evening I got myself out of bed with only modest effort, and while I was up and standing in the comforting arms of my walker, I rang for a nurse's assistant to escort me on a tour of the premises. By the time I returned I was tired, needing a session with an ice pack and my nightly valium. I can't tell which direction I'm going, forward progress or setbacks.

I had more pleasant company this afternoon, plus some phone calls to family. I felt more connected than ever before when I was in the hospital. Yet still the Mr faces delays getting home, so I don't know whether he will come see me when he hits town or not. I hope he does. The nursing staff here continues to be excellent, but I haven't felt like my case is interesting enough to the MDs. Once ortho saw the x-ray was clear, he signed off and lost interest. The hospitalist breezed in today and repeated last night's ER threat of nursing home for physical therapy. I asked about an MRI and got blown off. I have asked Mr S-P to be my patient advocate, because I'm feeling like no one believes me when I say for myself that this is not normal pain. I'd rather find out what the actual injury is, and then set about fixing it, rather than just sending me down a typical back pain care routine, of telling me to lie on my back, stretch my knees to my chest, and do a few bridges until I stop bothering the busy people. (For the record, I am absolutely unable to do either move, not even if I tried to power through the pain.)

I did have a pleasant meeting with a physical therapist this afternoon, but mostly because I had taken norcos and gotten into a sitting position ahead of time so I was limbered up and ready to shuffle down the hall. I was exhausted and sore by the time she set me back on ice, and now the norcos wore off and I'm starting to cramp again. The shampoo from my shower today is making my scalp itch (yay allergies), and as I write, every time I reach up to scratch, my back spasms. I can't win.

I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I think it's time to let the valium do its job and lull me to sleep. I tried coloring in the book my sister-in-law brought today, but I can barely focus my eyes. Boy, I'd like to be able to stop the meds and fix the problem rather than masking it.

When Does the Pain Relief Happen?

Inspirational song: With a Little Help from My Friends (The Beatles)

When we first moved out here, I had a lot of trouble just sliding back into my old relationships from twenty years ago. I'm not the same person I was, and I know a lot of those old circles of friends have grown and changed in ways I'll never relate to. So I was hesitant to assume that I'd be welcomed back with open arms. A few people have reconnected, but not many. Last night was the first real chance I had to meet up with a couple who have been dear friends since I was pregnant the second time, who I've seen a few times since we moved away, but not since we came home last summer. Even though I could tell over the course of the day that my back was deteriorating, I sucked it up and climbed in the car, despite the increased pain, so that I could finally spend a night draining a couple of bottles of wine with some of the most creative and fun people I know. Once I found a place to park, I had to text them and say I'd come inside as soon as I could force my body to let me out of the car. Halfway down the block to their house, I took a long stride from asphalt to curb, and nearly fainted from the sudden cramp in my hip. Over the course of the night, I kept sliding on the couch, as my body curled backwards and to the left, away from the hip that hurt so much. By the time I needed an intermission from the movie we watched, I needed both friends to help me stand and step mincingly toward the powder room. At the end of the night, no amount of self-medication could control the muscle spasms, and I had to ask my friends to help me back homeward. The wife drove me in her little truck while the husband followed in my car. We hadn't made it to the edge of town before I admitted to myself I couldn't go home. They brought me to the emergency room in my hometown hospital instead. It was absolutely the right decision.

I lay on a hard gurney in a private cubicle in the ER until 3 am, about 2 1/2 hours after I was put in it, until they finally arrived with meds. Injections of fentanyl and valium went in first, stinging the crap out of my hand where the port was, then a bag of saline was connected. I drifted off into an uneasy sleep for all of 15 minutes, until the nurse call button fell off of my bed, waking me as it clattered to the floor. I spent the next hour and a bit arched in pain, tears clouding my glasses, wondering how long it would take for someone to check on me. I was absolutely unable to roll over on the gurney, or even straighten up on it so my arms had equal space to rest, so there was no way I could hop down to retrieve the button to call for help. It was an awful experience.

Sometime after 4 this morning, some employee of the ER (doc, nurse, intern, dominatrix...) came in to evaluate me, and was utterly dismissive of my suffering. I'd explained to everyone that this was a 10+ on the pain scale, and no, I was not able to roll over to stand up and use the potty chair I'd needed and failed to access. I'd even had more meds, this time injections of toradol and something (maybe percocet?), plus oral prednisone, and still there was zero pain mitigation. The nurse/doc/person who spoke to me said that her only job was to evaluate whether my situation was emergent, and if I couldn't get up and walk, they could transfer me to a nursing home for physical therapy. She said this twice. Was it supposed to be a threat to get me to jump up and say, "Ha-ha. I was just kidding. I was only here seeking access to drugs."? Eventually she said the other option was to admit me for intractable pain, which was obviously the correct solution. A nursing home? What the hell was that about?

Around 530 this morning, a much friendlier and less stressed out team took over my care, as I transferred from the ground floor to the top of the building. I was finally able to get up for the first time in 6 hours to pee and climb into a softer, wider bed. I've been on different meds, all pills this time, that don't fade in 15 minutes. I learned this afternoon that oral valium stays in the system long enough to help me get in and out of beds, chairs, and wheelchairs, although not without effort. My x-ray showed nothing of value, and I apparently have to wait several more hours waiting for a month-long, exponentially worsening pain to magically stop before we decide it won't and I qualify for an MRI. Perhaps that will come in the middle of the night.

In the meantime, my daughter went to the house to let out the dogs who had been locked up for 18 hours, feed all the Smith Park ani-mules, pack me a change of clothes, and bring a goodie bag of snacks. This kid knows how to take care of an elderly patient, I tell you what. This afternoon, I had a party in my room, with my sister-in-law and brother-in-law, my favorite padre and his wife, and rotating cameos by half the nursing staff on this floor. I got tulips from my sister-in-law, a rare treat for me (seriously I am the person who most wants flowers in the hospital, and I think this is the third time ever I got them, counting surgeries, births, and illnesses). My padre volunteered not only to pick up Mr S-P from the airport tomorrow night, he also risked his health (cat allergies) to go feed the mules their dinner.

Between my friends who rushed me to the ER last night, and the collection of friends and family who visited me today, this has been the best major medical experience I've ever had. Two days ago I felt very alone. Today I feel supported by friends and family. The pain in my ass isn't going away, but the loneliness in my heart is.

Ow

Inspirational song: It's Too Late (Carole King)

Not the blog I intended to write tonight. Had a few glasses of wine with some dear friends, and now I'm on the way to the hospital. My back has ceased playing nice. Friends had to help me off the couch and one is driving me, the other is transporting my car. I'm so glad I wasn't with strangers or alone tonight.

So, which of my local friends feels like taking care of a paraplegic dog on Saturday? Anyone?

Out of the Frying Pan

Inspirational song: Fire On High (Electric Light Orchestra)

It was an unpleasant way to wake up. I was sleeping on my side, like the doc insisted that I do (going so far as suggesting I always wear my hair in a braid or sew a button on the back of my shirt to keep me from rolling over). I was pulled out of a deep sleep by the feeling that my hip and top of my thigh on the left side (the one I was lying on) were on fire. Like I'd been moved in my sleep, and left on top of the stove while it was on high. I tried to pretend it was okay. That lasted about 15 minutes. Then I struggled to lie on my back, and it continued to burn away for another 15. Finally, after deciding that lying on my right side wasn't helping either, I pushed myself out of bed at about 0520, and went rummaging for an ice pack. I lay awake with it pressed against me for hours, but by 0730, I had to admit to myself that I wasn't going to make it to the office today. No way was I going to be able to drive a car for an hour, and then climb the stairs to meet with everyone for mentoring afterwards. I emailed the boss with my regrets.

I accomplished almost nothing today while I waited to see where this new flare of pain was going to go. I didn't have to retrace my steps very far to figure out what might have set this off. My doc is on the progressive edge of lupus maintenance, and she insisted on a gluten-free diet early in the conversation when she presented my diagnosis, including avoiding foods labeled gluten-free. Yesterday I had calculated that this whole episode started two days after I stole french fries off of the Mr's plate at a restaurant, and either from the fry oil or crumbs dripped off of his sandwich, I got a glancing accidental glutening. I had made progress for a while, but this week has been bad all over again. Sunday we went out for brunch and I got a gluten-free waffle, probably made with rice flour. Last night I went out for a drink with a new friend, and ate a handful of corn tortilla chips so that my glass of wine didn't go to my head. I've seen suggestions that the zein protein in corn is similar enough to gluten to set off an autoimmune flare. If it was my culprit this morning, then man, does it do its damage quickly. It wasn't even 12 hours later, but then, I was already in the middle of one episode and it just made it worse. If it was the rice from Sunday, it took a lot longer than I would have thought. And if it turns out I'm off base and it was the wine, then crap. I thought I could still get away with wine.

Still no blood test results from the second round given on Tuesday. I think the earliest I could expect to see them would be late Friday, but I'm not going to hold my breath and imagine I'll have word before Tuesday next week. I am of two minds. I want to go ahead and get on some sort of hardcore meds that will knock down this flare and stop the hurting, but I'm so afraid of getting prednisone and its accompanying side effects that I don't want to ask to start any new drugs without the doctor knowing exactly where we should begin. So I end another day in limbo.

And now... a cat in a bag.

Information Overload

Inspirational song: Carry On (Fun)

I never thought I'd get to the point where I spent too much time reminiscing about my past to be able to pick out just one or two stories to blog about. Now that I've had a chance to spend a few hours with my daughter, and bounce topic to topic, we covered everything to do with my new reality, and now I'm worn out. I am in life-review overload. I'm exhausted and my ears are ringing (but then, they do that every day... this just feels like I spent too much time talking and listening). The upside is that this child totally gets it. She understands everything I said in words, and all the things I couldn't properly verbalize as well. She and I spoke in our own special shorthand and covered it all. The downside is that at the end of it, I'm worried that she may have to be tested for lupus as well someday. At least if she finds herself going through some of the same physical crises that I did, she will have an understanding and a vocabulary to ask her doctor for help, something I never had. If she does develop this, she won't have to wait two and a half decades for someone to address it.

I had just planned on having breakfast with her and her boyfriend, but I found myself kidnapping her to go hat shopping afterwards. I've been told to cover up in the sun, under long sleeves, sunglasses, sunscreen, and hats. I tried going around in baseball caps the last couple days, and I just can't pull off the look. I needed a big, floppy, Southern lady kind of hat. My daughter helped me find the perfect one. Then she put on a black hat just like the one I chose, and quoted the movie Shock Treatment at me: "I've just come to tell you how fabulous I am." Indeed. At that point I kind of agreed with her.

Winter weather stalled our fence-building for months, but now that the weather has been warm and gorgeous, and the ground is starting to thaw, progress is once again being made. And this time, I didn't have to do a blessed thing to help. I wasn't expected to hold boards, carry pickets, or really even show up. I brought the man a box of screws that we bought at Lowe's yesterday, and that's it. I got off easy because my hips are still hurting, and he worked himself down to a nub, and then went and got a massage (that he more than earned). By the end of the day tomorrow, the fence will be complete, and that kitty boy will finally be allowed to run and play and chase birds again. He has been screaming at the door at the injustice of being trapped in the house while the perimeter defenses were breached, but not for much longer. Soon the dogs will no longer have a clear view of all the goings-on in the alley and in neighbors' back yards. We may finally have peace--or at least less barking and meowing. We will be one step closer to turning a plain back yard into a garden paradise worthy of the title Smith Park. Progress is progress. Carry on, Mr Smith.

Prompted

Inspirational song: Romeo and Juliet (Dire Straits)

I'm curious. If you were told that your partner had a serious disease that you knew almost nothing about, would you do maybe five minutes of internet research? I've asked three times now for a certain someone to educate himself on it, and still he resists. He was the first one to treat me like I was being an attention-seeking drama queen (those are my words) for the last two and a half decades. Why would I imagine he would respond when prompted to read about this? After two years he still refuses to take my gluten-free/grain-free needs seriously enough to legitimize them by reading a single sentence on the subject. He looks away and closes his mind when I speak something on the subject out loud.

Can you tell that I've had to go through emotional stages with this just like one does with grief? I keep flashing back to anger, and there's almost no one who hasn't been the target of my resentment over the last five days. I can think of two or at most three people who believed me all along. Trust me, I know exactly who they are.

I never felt like being around people today, but I forced myself to do it. I had to have labs run (and I had to call and ask to have my orders faxed to the lab, because again they couldn't find them in the computer). It was a Rotary day, and for all that I was tired and weak from blood draws, I enjoyed my lunch there very much. I made myself go to the local pharmacy when I failed yet again to nap (almost forgot I was supposed to be on mega doses of Vitamin D now). And then I refused to let myself skip out on the writers group tonight. I had challenged myself to do something absolutely new for tonight. We were all supposed to write to the prompt "A Simple Plan." I have not attempted to write poetry since somewhere during the Reagan administration, I'm pretty sure. To see whether I was capable, I made myself write my first sonnet since we were assigned them in 10th grade or so. It was difficult AF. I struggled with it for three days, but I did it in time. I printed it out for people to see the visual pun, and I stood and read it aloud (the only words I spoke all night--I was too tired for anything else). It was silly and contrived and awkward, and I really enjoyed the challenge. I don't know whether I will ever try it again. I will put the full poem here following this morning's photo from on the way to the lab.

No matter what the other kids may do

Or how much extra work I force on me

This art is all I have to offer you

Although I wish I’d choose something easy

Simplification turns my heart stone cold

I must embellish what I do and say

My foolish notions push me to be bold

Poetic aspirations win the day

Leave off the fear that I can only fail

Embrace dangerous rhymes in quatrains three

Plod most inelegantly down this trail

Love what I’ve done in its grotesque beauty

Anne had no skill for a poetic verse

Now her first sonnet’s done; it could be worse

Just Go to Bed

Inspirational song: Heart of Glass (Blondie)

How stupid do you have to be to pass up the opportunity to take a nap when you've been ordered to do it every single day? It has been four days since the doctor told me to get a solid nap every day, and I have only succeeded fifty percent of the time. I moved very slowly all day, but when it came to closing my eyes, I could never quite manage it. I was lying in bed texting, playing with Athena and Rabbit, and cringing every time I moved even slightly. Three and a half weeks now, still no real relief for the pain in my hip. I haven't been prescribed any of the hardcore immunosuppressants yet. It's possible that I will have to wait until then to knock out the rest of this pain and lethargy.

Today brought in a new symptom, that is really an old one. I had a lot of tightness in my chest that just doesn't want to go away. It isn't alarming pain, just heaviness that makes it uncomfortable to lie on my side (yet another reason my nap was a fail today). I remember being a teenager and hearing one of my classmates complain of her "pleurisy," and for a few years, all of us girls would copy her terminology every time we had a stitch in our sides from exercise, less than optimal breathing from a respiratory infection, or any other random feeling in our lungs. After a while I started thinking of it as one of those things that young kids think they have to sound dramatic or to get attention, kind of like that phase when every kid thinks they have scoliosis because they checked for it once in grade school. Now here I am with a new diagnosis of a disease that actually uses that word to describe one of the symptoms. I'm having a hard time reassessing the idea, and wondering whether I should go back and apply it to all those times when I did have trouble breathing, from tightness or heaviness in my lungs. Maybe I should stop thinking we were just being junior drama queens back then. There is so much I have to rethink now.

I'll be going to give more blood tomorrow, for those follow up tests. There are a couple things that have to be ruled out as well as markers that must be quantified. I learned today that if an active flare up is not happening, then these markers may not show up at all. So I guess it's a good thing I still feel so crappy. That stuff must still be in my blood, right?

I am ready to go ahead and start the medications, but I understand my doctor's caution. She doesn't want to put me on any of these rough drugs if it turns out I'm only in "pre-lupus," or if last week's results showed a false positive. I can agree with that. But after I've had all these days to review and put fresh eyes on my life, I seriously doubt that I'll get a report of false positive. I allow that it's possible, but highly unlikely.

Permission Slip

Inspirational song: Do You Feel Like I Do? (Peter Frampton)

I'm still sorting through my life, still piecing together things that should have been red flags. I never would have guessed I had lupus in a million years. It was all there, if I had known what to look for. Even with the lab work printed out in front of me last week, I didn't know what it all meant. This isn't something most of us are trained to recognize. People don't talk about the symptoms and signs. Almost everyone I have told has empathized, and several people said they have an uncle, or a mother-in-law, or a nephew with it. But the statistics I found yesterday said that there are (at least) a million and a half people in the US with lupus, five million worldwide. Five million out of seven billion is a remarkably small number. What a lottery to win, eh?

Ten years ago, I was working as a contractor on a remote army post in California. I was an education counselor, helping soldiers with their tuition assistance. The education services officer (a civil service position) and the secretary for one of the universities at our education center and I were thick as thieves. We went to lunch together nearly every single workday, over at the dining facility that was open to civilian workers as well as soldiers. These ladies insisted that we should walk to the DFAC every day that it was possible rather than driving the not-quite-one mile. It wasn't like the air conditioning would have cooled off our cars in that distance anyway. Where this post was located was in the heart of the Mojave desert, closer to Death Valley than a city of any size. All summer long, we walked in the blazing sun, even when the noontime temps were over 115 degrees Fahrenheit. I didn't complain about the sun and heat every day; I just did it often enough that they knew where I stood on the subject. But I felt the burn every single step and I hated it. Now that I look back, I understand why those walks were so particularly dreadful to me, and why my two BFFs thought I was being such a whiner. They honestly did not know it was so painful for me to be in that bright light. My family were equally in the dark (pun intended) about how living in that desert affected me. They thought my bad attitude about the place was just because I was an unpleasant person. Not one of us legitimized how it was physically affecting me--not even me.

Somewhere in the last 72 hours, I have finally accepted that this is real, and after all this time, for the first time, I have given myself permission to feel. I have been in denial since I first got pregnant with my older daughter, and fought anemia and fatigue that overwhelmed me. (Even my great-aunt fitness-shamed me when I was pregnant, and tried to walk around Wintersmith Park lake with her, and I couldn't keep up with a 70 year old woman to save my life.) It was in the months immediately following the first birth that my body started to turn against me, but it wasn't until the second pregnancy that open war was declared. I can remember sitting on my brother-in-law's couch while pregnant the second time, feeling like I was melting into it, having shock waves of pain each time the rambunctious nieces and nephews bounced into the couch and shook me slightly. In the intervening two and a half decades, I have felt that lethargy and desperation thousands of times, but always had to pretend that it was all in my mind. I had to smile and help people at work when all I wanted to do was go home and lie on the couch, curled up around a soft cat or two. Today the Oatmeal (the brilliant web comic) posted a drawing illustrating the truism "Sometimes the ones who smile the most are the most broken," and it was spot on in artistic expression. But this weekend, I finally allowed myself to embrace how I am really feeling, and stop lying to myself. Now I can catalog it, and I notice the bad taste in my mouth, the continuing feeling of having a slight fever (even though it is no higher than most people think is "normal"), the frequent low-grade nausea, the persistent fatigue, the aches and pains. I am in danger of wallowing in it, but after all this time, I think I earned the right to feel like I do.

And, just because it was the day for it, there's this:

It All Makes So Much Sense Now

Inspirational song: I Can See Clearly Now (Johnny Nash)

My very first open house was today, and while it was not a mad crush, it was definitely worth my time and effort. I had a few lookie-loos, and a couple people who were seriously looking for places and who paid close attention to the details on my business cards. All morning it was foggy and a little bit chilly, as I set out the signs and the big feather flag advertising the open house, and did a little prep work inside. Right at noon, right as my official hours started, the fog bank cleared, and you could see all the way to the snow-capped mountains. It was terrific. I loved holding the house open, getting to talk to people who wanted to have a conversation about real estate. I will be looking for opportunities to do this again, in the very near future.

It did wear me out, standing for three hours, and then rushing to gather all of my supplies before racing back to town for my massage that I couldn't postpone. It took the first half hour I was there for my muscles to calm down enough to work on. The good news was that my therapist has experience working on people who have lupus, and he was very sensitive to how I was reacting to everything during this flare-up. I was quite pleased to tell him that I have doctor's orders to come see him as often as I can afford. Now if the above-mentioned house hunters actually call me and hire me, I will be able to afford to see ol' Slow Hand at least twice a month for a while. Just like last time I saw him, he told me amazingly cool stories from his lifetime, but unfortunately for me I was so exhausted before, during, and after my session, I've forgotten all of them, even the one I said "I'd love to use that in a work of fiction" about.

Ever since that first googling session Wednesday night, I'm learning a lot about what lupus is and what the diagnosis means for me. Currently I'm still cataloging my life and comparing it to the symptoms on the list. Hair falling out? First thing I saw a doc for when we moved to North Carolina over twenty years ago. Shortness of breath? I've complained that I can't run anymore and now can barely sing (a tragedy for me) for sixteen years, since the last stint in Oklahoma. Dizziness? I was so dizzy two years ago that I pushed my regular South Carolina doc to send me for an MRI, and we discovered absolutely nothing. Frequent low-grade fevers for no goddamn reason? THIS IS A THING? IT WASN'T IN MY MIND ALL ALONG? I wish I'd known that for the last three decades. And it's also not in my imagination that my eyes are drying out and itching all the freaking time. All of these things were pointing in the same direction, but changing doctors every year or so meant that no one ever put the pieces together. I don't know how I got so lucky that this new doc knew enough to test, but I will be eternally grateful. The diagnosis sucks, but that pales in comparison to finally having an answer.

I think I may spend the next week or so writing things down, so I have a chart for a rheumatologist. I am assuming I'll be getting to know one soon.

It's Never Lupus

Inspirational song: Hungry Like the Wolf (Duran Duran)

After a little inner debate, I reminded myself that three years ago I threw open the book of my life, and it might do someone some good if I continue being so truthful about what's going on. So with that in mind, I will announce that Greg House was wrong when he insisted (throughout the entire television series) that "It's never lupus." This time, for this woman, it's lupus.

I really don't know what it was that I said in that very first meeting with the new doctor that triggered in her mind that we needed to be looking for autoimmune diseases. But somewhere in those fourteen vials of blood she had me spill were markers that changed my future, and explained an awful lot of my past. I have to have a couple more tests run next week, to get a specific measurement on ANA (anti-nuclear antibodies), because apparently "positive" wasn't enough. Now, to my untrained eye, when I see just a little down the page a section spelling out the ANA panel, I assumed that these were the details she needed. But who am I? What do I know? Perhaps she just needs a few things re-run to confirm them. I do find it amusing that the marker that is more than six times the top of the reference range is the ironically-named "Smith antibodies."

I really knew nothing about this disease before Wednesday night, other than it was the running gag on House. When I googled what Smith antibodies were that night, that was the first moment I ever imagined that I would ever need to know what it is. I was in denial all night, barely sleeping at all the whole night, tossing and turning and having conversations with my past self and past doctors in my mind. Yesterday I had calmed myself down a little, prepared to wait until the doctor told me anything, and willing to assume all I had was Webmditis. I still have much to learn after the doctor confirmed it and explained in detail what she wanted me to do. Since then, I've spent all of today flipping through the pages of my life, saying things like, "Oh. Well that explains why I always complained of 'sun poisoning' any time I stayed outside too long." And all those years I swore that there had to be something deeper causing me to gain weight no matter what I did, no matter the diet or exercise plan, it turns around I was right. Whether the immunosuppressants I'll be taking will turn that trend around or not remains to be seen.

I got a long list of instructions printed out on how I need to change with this diagnosis. Some of it will be easy, some nigh on impossible. I can handle avoiding fluorescent light. Already changed every light in the house to LED. I'm supposed to wear long sleeves and pants outside, with hats, sunglasses, and sunscreen. I'm not that wild about sunscreen, but I see the point. I'm even to wear primarily cool colors, like purple, gray, and indigo. How convenient that these colors work well for me. I look great in electric blue. I'm fine with the part of the diet that aligns closely with a Paleo/Wheat Belly philosophy, but I don't know how well I will comply with a "tree-free" diet. No apples, oranges, avocados, tree nuts, or anything that even has tree rings like garlic and onions? Not sure life would be worth living. It's a good thing I learned to like chicken again, and that I really love lettuce, spinach, and kale. Otherwise, I wouldn't have much to eat left.

Now, don't be a hater, but I have written instructions from my doctor to take a 30-40 minute nap EVERY DAY, to get regular massages, and spend as much time in a hot tub against water jets as I can. I have a prescription to nap!

I donned a hat and purple zip-up hoodie, and hung out in the back yard while Mr S-P started building the raised beds for our new garden. I'm surprised that just the addition of the hat made it less unpleasant already. We are already starting to think ahead to what we will plant, and I'm glad I'd already made arrangements to grow a whole lot more leafy greens this year. It's about all I'm going to be allowed to have. That, and some tomatoes and peppers maybe. Surely squashes don't have lignin in them, so I can eat those, right? Anyway, the garden prep is a whole lot of hard work, but it already has such a great beginning. I just hope I'll be allowed to be in it during the day time.

Drive Time

Inspirational song: In a Big Country (Big Country)

It really struck me, as I drove across wide open plains between my home and my office today, just how large my territory is. Next time I'm touring a four thousand square foot house, thinking that it's ridiculously huge compared to how much space a human really needs for shelter, I can console myself by considering that it's just a speck compared to how much land is available in northern Colorado. I'm not getting into the conversation about how many limited resources a house like that might drain. I'm just saying there is plenty of room to put those houses in.

I wanted to stop and take some pictures of those expansive views along my route, but once I'm behind the wheel on that drive, I just want to get home as directly as I can. Maybe when I feel better, I'll start looking for pretty vistas to share. There is an unlimited supply to choose from, endless snow-covered rolling hills, with gorgeous mountains in the background framing them. If a girl has to commute to work, it makes for a pleasant drive.

By mid-afternoon, I still hadn't been contacted by my doctor's office. Maybe I was spoiled in my last location, with doctors who called right away when lab work was ready (or at least PAs who would call in their stead if they were busy). I'm dealing with a much smaller practice now, and it takes adjustment. So I took the lead and called them to set up an appointment. First thing in the morning I get to have the talk about whether this back pain has actually been back pain at all for the last three weeks. I have to admit that getting the suggestion that it's actually a problem in my kidneys has changed the way I interpret it. I definitely need a professional opinion on these lab results. I'm in danger of talking myself into all sorts of weirdness. I think all day I've suffered from Webmditis. Need to stop that right away.

Cabin Fever

Inspirational song: Tom Sawyer (Rush)

Let me start by sending out love to my old boss, who will probably never even know that I have this blog. I saw last night on my news feed that Tommy Kelly, who was a child actor known for playing Tom Sawyer in the 1930s, has died. The head librarian at the branch library where I worked when we first moved to North Carolina was his daughter (one of six children, I learned). I didn't keep in touch with her after I stopped working at that location, something like 17 years ago, but I remember her fondly, from long nights at the information desk with just the two of us to keep each other company when the library was deserted. My condolences to her and her family.

After several days of concerted effort (and almost no help on my part), Mr S-P has nearly finished our garden shed. It's gone from that awful coral pink, deteriorating love shack that we inherited from our neighbor, to a deep rum raisin and taupe, revitalized, and functional garden feature. It looks fantastic. He was paining the trim pieces to go on it this afternoon, while the weather was gorgeous, and I had to walk away before I grabbed the paintbrush just because it looked fun. I made the mistake of standing on a pile of ice to admire it, which collapsed just a little, and sent me lurching sideways. The resulting clench of core muscles just about did me in. I'm not going to take any more chances, and since then I've admired his handiwork from a distance, namely the back doorway. I can't wait to start a vertical garden on the side of it, where many varieties of lettuce and spinach can get morning sun, and be shaded from the harsh afternoon light, and hopefully grow later into the season than in a fully exposed bed.

The lab that my insurance recommended (demanded) to run all my blood tests last week has an online portal where I can retrieve my own results. I've been watching for them for days. I got an email late this evening that the results are in from those 14 vials of blood I gave them, and I've spent the last hour and a half googling what each one means. Well, some of them were pretty self-explanatory, and it was no surprise that my D3 was low and my LDLs a little high. But there were a lot of tests there that I have never seen before, with results at the very high end of normal reference ranges, and some of them far exceeding what is considered normal. I'm not ready to make any announcements before I've spoken with the doc, but at least now I've had a chance to go to a search screen and ask what the hell each thing is, before I'm blindsided with stuff I've never considered. So far I'm waiting to hear a professional interpret these things before I panic. I suspect a lot of them will turn out to be no big deal. The others... Well, I just don't know. Wait and see.

The Pride had a little break from their cabin fever today, and were mostly well-behaved in the sun. Until they weren't. Swatting and dirt baths for everyone!

Write On

Inspirational song: This Song (George Harrison)

I noticed a weird thing about myself today. I realized that I really like breaking down the fourth wall. I like pieces of writing that are self-aware-- songs that reference themselves, especially admitting how difficult it is to write a song, essays and prose that speak directly to the "dear readers," or plays that allow for a pause while an actor gives a meaningful look out to the audience. I like throwing open that door and allowing my readers a chance to see into my mind to see my process, and I like it when other authors do the same for me. It makes for an odd little existential moment, when a song tells me how hard it had to work to be born, when a novel winks at me as if it knows when it is making a preposterous statement. I feel like someone has invited me in to an inside joke, like I am part of the In Crowd.

This evening was my second trip to the local writers group at the library. This time, I had advance warning of the prompt, and I wrote a personal narrative on one of the four topics provided (parents, grandparents, siblings, or children), and included all of the five challenge words listed under my topic. I wrote a page about my brother, and oddly, I found it easier to be completely honest and personal with a room full of strangers than I am with my feelings when I talk to him. Ironically. that was the subject of my essay, how rarely we've spoken of such things to each other. I wasn't the only one who felt inspired to write something very personal and heartfelt. I think 95% of us wrote in the first person, and opened up to show a very vulnerable side. I wonder what led us all to delve so deeply. Was it because of the subject itself, because family inspires such closely held feelings? Whatever it was, it made for some beautiful poetry and prose tonight.

I'm really happy I decided to join this writers group. It's going to be the push I needed to amp up my expectations of myself. I can do three paragraphs a night, no problem. But coming up with new flash fiction? That's going to be a challenge. I'm ready, though. The prompts will help a lot. The last couple stories I wrote (and actually finished, which is the hard part) each stemmed from tiny little picture that appeared in my head. Now I need to learn to do that from a phrase. Next week's prompt is "A Simple Plan." The story is in here somewhere. I just need to have a direct conversation with it, so it lets itself be born.

No pictures tonight. Everything is in our heads this time. Use the pictures you have stored in yours to illustrate this evening.

Spaz

Inspirational song: Lay Your Hands On Me (Thompson Twins)

One step forward, two steps back. Saturday night and Sunday morning felt pretty good. Somewhere between those tiny little slips on the ice on Sunday morning's brief walk and the opposite-of-relaxing hot bath (that I could barely get out of), I set myself back a week or two. I barely slept at all last night. Even getting into the bed was atrocious. I had trouble sliding down into place, and the spasms in my right hip were so bad that rotating even a few degrees was impossible. It's a tough change for a girl who spends most of the night flopping from one side to the other. (It must be difficult to sleep next to me.)

I'm back on the muscle relaxers, after a few days feeling like I didn't need them. I am breaking them in half, so that I'm still able to work and talk. I let myself be busy today, but all I was concerned about was the second visit to the chiropractor. He was able to push me back into place again, but I can't say that it will last until the end of the week when I see him again. When I left his office, I was able to extend my right arm away from my body enough to drive, but after a nap to compensate for last night, and then spending a couple hours sitting still to man the back side of our brokerage's web site, I can barely reach out far enough to pet a cat again.

I wonder when the doc will call me with blood test results so I can discuss how long before we escalate this conversation to talk of disc injury. I would think if it were just a pinched nerve, there would be fewer days like this.

Meh. I think I'm done writing for the day. I'll flip through the phone and see how many good pictures of cats I got today.