Traded

Inspirational song: Waltz of the Flowers (P.I. Tchaikovsky)

Warning labels exist for a reason, especially on pill bottles. When my stuff says "take at bedtime," I really ought to heed my doctor's warning. After trying too hard to pull weeds in the garden and do an outsized amount of bending and reaching this afternoon, I took a muscle relaxer at 4 o'clock. It kicked in about an hour later, and by quarter past 6 I had no choice but to go take a short nap. I was awoken at 7, and I thought that I'd had enough sleep to get through the rest of the evening. I was wrong. I crawled into the hot tub and found out that my fear of drowning is far less powerful than my desire for a nice snooze in the reclining lounge seat part of the pond. I got at least another 45 minutes (or more) of sleep with my head firmly cradled, so that I didn't slip into the water. Doesn't mean it was the safest or smartest thing to do. I wouldn't have done it if I had been alone. (If I had been alone, no one would have woken me up while I was socked out in the bed.) I'm still groggy. And my back is only marginally "relaxed."

We traded flowers with one of our closest friends this afternoon. It had been her idea to dig up all of those raspberries and blackberries we got a week ago, and we had gotten twice as much as we needed when we went, so that she could have some. She came to get her share today, but on the way she stopped off and spoke with someone who was hacking out a bunch of irises from his yard. He intended to just destroy them with a shovel, because they had taken over. She stopped him from murdering them with a garden implement, and made him dig up several clumps properly. She split those with us, so to keep things relatively even, I bartered with her even more. I gave her four of the dahlia rhizomes that I hadn't yet planted. I enjoy the idea of flowers as currency, trading them with friends, so that our gardens are related in a literal genetic sense. Forget Pokemon. I want to collect bulbs, seeds, rhizomes of all colors and varieties. Gotta catch 'em all.

Canvass

Inspirational song: Somebody's Knockin' (Terri Gibbs)

Coincidences can be really creepy sometimes. I was trying to decide on a song for tonight, and was going to Google the lyrics to the song that I thought was by Paul McCartney, Someone's knocking on the door, and I had a moment where I just couldn't put it together with who wrote/performed it. I was riding down from the mountains, and just at the moment I gave up and thought I'd use a song from the conversation we had instead, the above-mentioned song came on the radio. Okay, okay. I can take a hint. Stick with my original plan.

I was happily ignoring emails for months, just sure that I had nothing to do as a precinct leader for my locality until the next election came around. I got a phone call while I was having my endoscopy from my area coordinator, but having had a tube shoved down my throat and pieces snipped out of the various pipes, I ignored that too, and slept away the day Thursday. She emailed me on Friday, asking whether I was going to the precinct leader "spring fling" training the next day. I found myself out of excuses. I promised to show up.

I seriously considered blowing it off when morning rolled around and there had been a snowstorm all night. But unlike further south in Denver, nothing accumulated to speak of in my town. The roads were wet but completely clear, and there was just a little wet slush on my car. Again, no valid excuses. The meeting was at the library that is at most a six minute drive from my house. I acted like a grownup and met my commitment.

I am fairly certain that most of the people in that room have canvassed neighborhoods before. They seemed to know the process and the basics of the technology available to help us. I sat near the back and assumed that most things would come clear as the meeting progressed. Eventually I got most of it, but when they started talking specifics on tech, I hit my absolute limit. I was tired and sore and my brain said no more. I tip-toed back to my area coordinator, who still sat at the check-in table, and begged off. I promised to write her and ask for a private training at a later date. She was sympathetic.

If I do as I am tasked to do, I will be walking around my neighborhood, knocking on between one and two hundred doors, introducing myself to people affiliated with the same party as myself. I'm supposed to ask them to tell me what their top priorities are, both nationally and statewide. In some ways, this will be great. It means getting to know my neighbors, and maybe building a sense of community. But it also means swallowing my terror of approaching strangers, and it means breaking out of my comfort zone of my immediate block. A few blocks either direction of my house and one can see evidence of the rough gangland past of my town. (Yes, mom, it's much safer now.) I think I can do this, but I am 99% sure I will need a buddy to go with me. I wonder whether I know anyone willing to be recruited.

Left Over

Inspirational song: Shout (Tears for Fears)

If my throat was going to feel and sound like I had spent hours at a really exciting football game that went into double overtime, then dammit, I should have gotten to at least watch such a game. But no, I've spent all day sounding like I was working on Demi Moore cosplay. I can still feel every spot where the biopsies were taken. Drinking coffee this morning was challenging, and even by late afternoon when I had tomato soup, I could still feel the burn in my throat. And yet, I still don't know what is wrong, nor do I have any sort of relief. I'm at the end of my rope here. I had a friend suggest a condition to google, but it was something that happens farther up the torso, at the top of the rib cage, rather than the bottom--and interferes more with arm movements, rather than making it difficult to wear pants. The doctor's office called me this morning and said the ultrasound from Monday looked fine, and they'd talk to me in a couple weeks when the biopsy results are back. Hooray. I love being on hold.

Meanwhile, I'm still trying to pretend things are normal around here. I managed to make a couple trips to the trash and recycle cans out back and washed off my outdoor table before being totally winded. I spent more time in my chair than anywhere else today. I could have been doing any number of things, had I been able to bend and breathe. The weather outside was beautiful this morning, sunny and warm. By the time I really got out to do anything, a storm had begun to move through. We could see several inches of snow by morning. For now, it's just cold and drizzly, although I've seen several bands of snow mixed in during the day.

I braved the cold long enough to give Barley an out at lunchtime (he was SO disappointed when I didn't bring him over to play with Murray before the storm), and I wandered around Boulder in what was supposed to be mommy-daughter misbehaving. It ended up actually being a chance to handle important errands and test a new restaurant. The closest I came to misbehaving was buying a donut pan at the fancy cooking shop on Pearl, with the idea that one day I will create the perfect gluten free yeast raised donut. If I can succeed, my fortunes will be made.

Doctor in the House

Inspirational song: I Don't Know (Ozzy Osbourne)

It's one of those days when I wish Dr House was a real person, and that he was a close friend of mine. I am not sure we have any more answers tonight than we had when last I wrote. The endoscopy is over, and I was cleared to resume my huge stack of medications and encouraged to eat whatever I felt up to (after starting with something bland as a tester). Now, at the end of the night, I don't know what to do.

I woke early this morning, so that I could have a few sips of water, in the hope that it would plump up my veins enough to make insertion of an IV easier. (Turns out that hope was in vain, but I'm not one for puns, so pretend I didn't say that.) I didn't want to sit and watch the seconds tick on the clock until time to go in, so I crawled back into bed and napped off and on until about eleven. It worked on two levels. It made time pass more quickly, and it helped me forget how much I hurt for a few hours. I showered, braided my wet hair, and chose soft, stretchy clothes for the day. And then I sat and waited for the Mr to come home and drive me to the surgery center. What excitement.

The staff at the surgery center was younger and cooler than I expected. Maybe I'm just getting old. I felt like the oldest person in the building. But they were all as nice and friendly and reassuring as could be. That helped, because I had let myself get very nervous about what was going to happen today. They settled me in a curtained room, and tried twice to put in an IV. It hurt like hell both times, but at least the second one went in far enough to work. The nurse wrapped a warm pad around the insertion site on my forearm, in an effort to soothe and relax it. It sort of worked. The anaesthesiologist and gastroenterologist who would run the procedure both chatted with me, and then I was rolled in. The mood in the room was jocular and humorous, and they had me roll over on my side just as the burning anaesthsia went into my IV. I had a lovely dream about making real estate deals (really!) and then I was being talked to in the recovery side of the curtain room. The doctor showed me a series of nine photographs from the inside, and pointed out the parts where he took biopsies. He said the pathology would take about two or three weeks, and then his office would call and have me come in and discuss the results.

And that's when my heart broke.

Three weeks for an answer. I have gotten dramatically worse in the last five days. I feel like there is something on the outside of my rib cage, just below my breasts, pushing up and squeezing in at the same time. It feels dangerous. Like I ought to be planning a trip to an ER. But it's been doing this for quite a while, and I've had three medical exams since it started hurting all the time. No one knows anything yet. It doesn't appear to be my liver or my upper GI from the inside. I don't know what this is, and I don't know what to do or who to ask next.

I came home, ate some quinoa noodles, and then I crawled back in bed. I slept for hours. I am still tired. I can feel all the places where he snipped out tissue, and it feels like a punch in the solar plexus (or several). I checked to see whether I had a fever while I was napping, and I didn't. I was more surprised than I should have been that I didn't. I've been out of bed for about three hours, and I'm fairly certain I'll be back there in about twenty minutes.

I wish someone would say, "Oh, this happened to a friend of mine. It turned out to be (this)" just so that I could have an answer. Greg House would be able to figure it out. Is there a Dr House in the house?

Imbalance

Inspirational song: When the Morning Comes (Hoyt Axton)

It took a very long time to get the balance right. I had to go from the years-long tantrum that I threw sometime around 2012, when I refused to take any medications at all, not even vitamins or Tylenol, to taking the giant, elaborate confection of pharmaceuticals that I consume every day now. It took months for some of the chemicals to build up sufficient concentration in my bloodstream to have any noticeable effect. I hate taking pills. But I did it, and I very rarely skipped anything (accidents happened). After several months, it finally started to work. It worked very well, overall. So now, I have to go off of one of the things I rely on for a few days. In advance of the scope, I've had to stop my prescription NSAID. I thought it wouldn't be a big deal. I'd been feeling so much better, I thought I would be fine for 72 hours. Turns out that the very first pill they put me on was a vitally important foundation that everything else was built on. I feel like crap. I had a withdrawal headache most of the day. My usual body aches were rougher than usual. I've had zero energy and less motivation. My biggest accomplishments of the day were managing to feed myself, the cats, and the dogs once each, plus taking a broom to a little of the dirt that Murray dug up onto the patio right by the back door. A whole day, and that was it.

The end of the day came around, and I tried to soak in the hot tub in lieu of my regular anti-inflammatory pain reliever. I couldn't relax to save my life. It made the bloating in my stomach float, and it just pushed up and up. I gave up after a scroll through Twitter. This is insufferable. I still don't know what's going on inside me, and I don't know for sure that this week's tests will reveal anything. I would like to get down to business, though, and just have the next test over with.

Lest Ye Be

Inspirational song: Your Mother Should Know (The Beatles)

For the second time this month, the person delivering the moment of inspiration for our Rotary club lunch meeting actually inspired me beyond a brief moment of reflection. It was given by a woman with the same profession as I (although much further along in career success than I), who sits on the same committee that I do. She spoke of an educator in Denver who started a trend. This teacher asked of his/her class to write anonymously "something I wish my teacher knew about me." The answers were heart-wrenching. Things like: "My writing journal isn't always signed because my mother isn't around very often," or "My father was deported to Mexico when I was three and I am sad because I haven't seen him since," or "I'm always cutting up and laughing in class because school is the only place I feel happy." The teacher suggested this exercise to peers all around the country, and the same sorts of responses kept cropping up. It inspired a lot more empathy and understanding between the educators and students, which can yield great benefits, for reasons that should be self-evident.

I try to approach most people this way. I not only attempt to give them the benefit of the doubt for having circumstances that I may not be aware of that make them behave the way they do (even when it totally crosses my own purposes), but I compulsively try to put myself in their minds, to guess what those motivations might be. I am sure that sometimes I am far more forgiving than I ought to be in some situations, when people's motives are not so pure, but I prefer that to my less than charitable side that sometimes comes out, when I devalue people wholesale for the positions or actions they take. I would much rather forgive the undeserving than condemn the innocent. I'm guilty of judging in both respects, but one leaves me with peace. I can, as the Mr says, let them deal with their own karma if they are of evil intent.

I haven't let this topic simmer in my mind enough on this day to have a long essay on it tonight, but I think from here I'll go have a (very) late dinner and ruminate on the possibilities that this opens up. It was a moment of inspiration, after all, not a closed-door judgement. Time to let my thoughts run where they may.

First Look

Inspirational song: Turning Japanese (The Vapors)

I had a doctor take a picture, so I could look at me from inside as well. Okay, that doesn't translate to first person as well as I would have liked. But still, it's the truth. It was the first of my next round of testing this morning. I had my upper abdomen ultrasounded. I wanted to ask for printed pictures, like they give people who are having pregnancy ultrasounds. Instead, I just kept my mouth shut and let the lady do her work. It would have been easier to see the screen if it hadn't been even with my head and facing the tech fully rather than me. This stuff is all so interesting to me, being the information junkie that I am. As it was, I just stared at the screen, trying to see the shapes in the clouds. I tried to make note of all of the abbreviations she used when she marked up the screenshots, so that I could Google them when I got home, but I only remembered two by the time I searched on my own. Here I thought I was so sneaky, getting a jump on what the results would show. Yeah. I learned that she marked the common bile duct (CBD) and the gallbladder cavity where mine used to be (GB Fossa). She also thoroughly measured the liver, pancreas, and right kidney (where I've been feeling like a mule kicked me lately). Last she ran a different wand across my abdomen to take an image of the surface of the liver. I couldn't see a single thing that gave me any indication what could be causing the swelling, tenderness, pain, and weight gain. Maybe in three days when I have the next test (the endoscopy), the radiologist's report will have been delivered to my gastroenterologist, and I'll find out what, if anything, is up.

The ultrasound tech probably didn't push any harder with her wands than she had to. I doubt she was trying to hurt me, nor did I let on that she was doing so. However, I have felt bruised and used up ever since. I have no idea whether the two things are even related. I might still be the heaviness I've felt since the lymph node drainage session that was my last massage. Could be a reaction to sitting in the sun, drinking my coffee, once I got home. (I actually got sunburned through the leggings I was wearing, and my skin looked mottled like I'd been burned with an iron with giant steam holes in it. So this is not a difficult logic leap to make.) And honestly, it could just be a regular old lupus day. I wanted to be chipper and happy today. I learned that the sellers of the house I have under contract are fixing all of the things my buyers asked for, even knowing that there was an As-Is backup offer hanging over our heads like the sword of Damocles. I just couldn't dredge up the energy to celebrate, beyond whipping out a copy of the Inspection Resolution for signatures.

I took all of one photograph today. Sitting in the radiology lobby, for the two minutes (max) that I waited for the tech, I noticed that they had the same kind of plant that Mr X and I bought for our very first apartment together, which we still actually own. Across from it was the same sort of plant that I asked for and received as an anniversary present (along with the pot that it's in), which sits at about the same distance from the first plant in my house as these in the lobby were from each other. I took a picture for a text. That's it. It seems appropriate that I am illustrating a post about being so low energy that I could barely move with a picture of houseplants. If I'd had any more energy today, you would have had to water me twice a week...

Listen to Your Mother

Inspirational song: Makin' It Natural (Dr Hook and the Medicine Show)

For more than a hundred years, makers of branded food products have employed "kitchen scientists" to invent recipes that use those specific branded ingredients, in order to sell more of them. Think "Nestle Toll House Cookies" or "Jell-O Salads." A plurality of this country has, at least once in their lives, microwaved a block of Velveeta and a can of Rotel to make dip. So I can't be surprised that my mother sent me a recipe that one of her friends shared, for something called Hawaiian Cheesecake Salad (although I might have the name slightly off). It called for cream cheese, packaged dry cheesecake mix, and by brand name, International Delight French Vanilla creamer, to be poured over chopped fruit. A half cup of creamer? Really? Who thought this was a good idea? That stuff is the oddest chemical cocktail. If the idea is to create a looser cheesecake-esque sauce to coat fruit, what's wrong with cream, half and half, or plain yogurt, plus vanilla extract and the natural sweetener of one's choice? My mother agreed. The yogurt was her idea.

So, with a heavy helping of hubris in my back pocket, I loaded up on fresh fruit at Costco yesterday. I had a collection of berries (the canes we had dug up earlier that afternoon were still only soaking in a kiddie pool at home by then), and a big bunch of bananas. I mused aloud that "surely they would have a single fresh pineapple." And there it was. One single pineapple, set on top of the cantaloupes, like it was wished into being. I looked around, and couldn't see any others in the whole produce section. Meant to be, right?

I put together everything I thought I needed. Softened cream cheese in the mixer, followed by little bits of half and half until it was soft. I put in vanilla and agave syrup. I cut up enough fruit to fill a large bowl. And I stirred thoroughly. We sat outside in the sun on the little patio, while animals stared holes into our skulls, waiting for the bowls. It was okay, but it didn't actually taste like cheesecake. I wonder what it is in the dry mix that would have made it tangier, like actual cheesecake. Maybe mom was right. Yogurt might have done it. Or throwing in some eggs, more sugar, and lemon juice before baking it, and then putting the fruit on top? Yeah. Next time.

Antiquated Notions

Inspirational song: She Blinded Me With Science (Thomas Dolby)

I know, I should have marched. I am, after all, a big old science nerd who begat a very vocal science nerd. I probably could have come up with a really clever sign. But I had things I had to do today, and I wasn't about to alter my schedule for some of them. I finally got around to shuffling the commission money around in my bank account (changing the kind of savings account I have, so that it accumulates more than an insult's worth of interest -- it now almost counts as a pittance!), and I tried a third time to pick up the new prescription from the gastroenterologist (and failed -- their supplier keeps refusing to send it, and I have no idea why.) These things could have been shuffled a little, but the massage I had today was not to be moved. Not a chance.

I went in to see Slow Hand with a very simple request. I just needed to chill out and relax. I didn't have deep muscle aches to burn up our entire appointment. I told him that I wanted work done on the places most prone to edema, from the elbows down and the knees down. A few minutes in, he proclaimed that we were going to focus entirely on my lymphatic system, on waking it up and draining it. It was one of the greatest things to happen to me lately. There was very little pressure, but my whole body ended up feeling electrified. Slow Hand suggested that I take notes over the 48 hours following this particular bodywork, to see whether things improve or deteriorate. I told him I was always up for a science experiment. So far, I feel languid and much less tender, although my limbs are all super heavy, like they're tired. The best part: within a few hours, my wrists and hands were visibly less swollen, and I am starting to feel a little bit more like myself. I hope this continues to work through my system over the next two days.

We made it back to the berry patch that was closed when we arrived yesterday. Today it was much warmer and sunnier, although once we got out to dig up our own fruit canes, we realized that we hadn't brought any pots or buckets or even plastic bags to put them in. I produced the only thing I could find in my car: reusable grocery bags. We made it work. We learned more about the botanical peculiarities of raspberries from the farmer who was selling off his plants. He had primacane and floricane berries, and he asked a group of us if we knew what that meant. The primacane berries will fruit during the first season on each cane, and those canes need to be cut down at the end of the season. The floricane berries grow the first year and produce the second year, and THEN the canes have to be cut down. I think. There are pests that will take up residence in the old canes, so they can't be left alone for long. If I had known there was going to be a test (played out over two years), I would have taken notes.

Whatever pests may be growing in the yard, the Man found a wonderful way to address them. He came back from visiting our local Helpful Hardware Man with a bag of live ladybugs. I feel like I've just become a mother again a hundred times over. I was so excited to see that purchase. I hope the little guys understand how welcome they are, and how much I want them to stay and thrive and start families in my Park. Last year, all of my tomato plants were covered in aphids. The ladybugs are going to be good friends of mine.

Black and Whitebellies

Inspirational song: Black Water (Doobie Brothers)

I turned off the heat in my house yesterday. For some of you who live outside of Colorado, this may seem unusually late in the year. Turns out, it was a tad bit premature. My house has been wonderfully chilly today, while it was gloomy and rainy outside. I wore a big, thick sweatshirt all day, and I never once lacked for feline cuddle buddies. In fact, I was quite the popular girl. Rabbit and Alfred have been glued to me for most of the day. It was cool enough inside that Rabbit didn't even growl at Alfred once, but rather purred while he climbed between us, adding to the body heat quotient.

I had plans for the day. We intended on going to a nearby farm to dig up blackberry plants. An organic farm in Boulder County has decided to reduce their potential for berries, and is selling dig-your-own blackberries and several types of raspberries. I'm pretty set for raspberries already here, with sixteen feet of red ones growing on the west fence, and a six foot patch of golden ones in the north raised bed garden. Also, there are some survivors on the south side where the original cluster of them was when we bought this house. But blackberries have always been one of my favorite fruits, so naturally I was interested when I learned that they were selling clumps of plants for ten bucks each. We loaded up a shovel (in case we needed it) and gloves and started heading out of town, when I dug up the original posting for information on it. It was then that I learned they didn't open until noon, so we turned around and made plans to go back once the Mr was back from work. He got back a little later than we expected, but we still made it to the farm before the posted closing time. Problem was, it was cold and rainy and they closed early, thinking no one would be foolish enough to try to dig in the rain. Obviously, they've never met us. So we have to punt until tomorrow afternoon, and hope that they are open as advertised. Mama needs her blackberries. It has been too long since I had productive ones of my own. I just hope I can find a place to put them. I know how big the patches can get. The one next to our house in Germany when I was little was about as big as a garage (or so it felt to six year old me).

We didn't waste the drive, once we had gone that far, even though the gardening expedition was a bust. From there, we were already halfway to Costco, and we were due another major restocking trip. (This many cats means buying food and litter in bulk, and we get our dairy products in ludicrous quantities as well -- we buy half and half a gallon at a time, and the fancy butter six bars at once.) While there, I grabbed another pack of the ultra soft black leggings. These are basically my uniform until I get the monkeyshines that are causing problems in my belly identified and eliminated. Is it normal for one woman to have six pair of the exact same "pants?" (I realize there is debate as to whether leggings count as pants. The people who say no obviously have never had stomach troubles.)

Regulate It

Inspirational song: Dazed and Confused (Led Zeppelin)

Everybody talked about it today. It was weird. And comforting. Because it's really getting to the point where it's no big deal, and that's the way I'd prefer that it was. Most of the TV anchors barely even giggle anymore when they are reading a story about cannabis on 4/20. Like much of my generation, most of my children's generation, and even a growing number of my parents' generation, I feel like it should be left up to individual adults to decide what plants to consume. I really don't care what people do in their free time, if they are not at work, not trying to operate heavy machinery, or not actively shouldering the responsibility of being a caregiver to someone who needs attentive care (children, elderly, or differently-abled persons). And of the things in that list, I would be happy to make exceptions -- I don't care if my artists or baristas are high on the clock, as long as I get engaging art and good coffee, for example. Generally I find when people are relaxed and not in pain, they're much more pleasant to be around. So you do you, pot smokers of America. I may not toke up with you, but I'm not going to get up in your business if you do it. I might avoid you if you smell skunky, but that's a whole other thing.

Six months ago when I had my major eye exam, to make sure we had a baseline from which to measure my macula to make sure my lupus medication doesn't make me permanently blind, they dilated my eyes. They made me wait fifteen or twenty minutes, and then they studied the insides of my eyes thoroughly. Then, as I was living alone at the time, I drove home without the extra sunglasses they provide, because I assumed my changeable glasses would be enough. It was super sunny that day, and I barely made it home. I went for a six month follow up today, and I made arrangements in advance. I had Mr X drive me, and I brought a ball cap to wear low over my face on the return. Not only were there heavy clouds and a light rain, but the yellow eye drops didn't seem to actually dilated my eyes at all. Doc peered inside just a minute after the drops. And I was fine thereafter. Did they change the formulation so that it's a quick out and back? Or will I have to get the full treatment again in October? Granted, I didn't want to be blind and stumbling about for hours today, but I am someone confused as to why the process changed.

The light rain turned into a strong downpour in the evening. It was the first real lightning and thunder storm of the year. It was absolutely blissful. And I feel obligated to brag about my big Bunny Boy. For the first time in recorded memory, Alfred stayed visible through at least five minutes of thunder. He didn't hide under furniture at the first slight rumble. Someone is gaining confidence and swagger.

Wouldn't Wanna

Inspirational song: I Wouldn't Want to Be Like You (Alan Parsons Project)

On my way to a planning meeting for the big Rotary Foundation 100th anniversary party (to be held this summer), a song came on the radio. It was the above mentioned Alan Parsons Project song. As I listened to it, I had a true inspiration for the blog. There were even three tenuously-related acts, ready to go. I did what I frequently do. When it was safe to do (at a red light), I took a snapshot of the screen to remind myself to use that song. I then went on my merry way toward the park where we were to meet. Along the way, my new buyer called, and we had a detailed conversation about the specific requests he had resulting from the inspection done on his house-to-be last Monday. Then I went to the park and talked about what our next steps are to prepare and fundraise for the event. I had to explain why I had to pass off one of my tasks, and to limit expectations on what I will take on from here (because of the things I talked about yesterday). I came home. I made dinner (and it was fantastic). I finished the inspection objection form, and submitted it. And now, after unwinding completely from the day, I have forgotten every single detail about that great blog inspiration. Every bit except that it was that song, and only that because I took a photograph of it.

This happens way more often than you'd think.

Scans

Inspirational song: Girls On Film (Duran Duran)

Met a new doctor today. I think I just met myself, or what I would be like if I were a bald man with an MD. He was casual, friendly, and he listened completely. I'm sold. I always get nervous before I go into medical appointments, wondering how much I will have to say or do to justify my existence and my desire to have care administered to me. I've been dismissed too many times over the years to be arrogant or assured enough to expect to be believed on first blush. But I had my banter worked out well today. I gave a full accounting of my recent personal history. I promised that records of scopes and surgery would be on the way from South Carolina, once they got through to the offices back there. And I provided a clear picture of my family tree, of which members had difficulties that matched this new doctor's specialty (three were relevant). So I didn't have to fight. All I had to do was check my calendar and make plans for follow up testing to come. The good news is that the one scope that No One Ever Wants can wait six months, unless we discover something clearly out of the ordinary before then. But I will have an upper GI endoscopy in just over a week and an ultrasound of my liver on Monday. I don't recall ever having that done before, but I have heard often: "hm, your liver enzymes are a little off." Nobody ever seemed interested in following through on that thought, though. I guess a little off isn't unusual.

I am feeling in every inch of my body how many days in a row it has been since I had one of those "all day in pajama pants, never even managing to brush my teeth" days of absolute rest. I don't know when the next one might be, but it is starting to become imperative that I find time for one before it co-opts my life without warning. I ought to collect a handful of pretty pictures to keep in reserve for the next time I don't set foot outside the house.

The only pictures I got for myself today were of an experiment spawned by the internet. My father shared one of those things that claim cats are so hard-wired to sit in boxes, which they regard as safe spaces, that they'll sit in a taped square on the floor. I didn't feel like affixing tape to the floor, but I did find a spool of lightly wired ribbon in my craft cabinet. I made a sloppy "box" out of it, and set it on the carpet to wait and see what happened. Alfred looked at it immediately, but was more interested in asking me to cuddle than to climb inside of it. Several minutes later, after I was distracted by Twitter or some such nonsense, I noticed Athena and Alfred back at it, but rather than sitting inside the square, Athena set about chewing on the wired ribbon, destroying the cat trap. And now, when it's too dark to take a picture and I'm out of inspiration, Jackie is draped across a total knot of ribbon. No trace of the box is left. So as experiments go, my results are that yes, cats notice it, but no, they're more interested in the human who made it or in destroying it than in validating an assertion from the internet.

Blooded

Inspirational song: Fox on the Run (Sweet)

I've heard tell of a rather disgusting tradition associated with fox hunting (as if there was any part of the concept of fox hunting that I do not find disgusting) wherein the person on his or her first hunt is decorated with the blood of their first kill. I would never, ever do such a thing literally, but I do sort of feel like I've just survived an epic hunt, and I should do something symbolic to commemorate my first kill. Rather than tear out a strip of fiberglass insulation to wear like a scarf, I'll stick with a smaller, less destructive memento. Over a celebratory dinner at one of my favorite restaurants in town, Mr X gave me a Pandora charm shaped like a house. Honestly, I had hoped someone would think of that for my first closing, and I am pleased as punch to get one. Much less sticky than blood or itchy than insulation.

There was a moment where my newness was revealed, but it went by unremarked on. I don't know how gauche it seemed to everyone else in the business who was in that room. My clients didn't say anything negative in that moment. We went to lunch together afterwards, and they didn't remark on me having a newbie slip-up. I don't know what I'll do without these people. I hope I see them again after this. They have been a part of my life for a year. I'm not ready to let go. Growing up is hard.

I had a few hours to coast before I had to go back to work in earnest. I sat in the hot tub, with the scent of the chokecherry tree in full bloom in the back yard. It looked like arboreal fireworks-- beautiful and smelled good at the same time. And before I could even make it to my dinner out to celebrate, I got a phone call from the next deal in the works, to roll on after the inspection this morning. After a year and a half trying to get up to speed in this business, and six years since my last paying gig of any kind, I'm okay with working through my dinner. This feels right.