I Believe I Need A Break

            I believe I need a break.

            Today I realize why the laundry detergent has lasted so long and wonder why it did not occur to me before.  Mom has been diluting it right along with the hand soap.  My Aveeno lotion narrowly escaped a similar fate yesterday:  she was about to drain the rest of her diluted Lubriderm into it.  The other “ah-hah!” moment in the bathroom involved a delayed reaction.  I heard the water furiously running in the sink.  After Mom was done, I went in for my shower.  After my shower I grabbed my bath towel.  It was damp already. 

            I believe I need a break.

            Last night I revisited the old eating-the-ice cream-right-out-of-the-carton days.  Let’s just say I totally blew my caloric intake.  And I’ve been so good at snacking on blueberries when the urge to munch overtakes me.

            I believe I need a break. 

I think I can get one tomorrow if my brother is working from home.  I’ll dash out right after lunch while Mom settles into her nap.  I’ll drive the ten miles to Double Bluff beach and take a walk.  Then I’ll continue my sojourn over to Langley, where I will walk scenic First Street along the shore, stopping in a shop here and there.  I’ll browse to my heart’s content at Good Cheer Thrift Store.  By the time I get home, the whole break will have been just two or three hours, but my sanity will be restored . . . at least until the next time I need a break.

           

At the Market

            It didn’t take long to fill my striped beach bag: a couple orange beets, a cucumber and a large tomato, a bunch of carrots and a bunch of radishes, a pound of green beans, a baggie of sprouts, and two loaves of bread.  The four ears of butter cream sweet corn I carried in an old Walmart bag, and I balanced the half flat of blueberries and raspberries in front of me.  I was looking for the place to turn in my raffle ticket.  Bees buzzed around my head, landing in the blueberries, swooping down for the corn, hovering around the top of my bag.  Still, I trudged on, scanning the perimeter of the Coupeville Farmers Market, never once thinking about simply asking someone.  Brushing away bees and balancing berries finally got to me, and I gave up my quest.  As I walked back toward the parking lot, I suddenly had a new problem:  my waist pack, already cinched to its smallest setting, worked its way off my hips and slid down to my knees.  Laughing, I felt like I had won the lottery.

Today's Version

            “Dana, Portia, and I went to Oberlin College,” Mom remarked about her siblings, “but Humphrey wanted no part of that.  He went to Michigan Tech.”

            “Oh, you mean Michigan State, don’t you?” I offered, remembering well the family history.

            “No.  It was Michigan Tech there in the Upper Peninsula in Houghton.”  Mom’s tone of voice brooked no opposition.  “He went there while the bridge was being built.  I remember riding the ferry was neat, but driving across the bridge was wonderful!”

            There was nothing left for me to say.  Humphrey died in a plane crash when he was nineteen, long before the five-mile-long bridge to the Upper Peninsula was constructed.  My brother John went to Michigan Tech in the late seventies and early eighties, long after the bridge was built.  As far as I know, Mom never rode the ferry across.

            Gradually, I am learning to keep my mouth shut and let Mom share her memories in today’s version.  Tomorrow’s will probably be different.

           

           

All In My Head

           One of the interesting things about fibromyalgia is its unpredictability.  The possible array of symptoms is impressive, and the seemingly random times they strike undermines most illusions of being in total control of one’s health.

            This week the flare-up is all in my head—my inner ear and brain, that is.  I’m developing a theory that dizziness, headache, and body-wide buzzing are related.

            The old BPV (benign positional vertigo) is acting up again.  Sitting up and lying down have become spinning events.  When I mentioned this to my dear little brother yesterday, he suggested I not dye my hair blonde so as not to aggravate my dizziness.  And at my appointment the other day, the doctor offered the cheering observation that this dizziness is not too bad:  at least I wasn’t pitching off the exam table when it struck, and the nystagmus (involuntary eye movement) was minimal.  So every day I do the Epley maneuver (basically turning your head and sitting up and lying down fast) to try to coax the little, tiny calcium deposits in my inner ear to move to a new and less bothersome location.  Who needs carnival rides when you can simply flop down in bed and the world whirls around you?

            Maybe it is the slightly off-balance feeling that encourages the hint of headache.  So far at least, the hint has not morphed into migraine.  But sometimes, in addition to the tinnitus (when your ears ring, who needs earrings?), I get this low-grade uncomfortable body buzzing that is hard to describe:  it is sort of metallic--like a pre-migraine taste in my mouth--and is similar to the off-balance feeling in my head, except it is in my legs and arms.  (And I fully realize that does not make any sense to anyone but me.)  To round out the whole fibro flare experience, sensitivities to sound, light, and touch are magnified.  And, naturally, our cat has discovered a key tender point on my collarbone, which she kneads with her declawed paws regularly. 

            I really can’t complain, though.  My head is buzzing and my ears are ringing, but my brain still seems to be working . . . at least enough to describe what’s all in my head.

           

Odoriferous

            Odoriferous is a real word!  (It was the August 21st word of the day on Dictionary.com)  I always thought it was something my family made up.

            I was just browsing other August words of the day, and I believe my favorite is willowwacks.  I even looked up the lyrics to the Disney hit, “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” mistakenly thinking that “willowwacks” was the refrain.  I was wrong.  It is “A-weemah-weh.”  Pretty easy mistake to make, huh?

            Anyway, back to odoriferous, which is the perfect word to describe how a house smells when the resident cat uses the carpeted hallway as its litter box.  It is also a wonderful way to describe body odor in a jam-packed public bus or the stale, nauseating stench of an unventilated classroom full of sweaty adolescents  on a hot afternoon.

            Hmm . . . maybe thinking about odoriferous is the key to staying on my diet.