More to come later. Maybe a rant. We'll see.
Right. Well. Here we are. I don't particularly feel like ranting--I do feel a bit pensive, though.
Do you ever stop and look at your life, and just go a bit... '....what?...' ? (All the improperly used ellipses points are meant to indicate long, thoughtful pauses, by the way.) Sometimes, I wake up and I look around at what's in my life, and what's not, and it's not that I'm unhappy so much as... bewildered.
In my heart of hearts, in the innermost part of me, I am still 4,000 miles away from home. In the place where I am most myself, in the thoughts that occur without any kind of prompting or personal agenda, I am a shy 17-year-old with bigger dreams than abilities, and I am just waiting for my life to begin. I don't know how I got to this point, and I don't know where I'm going. I've made some friends and I intend to make some more, and we're all gonna have a groovy time, I hope--but beyond that, some days, I feel like I don't have a clue.
What do I want? What do I need? What am I going to do next?
Like the Tootsie Pop commercial, the world may never know.
And *I* sure as shit don't.
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
Kiddlywinks
I have 2. I don't know what to say about them, aside from the fact that they're awesome.
I have a daughter. She is like a snowstorm, all howling wind and biting cold and natural ferocity; and then, she's like a frozen lake, so still and patient and lifeless-seeming you can hardly believe she's breathing; and then, if she smiles or laughs, she's like the sun, and she thaws herself and the entire room in one burst of warmth, and no one can resist her quiet, amused smirk and sideways glance.
And I also have a son. He is all sweetness and light, a cheeky, cheery ray of toothy, smiley goodness, a greeting for everyone who walks through the door, and just enough energy, force, drive, to accomplish everything he sets his mind to. And then, if his tiny baby will is thwarted, he is made of sadness--great fat tears, rolling down his face like a waterfall, while he sobs as if his heart has shattered.
My kids. They are so beautiful. So unique, and funny, and special, and playful, and sweet, and clever, and pleasant, and just plain fun. I love them more than I ever realised was possible, in a way that I didn't really realise was possible, before they got here.
It's so scary, though. Terrifying. What if something happened to one of them? I can't even think it. My heart might stop, from fear alone. Everything they do, each new milestone they hit, is a cause for celebration, and panic. My eldest is at nursery now--3 hours every day, in the company of randoms, where I can't watch her, look out for her, take care of her. My youngest is walking, mostly across the couch--every time he falls, every time he tries to climb onto the windowsill, my stomach jumps up into my mouth.
I read in a book (the book wasn't even about kids/progeny/breeding, it was a one-paragraph conversation amid 300 pages of other topics) the statement by one of the character's that she'd never had kids because she, 'couldn't handle that kind of fear.' The author of the book must have children, to have been able to create a character with such a concisely-expressed, deeply-felt opinion on procreation.
I don't understand why it should be this way. How can the most wonderful thing you've ever done, cause you more fear and distress and pain than anything else in your entire life? My kids are so beautiful, and I love them so much. How *can* it be, that that equates to abject terror, as often as not? I'm not complaining. I'm not wishing things were different. I'm happy to worry over my kids, as much or even more than I worry about myself. I just... like all parents, I wish there were more guarantees. I wish I could know that they'd be safe, and happy, and healthy, and long-lived, and fulfilled.
My advice to anyone who's thinking about having children, is to make absolutely certain you have the emotional strength and resilience you'll need, before you even start trying.
I have a daughter. She is like a snowstorm, all howling wind and biting cold and natural ferocity; and then, she's like a frozen lake, so still and patient and lifeless-seeming you can hardly believe she's breathing; and then, if she smiles or laughs, she's like the sun, and she thaws herself and the entire room in one burst of warmth, and no one can resist her quiet, amused smirk and sideways glance.
And I also have a son. He is all sweetness and light, a cheeky, cheery ray of toothy, smiley goodness, a greeting for everyone who walks through the door, and just enough energy, force, drive, to accomplish everything he sets his mind to. And then, if his tiny baby will is thwarted, he is made of sadness--great fat tears, rolling down his face like a waterfall, while he sobs as if his heart has shattered.
My kids. They are so beautiful. So unique, and funny, and special, and playful, and sweet, and clever, and pleasant, and just plain fun. I love them more than I ever realised was possible, in a way that I didn't really realise was possible, before they got here.
It's so scary, though. Terrifying. What if something happened to one of them? I can't even think it. My heart might stop, from fear alone. Everything they do, each new milestone they hit, is a cause for celebration, and panic. My eldest is at nursery now--3 hours every day, in the company of randoms, where I can't watch her, look out for her, take care of her. My youngest is walking, mostly across the couch--every time he falls, every time he tries to climb onto the windowsill, my stomach jumps up into my mouth.
I read in a book (the book wasn't even about kids/progeny/breeding, it was a one-paragraph conversation amid 300 pages of other topics) the statement by one of the character's that she'd never had kids because she, 'couldn't handle that kind of fear.' The author of the book must have children, to have been able to create a character with such a concisely-expressed, deeply-felt opinion on procreation.
I don't understand why it should be this way. How can the most wonderful thing you've ever done, cause you more fear and distress and pain than anything else in your entire life? My kids are so beautiful, and I love them so much. How *can* it be, that that equates to abject terror, as often as not? I'm not complaining. I'm not wishing things were different. I'm happy to worry over my kids, as much or even more than I worry about myself. I just... like all parents, I wish there were more guarantees. I wish I could know that they'd be safe, and happy, and healthy, and long-lived, and fulfilled.
My advice to anyone who's thinking about having children, is to make absolutely certain you have the emotional strength and resilience you'll need, before you even start trying.
Monday, 14 September 2009
Random Poetry?
It's not random at all. But I feel like posting a bit of poetry, and so I shall.
Pop Culture Love
Love: having the time of your life.
A movie told me so
And movies never lie.
You: more fun than a monkey-filled barrel,
Than dancing in the rain,
Or singing Christmas carols.
Love: compromise, that's not;
When you're happy doing what you should
To keep the thing you've got.
Me: a little bit reformed, remade.
The only boy I chase is you;
A light to foil my shade.
Love: making a whole, from 2 parts.
You, completing me;
Where do I start?
We: almost, less like 2; more 1.
And as the poets say,
We've only just begun.
It's been a sappy couple of days, and it may continue... we're gearing up for the holidays, the end of the year, now. I'd rather the year finished on a happier note, than not.
And I have so much love, sometimes, it just has to come bursting out of me. I don't mean love for any one person, although I do like to focus on one, for the purposes of blog entries and poems and the like; but primarily, the love that I feel is just the overwhelming love that I have for all of you, for everyone I love, for all my family members and friends (the two terms are not mutually exclusive by any means--they say friends are the family you choose for yourself, but if I'd had a choice, I'd have the same family I've got now, thanks, and they *are* my friends).
And, in keeping with the saying I've just quoted, my friends are as good as family.
I wouldn't trade any of you for anyone else's friends.
I love you, plural.
And I love *you*, singular. You know who you are.
Pop Culture Love
Love: having the time of your life.
A movie told me so
And movies never lie.
You: more fun than a monkey-filled barrel,
Than dancing in the rain,
Or singing Christmas carols.
Love: compromise, that's not;
When you're happy doing what you should
To keep the thing you've got.
Me: a little bit reformed, remade.
The only boy I chase is you;
A light to foil my shade.
Love: making a whole, from 2 parts.
You, completing me;
Where do I start?
We: almost, less like 2; more 1.
And as the poets say,
We've only just begun.
It's been a sappy couple of days, and it may continue... we're gearing up for the holidays, the end of the year, now. I'd rather the year finished on a happier note, than not.
And I have so much love, sometimes, it just has to come bursting out of me. I don't mean love for any one person, although I do like to focus on one, for the purposes of blog entries and poems and the like; but primarily, the love that I feel is just the overwhelming love that I have for all of you, for everyone I love, for all my family members and friends (the two terms are not mutually exclusive by any means--they say friends are the family you choose for yourself, but if I'd had a choice, I'd have the same family I've got now, thanks, and they *are* my friends).
And, in keeping with the saying I've just quoted, my friends are as good as family.
I wouldn't trade any of you for anyone else's friends.
I love you, plural.
And I love *you*, singular. You know who you are.
Saturday, 12 September 2009
D.I.Y
This is not an entry about do-it-yourself home renovation projects. It is, rather, an entry about a different acronym (or differing words, for the same acronym?). Either way, today's comments are not about my house, but rather, about my boyfriend.
The first thing I have to do, however, is give him a fake name, just like everybody else. Except my sister's boyfriend, who has been referred to by his actual name. Actually, I'm going to go change that. Be right back.
Ah. Much better. According to me, my sister's boyfriend is called Norbert.
ROFL.
And MY boyfriend shall henceforth be known--for the purposes of this blog, anyway--as Duncan. My boyfriend. Duncan. Like Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, but gayer (sorry Duncan). And so, onto today's acronymous title--Duncan Is Yummy.
:)
Right, I can actually stop there, if you guys want. What do you think? Shall I stop there? No, I think I'll keep going. I feel like being a bit nice today, mostly (but not entirely) because I've been a bit of a bitch over the weekend. In the interests of fairness/diplomacy/not boring to tears *everyone* who reads this, I shall limit myself to a short mention of the first 5 yummy features of, hehe, Duncan, which occur to me.
Right. My very first thought. His smile *smiles, as usual, every time she pictures it* He has a lovely, almost shy, slightly crooked smile; it's almost the opposite of the way everyone in my house smiles. Some people smile instantly, broadly, with their whole face--usually me, and usually the kiddlywinks, smile like that. My boyfriend's smile is, uncharacteristically for him, a more subtle affair; if he smiles properly, a full-faced grin, he's probably not smiling so much as laughing, and smiling by default. If he's simply smiling, though, it's a quiet little smile, the barest lifting of the left side of his slender pink mouth, a glimmer of small straight teeth and a hint of softness in eyes the colour of Brazilian blue apatite.
His eyes are the colour of Hugh Laurie's, actually, if that description works better for some of you. Gemstone blue, with gold and chocolate framing the pupils, little lightning bolts of contrast, to make the blue even bluer--eyes like wild forget-me-nots, sunshine-yellow centres surrounded by a burst of English summer sky (as opposed to a summer sky where I'm from, where the heat and fire of the sun bleaches the sky to a pale, washed-out remnant of the glory that was the winter sky). His eyes are not dark enough to be sapphires, or brilliant enough to be diamonds, or uncertain enough to be turquoise; they are blue, blue, blue, and only as bright as they are soft.
I think that counts as two things, and it's goes against my principles to have so much about Duncan's physical attributes, without mentioning the things that really count (although smile, well, that was kinda half-and-half, I like the way it looks because of what it implies, if you see what I mean). But. However. Moving on to something that matters a little more.
He is so nice. I know everybody says nice guys finish last (well of course they do, after their partner's gone half a dozen times) but all double-entendre-ing aside, sometimes, genuinely nice guys don't get the credit they deserve. Mind you, in my entire life, I've met about... well, I've just counted up 4, and 1 of them's a stretch. Of those 4, 1 *may* be married: the rest are currently single, or were single when I met them. I *love* nice boys. But genuinely nice--so nice you really don't like hurting people, so nice you find it easier to let something go than hold a grudge, nice without compromising the moral fibre that it takes to have a backbone and some principles--that kind of nice is exceptionally rare. I mean, most men who call themselves nice, are assholes masquerading as decent fellas, and they deserve what they get; but actually, they stand a fair chance with girls. It's the absolute angels among men, who get trampled all over. Or, no. They just get ignored. And finally, one day, something snaps inside them, and they either give up entirely on finding anyone, or decide to settle for the next thing that comes along (whatever it is) or, worst option of all, they turn into complete bastards. Bitter, unhappy, lonely little whinges, probably with a twitch and a hygiene problem.
Not my boyfriend. I found him in time. He has been unaltered, by the wretchedness of this world. He still *feels* things, as if he were a child, or an innocent. He's shiny, bright, sweet, clean. He is nice, nice, nice, his soul is as nice as his eyes are blue, and I love him if for no other reason than the fact that there's not one truly nasty, gleefully cruel bone in his entire body.
Right, 2 reasons to go, and it's not that I'm running out, it's that it's difficult to narrow it down at this stage...
Briefly. Briefly, I will mention the fact that he can read. He's, oh, something like a scientist, or a maths geek at the very least; but he understands English, he understands it well, no, very well, he has a thorough grasp of grammar and syntax and style, he can read things like Shakespeare without having to think too hard about it, and if he doesn't catch something I say/write, it's generally because I've said/written it badly. Which rarely happens, just so we're clear--but it's wonderful to have someone about, whose opinion I can trust. It's such a relief, a surprise, an unexpected pleasure, to know that there's someone around who is actually capable of correcting my grammar/word usage, and of comprehending any obscure words or archaic language I decide to use.
Oh thank GOD he can read.
Finally--and this may seem like a small thing, but I assure you, it is not--he kisses me all the time. He kisses me for no reason, for good reasons, for obvious reasons, for vague and unimaginable ones. He kisses me in private, and he kisses me in public. He kisses me no matter where we are, or who we're with. He kisses me sweetly, urgently, casually, passionately, affectionately, hungrily. He kisses me like he's drinking my breath, and he kisses me like he's breathing life into me. He kisses my hand, he kisses my neck, he kisses my cheek, he kisses my forehead. He kisses my breasts, he kisses my thighs, he kisses my sex and he kisses my feet. He kisses me in places *everyone* has kissed, and he kisses me in places *no one* has kissed. He kisses me like he can't help himself. He kisses me like he is just helping himself. He kisses me badly, beautifully, messily, skillfully. He kisses me until my lips are raw, and then he kisses me until they're soothed.
He kisses me all the time. Sometimes he just looks at me, and he's across the room before I realise what's coming, and then his lips are on mine and I forget what comes next anyway; and then he reminds me. He kisses me until I forget his name. He kisses me until I forget *my* name. He kisses me like we're the first people ever to kiss, in the history of everything, and he kisses me like he'll still be kissing me after everything ends. He kisses me like he can't get enough of me, like he'll never get enough of me, like there's no such thing *as* enough of me. He kisses me like it's the right thing to do, and the best thing to do, and the most fun thing to do, all at once. He kisses me, and he kisses me, and he kisses me, and then he kisses me.
He kisses me as if he knows, the nicest thing in the world, is being kissed like that. He kisses me as if he knows, when he kisses my skin, I feel it on my soul. He kisses me as if he can tell, somehow, that every touch of his lips on mine heals one more tiny fracture in the centre of my heart. He kisses me, as if he means to heal me, from the outside in.
Not that I need healing. I'm alright. I'm fine, as always; I am peachy-keen, jellybean.
But *if* I were in need of healing, soothing, fixing, renewing, kissing me like you can't live without me would probably be the way to go... And he seems to know that. Or he just does it, by instinct. Intuition. His own desperate need for touch, for love, for... me?
He's yummy. He is just so yummy. And he doesn't even realise it, most of the time... But I promise. I promise. I *promise*. He tastes so good, I'll never eat anything else, if he'll agree to stay on the menu.
The first thing I have to do, however, is give him a fake name, just like everybody else. Except my sister's boyfriend, who has been referred to by his actual name. Actually, I'm going to go change that. Be right back.
Ah. Much better. According to me, my sister's boyfriend is called Norbert.
ROFL.
And MY boyfriend shall henceforth be known--for the purposes of this blog, anyway--as Duncan. My boyfriend. Duncan. Like Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, but gayer (sorry Duncan). And so, onto today's acronymous title--Duncan Is Yummy.
:)
Right, I can actually stop there, if you guys want. What do you think? Shall I stop there? No, I think I'll keep going. I feel like being a bit nice today, mostly (but not entirely) because I've been a bit of a bitch over the weekend. In the interests of fairness/diplomacy/not boring to tears *everyone* who reads this, I shall limit myself to a short mention of the first 5 yummy features of, hehe, Duncan, which occur to me.
Right. My very first thought. His smile *smiles, as usual, every time she pictures it* He has a lovely, almost shy, slightly crooked smile; it's almost the opposite of the way everyone in my house smiles. Some people smile instantly, broadly, with their whole face--usually me, and usually the kiddlywinks, smile like that. My boyfriend's smile is, uncharacteristically for him, a more subtle affair; if he smiles properly, a full-faced grin, he's probably not smiling so much as laughing, and smiling by default. If he's simply smiling, though, it's a quiet little smile, the barest lifting of the left side of his slender pink mouth, a glimmer of small straight teeth and a hint of softness in eyes the colour of Brazilian blue apatite.
His eyes are the colour of Hugh Laurie's, actually, if that description works better for some of you. Gemstone blue, with gold and chocolate framing the pupils, little lightning bolts of contrast, to make the blue even bluer--eyes like wild forget-me-nots, sunshine-yellow centres surrounded by a burst of English summer sky (as opposed to a summer sky where I'm from, where the heat and fire of the sun bleaches the sky to a pale, washed-out remnant of the glory that was the winter sky). His eyes are not dark enough to be sapphires, or brilliant enough to be diamonds, or uncertain enough to be turquoise; they are blue, blue, blue, and only as bright as they are soft.
I think that counts as two things, and it's goes against my principles to have so much about Duncan's physical attributes, without mentioning the things that really count (although smile, well, that was kinda half-and-half, I like the way it looks because of what it implies, if you see what I mean). But. However. Moving on to something that matters a little more.
He is so nice. I know everybody says nice guys finish last (well of course they do, after their partner's gone half a dozen times) but all double-entendre-ing aside, sometimes, genuinely nice guys don't get the credit they deserve. Mind you, in my entire life, I've met about... well, I've just counted up 4, and 1 of them's a stretch. Of those 4, 1 *may* be married: the rest are currently single, or were single when I met them. I *love* nice boys. But genuinely nice--so nice you really don't like hurting people, so nice you find it easier to let something go than hold a grudge, nice without compromising the moral fibre that it takes to have a backbone and some principles--that kind of nice is exceptionally rare. I mean, most men who call themselves nice, are assholes masquerading as decent fellas, and they deserve what they get; but actually, they stand a fair chance with girls. It's the absolute angels among men, who get trampled all over. Or, no. They just get ignored. And finally, one day, something snaps inside them, and they either give up entirely on finding anyone, or decide to settle for the next thing that comes along (whatever it is) or, worst option of all, they turn into complete bastards. Bitter, unhappy, lonely little whinges, probably with a twitch and a hygiene problem.
Not my boyfriend. I found him in time. He has been unaltered, by the wretchedness of this world. He still *feels* things, as if he were a child, or an innocent. He's shiny, bright, sweet, clean. He is nice, nice, nice, his soul is as nice as his eyes are blue, and I love him if for no other reason than the fact that there's not one truly nasty, gleefully cruel bone in his entire body.
Right, 2 reasons to go, and it's not that I'm running out, it's that it's difficult to narrow it down at this stage...
Briefly. Briefly, I will mention the fact that he can read. He's, oh, something like a scientist, or a maths geek at the very least; but he understands English, he understands it well, no, very well, he has a thorough grasp of grammar and syntax and style, he can read things like Shakespeare without having to think too hard about it, and if he doesn't catch something I say/write, it's generally because I've said/written it badly. Which rarely happens, just so we're clear--but it's wonderful to have someone about, whose opinion I can trust. It's such a relief, a surprise, an unexpected pleasure, to know that there's someone around who is actually capable of correcting my grammar/word usage, and of comprehending any obscure words or archaic language I decide to use.
Oh thank GOD he can read.
Finally--and this may seem like a small thing, but I assure you, it is not--he kisses me all the time. He kisses me for no reason, for good reasons, for obvious reasons, for vague and unimaginable ones. He kisses me in private, and he kisses me in public. He kisses me no matter where we are, or who we're with. He kisses me sweetly, urgently, casually, passionately, affectionately, hungrily. He kisses me like he's drinking my breath, and he kisses me like he's breathing life into me. He kisses my hand, he kisses my neck, he kisses my cheek, he kisses my forehead. He kisses my breasts, he kisses my thighs, he kisses my sex and he kisses my feet. He kisses me in places *everyone* has kissed, and he kisses me in places *no one* has kissed. He kisses me like he can't help himself. He kisses me like he is just helping himself. He kisses me badly, beautifully, messily, skillfully. He kisses me until my lips are raw, and then he kisses me until they're soothed.
He kisses me all the time. Sometimes he just looks at me, and he's across the room before I realise what's coming, and then his lips are on mine and I forget what comes next anyway; and then he reminds me. He kisses me until I forget his name. He kisses me until I forget *my* name. He kisses me like we're the first people ever to kiss, in the history of everything, and he kisses me like he'll still be kissing me after everything ends. He kisses me like he can't get enough of me, like he'll never get enough of me, like there's no such thing *as* enough of me. He kisses me like it's the right thing to do, and the best thing to do, and the most fun thing to do, all at once. He kisses me, and he kisses me, and he kisses me, and then he kisses me.
He kisses me as if he knows, the nicest thing in the world, is being kissed like that. He kisses me as if he knows, when he kisses my skin, I feel it on my soul. He kisses me as if he can tell, somehow, that every touch of his lips on mine heals one more tiny fracture in the centre of my heart. He kisses me, as if he means to heal me, from the outside in.
Not that I need healing. I'm alright. I'm fine, as always; I am peachy-keen, jellybean.
But *if* I were in need of healing, soothing, fixing, renewing, kissing me like you can't live without me would probably be the way to go... And he seems to know that. Or he just does it, by instinct. Intuition. His own desperate need for touch, for love, for... me?
He's yummy. He is just so yummy. And he doesn't even realise it, most of the time... But I promise. I promise. I *promise*. He tastes so good, I'll never eat anything else, if he'll agree to stay on the menu.
Thursday, 10 September 2009
Important Update
I am *not* dying of liver failure. Nor anything else that would be picked up on a blood test.
I *am* still awaiting the results of my chest x-ray, though.
And just for the record, I have a really CONSTANT pain in what is vaguely my chest... or my back... or my throat... or my arm. But, you know. They're all *connected* to each other. It could be the same pain.
Like, you know. From RSI/Carpal Tunnel.
OR it could be...
Oh, just shut up, woman.
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
Hypochondria
It's a nasty... disorder?--hypochondriacs are those poor souls who are afflicted with the perpetual affliction of feeling perpetually afflicted, or something to that effect.
I am the Original Hypochondriac. I started this nonsense when I was young, and the trend has continued. I may *never* stop worrying about my health. On the other hand, I suppose it's unlikely that I'll die of some random, undiagnosed/too-late diagnosed illness.
That's kinda the point, really.
After all; who do my doctors think they are? *I* know how *I* feel. Don't I? Don't I? DON'T I???
And I've had the dubious good fortune to be right, once or twice in the past. I diagnosed myself with strep throat when I was 17, and my tonsils were so badly infected they had to come out, after I spent a week on super-antibiotics. I picked up my daughter's autism months before any of her healthcare professionals. I've told my sister on several occasions that she had an ear infection, and been right.
Of course, I've also been wrong. Like when I thought my son had a respiratory problem. Or when I thought my daughter had Rett's. Or any of the *number* of times I've diagnosed myself with cancer/leukemia/AIDS/HIV/MS/TB.
Or half of the times I've *thought* I had strep throat, and actually, it was just a bad case of sinusitis.
Or that time I thought I had a bladder infection, and didn't.
Or the 10+ pregnancy tests I've taken, and been wrong about (at least 2 of which were *after* I had my kids, and should really have known I wasn't).
Or with my numerous insistences that I *definitely* have cavities all over my teeth (my teeth are beautiful, the dentist always tells me so, and I *know* I look after my teeth better than 90% of the population).
Or that time I thought I had angina (that time? who am I trying to kid? I've mentioned it several times, to several different people, and the last time was earlier THIS WEEK).
Or that time I thought I had liver failure, no, not the time a week ago, the time when I was pregnant with my daughter, and the doctor just laughed at me.
Much like the time he laughed at me when I said I was tired all the time and had random bruises (I have 2 kids under the age of 3 at this point, who climb all over me and keep me up all hours, you realise) and when I said the L-word, he barely managed to get me out the door before he collapsed in a fit of somewhat exasperated mirth (he only sees me all the time because he thinks I'm first-rate entertainment...) He mostly thinks I'm full of crap.
Like, quite literally, that time I went to him about severe abdominal pains and a 'lump' in, what do you know, my large bowel, and he told me I was constipated (as opposed to dying of bowel cancer... we did that fun again last month with a nurse practitioner, by the way...)
Or the time I went for a chest x-ray, and the radiographer didn't ask me to stay a bit longer for a chat, and didn't call me the next day, and didn't want to biopsy my lung, and didn't call me or send anything in the post after 10 days OH WAIT THAT'S RIGHT NOW...
The thing is, I only do this every 6 months or so. I can have a general healthcheck that often. It's something like sensible, especially since I genuinely can't tell a worrying symptom from a normal ache or pain. If I keep my smears up to date (they are) visit the doctor any time I have a pain that lasts longer than a month (I do) and force them to explain to me *exactly* why I don't have Swine Flu/Malaria/Sleeping Sickness/Ebola (the doctors are sick of me, but very tolerant) then, for 5-6 months in between, I can chill out.
But for godsake. I wish they'd just do a yearly check-up, like we do back home. I felt *much* healthier, then. Or at least, my spaz-outs lasted a day or two, and then went away again.
I've been convinced I'm dying for 2 weeks or more. It's a bit stressful.
Sometimes I just wanna go home.
I am the Original Hypochondriac. I started this nonsense when I was young, and the trend has continued. I may *never* stop worrying about my health. On the other hand, I suppose it's unlikely that I'll die of some random, undiagnosed/too-late diagnosed illness.
That's kinda the point, really.
After all; who do my doctors think they are? *I* know how *I* feel. Don't I? Don't I? DON'T I???
And I've had the dubious good fortune to be right, once or twice in the past. I diagnosed myself with strep throat when I was 17, and my tonsils were so badly infected they had to come out, after I spent a week on super-antibiotics. I picked up my daughter's autism months before any of her healthcare professionals. I've told my sister on several occasions that she had an ear infection, and been right.
Of course, I've also been wrong. Like when I thought my son had a respiratory problem. Or when I thought my daughter had Rett's. Or any of the *number* of times I've diagnosed myself with cancer/leukemia/AIDS/HIV/MS/TB.
Or half of the times I've *thought* I had strep throat, and actually, it was just a bad case of sinusitis.
Or that time I thought I had a bladder infection, and didn't.
Or the 10+ pregnancy tests I've taken, and been wrong about (at least 2 of which were *after* I had my kids, and should really have known I wasn't).
Or with my numerous insistences that I *definitely* have cavities all over my teeth (my teeth are beautiful, the dentist always tells me so, and I *know* I look after my teeth better than 90% of the population).
Or that time I thought I had angina (that time? who am I trying to kid? I've mentioned it several times, to several different people, and the last time was earlier THIS WEEK).
Or that time I thought I had liver failure, no, not the time a week ago, the time when I was pregnant with my daughter, and the doctor just laughed at me.
Much like the time he laughed at me when I said I was tired all the time and had random bruises (I have 2 kids under the age of 3 at this point, who climb all over me and keep me up all hours, you realise) and when I said the L-word, he barely managed to get me out the door before he collapsed in a fit of somewhat exasperated mirth (he only sees me all the time because he thinks I'm first-rate entertainment...) He mostly thinks I'm full of crap.
Like, quite literally, that time I went to him about severe abdominal pains and a 'lump' in, what do you know, my large bowel, and he told me I was constipated (as opposed to dying of bowel cancer... we did that fun again last month with a nurse practitioner, by the way...)
Or the time I went for a chest x-ray, and the radiographer didn't ask me to stay a bit longer for a chat, and didn't call me the next day, and didn't want to biopsy my lung, and didn't call me or send anything in the post after 10 days OH WAIT THAT'S RIGHT NOW...
The thing is, I only do this every 6 months or so. I can have a general healthcheck that often. It's something like sensible, especially since I genuinely can't tell a worrying symptom from a normal ache or pain. If I keep my smears up to date (they are) visit the doctor any time I have a pain that lasts longer than a month (I do) and force them to explain to me *exactly* why I don't have Swine Flu/Malaria/Sleeping Sickness/Ebola (the doctors are sick of me, but very tolerant) then, for 5-6 months in between, I can chill out.
But for godsake. I wish they'd just do a yearly check-up, like we do back home. I felt *much* healthier, then. Or at least, my spaz-outs lasted a day or two, and then went away again.
I've been convinced I'm dying for 2 weeks or more. It's a bit stressful.
Sometimes I just wanna go home.
Monday, 7 September 2009
Stygian Gloom, Revisited
Awesome :) I'm really pleased--my sister has decided to give our friend Norbert another chance.
This is most uplifting news. I had thought she was being maybe just a *tad* hasty, and perhaps she has rethought things, and come to the same conclusion herself. I hope everything goes well for them... *sigh* I am just a walking cliche, lately, but isn't love lovely?
And. Welcome back, Norbert. We're glad to still have you around.
Peace.
This is most uplifting news. I had thought she was being maybe just a *tad* hasty, and perhaps she has rethought things, and come to the same conclusion herself. I hope everything goes well for them... *sigh* I am just a walking cliche, lately, but isn't love lovely?
And. Welcome back, Norbert. We're glad to still have you around.
Peace.
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