Bad Truck Karma, I Guess

Yesterday was Truck Day in Crazy Land. Late yesterday afternoon, I got a call from the Branch Manager in Virginia to report the theft of one of our trucks from our client's site. They noticed it missing yesterday morning, but thought it might be "lost." They searched everywhere, he told me, and finally decided to report the truck stolen. I got Branch Manager's call a couple of hours later. He wanted to know if there was anything else he should do. Well, yes. That's why we have insurance.

It's 10:00 o'clock and I have now spent two hours trying to find the correct person to talk with at our insurance company. I still don't have it. By the time I get that information, they'll have already found the stupid truck. This isn't even something I do. I'm the Workers' Comp person, not the Liability, Business Auto, everything else person. Nonetheless, if I get a call about any of those issues, I'm duty bound to take care of it. I hate it that I'm so responsible and accommodating.

The other big truck news from yesterday involved our 1986 flat bed truck. We have four flatbeds in town, but the other three are in use at clients' sites. We've have a project in a city about 40 miles from here that requires some (apparently) rather large items from our warehouse. I didn't even know we still have a warehouse.

The Ladies' Man had some help getting everything loaded up on the truck and set off to the client's site. He got there, but as he drove into the parking lot, the elderly truck gave up the ghost. Ladies' Man tried several times to start it, but had no luck. Unfortunately for him, he had to get Loathsome involved at that point.

Loathsome's solution was to get in his own truck and head on out to try to jump start it. That didn't work, either. I saw them both arrive here at the office around 2:00, when the temperature was somewhere in the upper 90's and the heat index around 100 degrees. Ladies' Man left his truck, got into Loathsome's and off they went. LM looked like he might prefer to have a stroke or massive cardiac event.

They drove the 40 miles back to the parking lot, unloaded whatever it was they had on the flatbed and loaded into other trucks (not flatbeds). This morning, the flatbed is still taking up way too much space in our client's parking lot. Both the Ladies' Man and Loathsome are completely humiliated.

Another hour has come and gone. I've just had my fourth phone call with our insurance rep who still can't tell me who the go to person is for my auto claim. It feels like home. Crazy Land is everywhere.

Something Helpless

Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are but princesses that are waiting to see us act just once with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest essence, something helpless that needs our love.
-Rainer Maria Rilke

We habitually erect a barrier called blame that keeps us from communicating genuinely with others, and we fortify it with our concepts of who's right and who's wrong. We do that with the people who are closest to us and we do it with political systems, with all kinds of things that we don't like about our associates or our society. It is a very common, ancient, well-perfected device for trying to feel better. Blame others. Blaming is a way to protect your heart, trying to protect what is soft and open and tender in yourself. Rather than own that pain, we scramble to find some comfortable ground.
- Pema Chodron, In the Gap Between Right and Wrong

Living in the Crazy Land Demilitarized Zone

Christopher Knight. A guy who's made a surprisingly successful career out of having absolutely nothing to offer.

I, on the other hand, am living in Crazy Land. Where are you living? Wouldn't you like to have a fabulous career as You?

Crazy Land has turned into the Mekong Delta of the business world. My office is the official Demilitarized Zone. Is there a war? Sorry. I don't want to play.

The tension in the office is so high that the minute I walk in the door, it feels like a steamroller mowing me down. By the end of the day, I'm depressed and exhausted from it. I've been coming home and crying to release stress. And doing yoga. And doing weights. And cumbia!

Owner and Mr. Moneybags are at each other constantly. Doors are ominously closed, day after day. In the morning, the Information Superhighway fills me in on the latest skirmish.

Some of my favorite characters (though not necessarily people I particularly want to hang out with) are going--Foot Lady, our lovely and brilliant receptionist whom I truly love, and...Crazy Employee. I'm a little ambivalent about Crazy. Let's face it--her antics can be quite amusing. On the other hand, I have to office right next to her and she is crazy.

I'm too tired tonight to tell the long and complicated war story. I'm also attempting to tame my own issues so that I can think about it clearly. Thinking about the uselessness of Christopher Knight is about all I can muster right now.

NBA Championship...and Tim Russert

Proving once again that Kobe Bryant is completely lacking in leadership skills. Without a doubt, he should never ever be compared to Michael Jordan. The Celtics relentlessly shut him down.

You have to wonder if this will spell the end of Kobe's relationship with the Lakers. It's far more palatable to say offensive things about management when you bring home an NBA Championship. If I had to guess, I'd say it's bye-bye to the "greatest player on the planet."

The Lakers collapsed as if they'd been sucked into a black hole of basketball. Aside from my fondness for Luke Walton, very little could make me happier. Danny Ainge, Doc Rivers, Paul Pierce, Kevin Garnett and all the other Celtics (especially the "old" guys, like Sam Cassell and P.J. Brown) absolutely made my month. If only the Lakers could have shown up to play a competitive game. Obviously I'm thrilled about the Celtics' win, but ultimately I'm always on the side of a great game.

On a less jubilant note, could we please stop with the canonization of Tim Russert? Of course, I'm sorry about his untimely death. I'm sorry for his loved ones, friends and co-workers. But people die every day who are much younger and who've had far less fulfilling lives.

I watched Tim Russert for a while. I found him lacking in intellectual rigor. Calling his interview with W. a series of softballs would be an enormous understatement. I never watched him again. His reputation amongst other news people as an unbiased, independent thinker is baffling to me.

If we wished to celebrate the life of a great conservative thinker, we should have devoted more time to William F. Buckley. He was brilliant, an original. I rarely agreed with his positions, but I watched his weekly show for years. Maybe that's part of my resentment of the relentless coverage of Russert's death. I respected Buckley and was dazzled by his intellect. I never saw him suck up to anyone he interviewed or debated.

Enough of my little tirade, though. On the Crazy Land front, we'll be a little less nutty soon. I'll update as events unfold.

Cumbia

I've been missing in action for a while because there are a lot of things going on in Crazy Land. I'm still puzzling out what I feel comfortable writing about in that regard.

Here's something I can talk about--I did one of my salsa exercise dvds on Friday and rediscovered the joy of working out. I had such fun! It's been three years since I've been able to use any of my dance work out dvds. It was breathtaking! I may be phasing out the bike on Fridays so I can have more fun doing cardio work. Until last Friday, my weekly schedule was weights on Mondays, yoga on Wednesdays (I recently switched from power yoga to gentle yoga) and the bike for 30 minutes on Fridays.

Hubby points out that I may lose some ground after surgery in July. No one is more aware of that than I. It may not be that bad, though. After my joyous workout on Friday, I decided I definitely won't have the donor site surgery. I think the other stuff is "minor" enough that recovery won't be too long and hard.

I'm helping to answer the phones this morning because we're missing several people. I need more endorphins. Maybe I'll just Cumbia around my office a couple of times.

Yes, I'm tired. I just spent 45 minutes with Mr. Moneybags and the Superhighway, listening to their summary of the two hour meeting they had with Owner yesterday. The onslaught of anger sucked the life right out of me.

We're having another birthday party today. I expect Owner to be in an exceptionally foul mood, given the past two days he's spent listening to how dire our future is if we don't cut expenses. We're having my favorite for lunch--seafood. At this moment, though, I'm not sure if grilled rainbow trout is worth all the trouble. You know it has to be bad when I can't even find any hope for sardonic humor in the situation or in the prospect of having pie.

On the up side, it's NBA night. Go Celtics.

The Crazy Land Carnival Ride

I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed this week. It's a combination of things--the upcoming surgery and a veritable avalanche of Crazy Land projects, all large and viciously complex. I note a return of the crying behavior, but not quite as bad as the long crying jag of recent vintage.

Enough of that, though. Here in Crazy Land, we're feeling the economic pinch. Of course, that's always been the nature of our business. The proverbial feast or famine. These are the leanest of times, primarily because of a top-heavy corporate staff and a dwindling contractor base as our clients scurry off to Asia where the labor is cheap, the environmental regulations nonexistent.

Accordingly, Mr. Moneybags and the Information Superhighway had a meeting with Owner yesterday. If the Accounting Office were a small village, it would be razed and smoldering from the onslaught. I'm intimately familiar with Owner's slash and burn marathon management style. I've spent many hours poring over invoices and expenses. When I was the sole employee, entire days used to be devoted to sitting in Owner's office as he worked himself into a frenzy of cost cutting.

He's demanded an armload of documents. Moneybags and the Superhighway are exhausted from merely keeping track of the action items. By the time the meeting was over, they both felt personally assaulted. Sometimes Owner's anxiety expresses itself as anger. Woe to those who must sit in an office with him as he works through his stress.

Meanwhile, the City Utility service has been digging up the side street next to our building. We weren't able to even empty the dumpster for a month. The truck couldn't get access to our parking lot. They've also been digging up the freshly laid sod across the street that runs in front of our building, after a year of excavation and construction of a park, a lake, expensive and "affordable" homes, a very large strip mall and some medical facilities thrown in for good measure. The dearth of planning by the Utility department has infuriated me for years. I can go on about it just as long as I can rant and rave about the death penalty and toll roads. Ask my husband. He's spent hours trapped in cars with me while I railed on and on and on.

The dust has almost killed some of us off. We have several people who suffer from asthma who've been through multiple bouts of bronchitis brought on by the endless digging. They finally installed the new sewer lines, though, and the City is now reconstructing the side road. The machinery they use to accomplish this has been shaking the building. All day long we've been treated to a rumbling sound and intermittent vibration. I shudder to think what it must be like on the ground floor. It's a little like trying to type while sitting on one of those old vibrating beds.

Finally. Crazy Land is now a very large carnival ride. Strap on your seat belts and hang on.

Surgery, Round Four

I've been complaining for weeks about not hearing from Dr. Kronowitz to set a surgery date. Yesterday, Brenda left a message on the machine requesting that I call her to discuss Dr. K's schedule. I was immediately plunged into depression.

I don't have to do this. I could allow the necrotic tissue to remain. Dr. Kronowitz suggested doing some scar revision on the tummy tuck. He said the scars might come back, though, and it will definitely be painful. I tried to think clearly about it last night, to determine whether I'd be sorry if I didn't do either one.

The brain was already hunkered down, trying to steel the body for the coming onslaught. I'm familiar with the mental strength that must be marshaled to get through the pain, though it most certainly will be pain of a variety I've already experienced.

At this moment, I don't think I can stand another abdominal surgery. Certainly a few more steroid injections might help with the pain I still experience over both of my hips. I plan to ask Brenda about whether surgery ultimately will be more efficacious in resolving this chronic pain. My guess is that it won't.

I can't speculate on how much of a toll surgery will take on my energy level, which is being managed relatively well with Ritalin. I need to carry on with my life and that requires that I'm not burdened with insurmountable fatigue.

I've worked so hard the past several months to regain strength, stamina and mobility. I wonder how much will remain after the surgery. Of course, I will start rebuilding again as soon as I'm able. Right now, I need to come to terms with the loss.

I can elect to move on and leave things as they are. I regularly remind myself of that fact. Just as regularly, my thought process shuts down. I know I will have the necrotic tissue removed. I like to think that in the dissociative silence settling over me that my brain is sending messages to this body beaten down by three years of medical assault. It's reminding the body that I can get through this.

Day Trip to Loathsome Village

I spent the first part of my day yesterday in Loathsome Village. It's still a relatively small outpost in Crazy Land, but we have to add more space on from time to time in order to accommodate Loathsome's ever growing sense of self importance.

Around 7:30, Loathsome loomed in the doorway to my office. No time for pleasantries.

"Do you have a computer?"

Since I was sitting right in front of one, I wasn't sure I'd heard the question correctly.

"What?"

"I don't have a computer," he said. Yes, he does. I was bewildered. After some prodding and guessing, I determined that he wasn't able to log onto his computer. I told him mine was working fine and, not having gotten the answer he was looking for, he continued standing in my doorway, periodically mumbling, "Huh?" He loves to do that. Whenever anyone says something to him, his first response is always "huh."

"Do you want me to come look at it?" I asked. I was screwed either way, so I thought I might as well get it over with.

It took a little while for me to find a way for him to log onto his computer so he could work until IT Boy decided to show up. Loathsome stood looking over my shoulder the whole time, periodically asking me if the computer had just executed some action without a prompt from me. If that were possible, every computer he's ever worked with would have permanently shut down immediately after it realized who was using it.

I started to restore the computer to a previous date, but then Loathsome mentioned something about "a bug" he'd picked up around the web. It might have been good if he'd mentioned that before I attempted to start it not in Safe Mode. I restored to a more distant date, then checked his Internet Security setup.

The firewall was off. I pointed out to him that the firewall should always be on. That way we don't get "bugs." It's kind of like putting one of those toilet seat covers on before you use the bathroom in public restrooms. It's the Larry Craig explanation. Since Loathsome would probably tell you that he, too, has a "wide stance," I figured it would be an analogy he would understand.

"I don't ever do anything to my computer." He seemed a little defensive. I don't care whether he does or not. I simply wanted to get out of the Village of the Loathsome and back to my sanctuary.

I told him he was up and running, able to access his holy email account, until IT Boy arrived. He was gracious enough to say thank you, but by the time I'd gotten back to my office, I decided somebody needs to pay me some extra money for that. Could be Loathsome, could be IT Boy, could be the company as a whole (combat pay). Every time I walk into that office, another 10 years gets whacked off my lifespan so somebody needs to compensate me for it.

Before I go any farther, I forgot one of my aunts. Her name was Dan and she was also dead by the time I was born.

So the family in which insanity runs rampant is not necessarily a source of reliable information. I never knew many of my aunts and uncles (even those who were alive as I was growing up). The following is the bare outline of my grandmother's life, gleaned from tales by my father and some of my aunts. I decided that, if there was a general consensus, it was probably more likely than not to be true.

My grandmother, Blanche, lived with us off and on several times. She made me feel safe, because up until the butcher knife episode, my father was never violent around her. She was completely lacking in social graces, a tough and stoic woman. I admired her stoicism and I tried to develop it in myself. I was ungodly successful.

Blanche always liked boys more than girls. I was a special grandchild, because she liked me anyway, even though I was born without the proper equipment. Her sons were alternately coddled and neglected. How could they not have been neglected when there were so many children and such economic deprivation? The coddling is another thing altogether. I think it brought out the worst in all of her male children. None of them ever seemed to truly grow up and, at the slightest sign of trouble (which they generally created themselves) in their lives, every last one of them went running home to mommy.

The first three or four children were already grown by the time my father and the second set of spawn arrived. My grandmother already knew the consequences of breeding with my grandfather, but she did it, anyway. After the second group, he predictably left and sent no money for their care. I always wondered how such a forceful, fierce, tough woman would allow that to happen twice. They supported themselves by picking cotton. Picking cotton stories were staples of my early life. My father used them to make me feel guilty for not having to do it myself. He wasn't only being manipulative; they all tended to feel incredibly sorry for themselves. It was the basis of my dad's entire life. He was happily pitiable in most every aspect of his life.

My dad reported to me that he once saw Blanche in bed with a man other than my grandfather. I have no idea whether that's true. If it is, it's not surprising in the least. Knowing my grandmother, she might have done it just to spite my grandfather. He also told me that he once heard my grandmother and Sis concocting a plan to murder his dad. My dad seemed to be angry about that, but frankly, after the first round of kids, I would probably have hunted his sorry ass down and killed him myself. Or maybe I'd have made him wish I'd killed him.

Blanche (according to relatively independent sources) hated her youngest daughter, Ruby. My grandmother knew that her husband was sexually using the child and, of course, held it against her, not my monstrous grandfather. I learned this after my grandmother was dead, so I didn't have a chance to hold it against her.

My grandfather was the first in a family populated by male sadists. He never let my grandmother have any shoes and, on one occasion, when one of my aunts gave grandma a pair of hers, my grandfather beat her for her generosity. My grandmother and grandfather eventually divorced. My grandfather remarried and treated his second wife with much more respect than his first. I don't think they ever had any children and I know absolutely nothing about my step-grandmother.

Other than that, I know very little about Blanche. I know she consistently cut the sleeves out of every single dress she ever owned, no matter how much they cost or how weird they looked without sleeves. She really loved fig newtons. My grandmother developed two addictions (other than the one she had to my grandfather) as she grew older. Along with virtually everyone else in the country, she never missed an episode of "Dallas." She was addicted to soaps generally and, for the longest time, thought that Detective Mike Carr on the Guiding Light was a real guy. We had long conversations about him when I was a little girl. Blanche was devastated when Mike left the show and she wondered about his whereabouts for years.

She also developed a deep and abiding love of chihuahuas. After I was around 12, I never knew my grandmother to be without one. I believe they were all males. Blanche really liked guinea hens and kept some tied up in the backyard whenever that was possible under city code. They never held a candle to chihuahuas, though. Luckily, for years we had about a hundred of them running around our backyard and she could always take the pick of the numberless litters.

After I grew up, I tried to get her to tell me about her life. I was not successful, so I can only count on the stories I heard from her various children. Of course, I had personal knowledge of the chihuahuas and the soaps, the sleeveless dresses and the Newtons.

I'll go through what I know about the siblings next week.

You Ask About My Father's Childhood

You asked about my father's childhood. I can give an incomplete and not necessarily thoroughly accurate account. The truth is, there's no one from whom those facts can be obtained. No one in my father's family was completely trustworthy. Only one of his siblings is still living, the uncle who sexually assaulted me numerous times. I'm not certain he's still alive, but as of ten years ago, he was the only one left. I would never ask anything of him.

I'm going to try to remember the names of his brothers and sisters, though the names I knew them by were nicknames or terms of endearment my grandmother used. The sisters: Jewel, Sis (I never knew her name), Eddie, Ruby, Audrey. The brothers: Frank, Melvin, and Jack. Eddie and Frank died before I was born.

When I say that the family wasn't trustworthy, I don't mean that they were all liars (though they might have been). I mean that mental illness touched all of them, that their singular and shared histories were heavily colored by that illness.

My grandmother was orphaned when she was a girl, along with a brother with whom she was very close. I'm not sure how she lost her parents, but I believe there was a fire. I think she had other siblings who also died. Blanche, my grandmother, and her brother Ernest were sent off to an orphanage and ultimately farmed out to various families where they functioned essentially as indentured servants. I can't imagine the treatment they must have endured.

My grandmother married the son of one of those families. I think his family was well-to-do. Or maybe they only thought they were. My grandfather was ultimately disowned, but I don't know why. I don't know how old my grandmother was when she married. I don't even know my grandfather's first name.

Jack, Sis and Eddie were the first set of children born. There was a significant amount of time between the first children and the second group. My grandfather fulfilled his responsibilities to both sets in exactly the same way: he left. He always found a need to work elsewhere, leaving his wife and children to sharecrop in order to survive. Though my grandfather was working, he never sent money to his family. It was a harsh survival. Many times they had nothing to eat, they had very little clothing and it was probably not in the best condition. My dad said that he and his family were ridiculed at school because of their financial circumstances. I have no way of knowing whether that's true. I think it's just as likely that they were ostracized and made fun of because they were crazy. Who knows.

Both of my grandparents were brutal disciplinarians. One of my father's ears was permanently injured from my grandmother's penchant for twisting the kids' ears as punishment. According to several of my aunts and uncles, my grandmother would throw or strike with anything that was handy: a frying pan, a piece of wood for the stove. She had a savage temper.

I don't have any specific tales about my grandfather's disciplinary techniques other than that my father couldn't bear to bring himself to discuss it. I believe that he sexually abused all of his children. My father had a dark secret that he wished to share only with me after I became an adult. I heard him once speak to my (abusive) uncle about him, saying, "You don't know what he did to me."

What I know is that sexual and physical abuse ran rampant in my family. Perhaps my grandmother was sexually abusive, too. I think that's a distinct possibility.

I can't continue at the moment. Sometimes when I think about my father's family, I'm emotionally overwhelmed. I was very, very close to my grandmother. I can't tell you how it pains me to believe her capable of that behavior. So on that note, I have to stop. With any luck, I'll be able to continue the tale tomorrow.

Lone Wolf in Crazy Land

This weekend, I made a bold and daring move: I bought a manual for FileMaker (my relational database software). Of course, this goes against all the unspoken tenets of Crazy Land. If it makes work easier, you must not take that option. Crazy Land requires the single most irrational problem solving method available.

I taught myself a great deal, but a little help has greatly expanded my knowledge base. I can reach new heights of user-efficiency and simplicity. As a result, I'm having even more fun than usual.

I have breached the rules. I'm anticipating that, as soon as someone finds out, I will be separated from the pack. Wolves aren't really loners, despite the myth to the contrary. However, in Crazy Land, one of the wolves always stands away from the pack. Wonder who that could be?

Priorities and the Crazy Land Pool

I'm busy working these days, so I've missed visiting friends' websites and responding to email/comments. Have they no sense of priorities in Crazy Land? Obviously not. I hope to return to my regular schedule very soon.

My only comment today is that, if Charles Barkley says a team is going to win, never ever select that team as the winner in the office pool. Rules to live by.

Twiddling My Thumbs in Crazy Land

I have another client survey to complete this week and, as usual, I need information from Mr. Moneybags. I'm psyching up to twiddle thumbs. The 3 day rule must be enforced, for whatever reason. When the waiting time is predictable, does it make it any easier? No. I'm breathing deeply while twiddling.

In the meantime, allow me to entertain myself with a recount of a short run-in with Loathsome that took place on Friday. He was at the copier as I passed by on my way to the Information Superhighway's office.

"Well, hello, Ms. Ggirl." He always calls me that.

"Hey Loathsome. How's your mom?" His mom broke her hip a couple of weeks ago. This is a diversionary tactic. I try to get him to talk about something that won't drive me crazy and hope I can wrap it up before he starts telling me about his latest proposal. Or how busy he is being a manager. Or, God help me, how well-dressed he is today.

He filled me in on the latest then, attempting to engage in normal human conversation, he asked,
"So how did things go at...." Loathsome mumbles at this point, as if he can't quite bring himself to focus on someone else enough to actually know where I went. Maybe he's one of those people who's superstitious about things like cancer: say the words "M.D. Anderson" and get struck with prostate cancer next week. Who knows. I couldn't begin to speculate on Loathsome's motivations.

"Did they check your gallbladder?" He smiles knowingly. Loathsome is convinced that my fatigue is related to a diseased gallbladder. If you check your WebMD website, you will find absolutely no reference to fatigue as a symptom for any gallbladder-related illness. It's downright shocking, really, given his "medical background" (orderly in state psychiatric hospital in the early 1960's) that I didn't specifically ask about the potential gallbladder issues. He also finds it shocking that my Internal Medicine doctor didn't mention it at all.

Time for another diversionary tactic. Luckily, I'm quick on my feet.

"They prescribed Ritalin while we wait for the test results," I volunteered. There's still hope for
the gallbladder result, so he's happy to move on. Loathsome proceeds to give me his version of the history of Ritalin use in psychiatric patients. He explains that it's now used for kids with ADHD.

I stand around patiently, smiling and nodding. I occasionally throw in an "Oh really?" or a "Wow" because I know I'm not going anywhere until I acknowledge his incredible knowledge base. After what seems like an eternity, while casting pleading glances at Superhighway, who can see me from her office, she throws me a line. I slide on past Loathsome, who knows that when the Information Superhighway calls, it's probably something more pressing than my personal problems.

Now that I think about it, deep breathing and thumb twiddling don't seem like such a huge waste of time, after all.

Happy Birthday, Daddy

I almost forgot. Happy birthday, Dad. I'm still angry. I'm still heartbroken. I'm still wounded. I'm still haunted. I still love you, anyway.

You're the only father I'll ever have. I wish everything could have been different, that you could have been different. Nonetheless, without you, there would have been no me. For better or worse.

Thank you for the gifts you gave me, even though they were harsh gifts. Thank you for the many lessons in compassion. You had a terrible life, that I'm sure of. I celebrate your will to survive, at whatever cost. I celebrate your talent and intelligence.

In the infinite, numinous universe, we have always been in agreement. You were the Buddha sent to teach me. I hope I learned those lessons well. I hope you're finally proud of me.

I miss your craziness. I mostly miss the hope that I could understand your pain, that I could heal you of your suffering.

Happy birthday, Daddy.

Ritalin

Clink. Clink clink. Clink. Clink clink clink. A teenager sat to my left, opening and closing windows at the speed of light on the public computer. Her bangle bracelets jangled together every time she moved her arm. A couple of men of Middle Eastern descent walked arm in arm from the elevator area to Nuclear Medicine, on the far side of Internal Medicine, where I sat, waiting. They passed in front of me ten times in the two hours I waited for my appointment. I never could figure out where they were going or why they had to keep leaving and coming back. I wasn't nervous about it; I was puzzled. Over the two hours, four people wandered up to the coffee machine, some of them stood there and looked at the empty carafe for a few minutes before they left. Others actually attempted to make coffee, going so far as to remove the coffee basket, only to find that the filters and coffee were nowhere to be found. Being a pro, I knew they were locked in drawers under the cabinet.

Two hours. My appointment with the Internal Medicine physician began to seem like an incredibly stupid idea. I'd already completed the 50 page (no, seriously) questionnaire within the first half hour. Why wouldn't I get up, leave the questionnaire and drive home? Why wouldn't I just continue to be exhausted? I was getting ready to check myself out when they called my name.

I'd handed over my completed questionnaire an hour earlier, but no one could locate it. I guess a search party was organized. They found it about ten minutes after I'd been sitting in the tiny exam room, still contemplating whether I could get up and leave. I knew the exam was going to be lengthy, because I had two scheduled, back to back. I had the Advanced Nurse Practitioner, then the Internal Medicine doctor. I was almost certain there would be blood work, which would mean I'd have to probably wait another 45 minutes in the lab area. Then there would be a four hour ride home.

Fatigue is hard to quantify. On the questionnaire they asked things like, "How much does your fatigue interfere with your ability to clean the house?" Please define the word "interfere" in this context. "Can you walk around the block?" Yes, but then I have to lie down for two hours. There was no place on the form to note the toll the walk would take. I can do virtually everything, but there is an energy cost and it's high. They attempt to quantify by assigning numbers to all of the answers and adding them up so that you fall into a range of fatigue levels.

Luckily, my new doctor didn't rely only on the answers to the questions. The nurse and I talked for about 45 minutes, then I spent another hour with Dr. Escalante. It was worth the wait. She listened to me, prompted me when she needed more information, then examined me. She ordered lab work.

Dr. Escalante reminded me that long-term fatigue is very common among breast cancer survivors and it's more likely for those of us who've had multi-modal treatment. That's a fancy way of saying that they've beaten me down with chemo, radiation and four surgeries. Of course I'm tired. There are some new research studies underway to try to determine why this is so, what internal mechanisms are factors in creating fatigue, but no one knows exactly why right now. Dr. Escalante acknowledged that I'm doing everything I can to improve my quality of life, so she suggested another alternative.

My new anti-fatigue drug is Ritalin. The other drug they use is something called ProVigil, which is FDA-approved for treatment of narcolepsy. I understand why that works, I think. I fall asleep sitting up, using the bathroom, anywhere I have a moment of inactivity. It's supposed to help with chemobrain, too. Some days I'm able to think clearly, but mostly not. I'm in a perpetual fog.

I got home around 11:00 Monday night. Wednesday night there was a terrible storm. We're still dealing with the aftereffects. It's been a long, long week. I can't feel any upsurge in energy since I started Ritalin. Next week, I'll tell you about Loathsome's take on the fatigue issue. You're going to love it.

Tattoo

It was a standard-issue M.D. Anderson day: Arrive early and wait...and wait...and wait. I thought I had an appointment with Dr. K.'s nurse to have myself tattooed. Brenda and I had a difference of opinion, though. I wondered why she never appeared on my schedule. We had a couple of phone conversations about it, but she neglected to pencil me in. After about 30 minutes of waiting as she scurried around getting the necessary approvals, we got down to the ink.

It took a couple of hours to finish, including the prep time spent finding the right colors, drawing the template, etc. There were a couple of areas where I had some pain, but I'm virtually completely numb. In case you don't know, scabs will form that must not be disturbed or the color will come off with them. I can't wear a bra for 5 days and I have to apply Aquaphor twice a day. I hated to see the jar of Aquaphor. They gave me that during chemo to stave off the sores on my hands, but it did absolutely no good. My brain automatically rejects everything that was related to chemo.

So here I am at work, bra-less. Being a member of the groovy generation, I used to go without a bra rather frequently, before propriety and gravity asserted themselves. I don't think, even in my youth, that I ever showed up at a job lacking adequate foundation garments. Today I wore a large NBA tee shirt from the year the Phoenix Suns were in the Finals, but the Aquaphor almost immediately created a dark round spot the exact size of the tattoo (or aureole). I'm not sure how I'm going to get through the rest of the week. I simply don't have that many XL tee shirts, even of the NBA variety (of which I have quite a few).

The other issue is one of bounce. The girls are pretty perky and, no matter how slowly and carefully I walk, they tend to move around a bit. The thought that Loathsome or Mr. Moneybags glimpsing the girls actually moving makes me a little queasy.

There's ever so much more to share; the day actually went downhill from there. However, in my absence, Crazy Employee has managed to make part of one of the databases malfunction. I can't figure out how she did it. She's gifted, I suppose.

Due to database repair and exhaustion, Part Deux tomorrow.

Shower in Crazy Land

We're having an off-site bridal shower today for one of our Crazy Land employees. I am so not in the mood. Nothing like spending a couple of hours with Crazy Employee and the Foot Lady. Obviously, I need to work on cultivating a more positive attitude about this.

The Information Superhighway, the Ladies' Man and I just spent about ninety minutes talking about the Superhighway's husband. He still hasn't gotten a job, but he suggested last night that they drive a friend of theirs to Canada, then come back via the East Coast. Yes, that's sane.

Hemorrhoid Guy is out playing golf with Mr. Moneybags and the Golf Pro. H.G. called me this morning to point out that we all owe him now for getting Moneybags out of the office all day. I'm sorry for the Hemorrhoid, but I take some wicked pleasure that the Golf Pro and Mr. Moneybags are having to spend the day together. They hate each other. Well, everybody hates Golf Pro. Except me. I'm like Switzerland; I'm officially neutral

Monday, I'll be in Houston once again. I'm having the tattoo done finally. I also have an appointment with an internal medicine physician to talk about pain and fatigue.

The New Rules, Reiterated

Hubby and I both forgot our anniversary a couple of weeks ago. It dawned on me over the weekend that we'd missed it...again. I'm not good with the anniversary/birthday/special event thing.

I wonder if that's because, as I was growing up, we never celebrated anything. I'd get a birthday gift and Christmas gifts, I got cards for my Mom and Dad and bought gifts when I could. It always felt like work, though, even (or especially) when I was the recipient. "Celebration" was never a word that had much meaning to me. Observances of that type were onerous and treacherous. Bad things were guaranteed to happen; they were danger zones that cropped up from time to time in the endless, gray progression of time.

As I grew older, I learned how important it is to honor special days or rites of passage. Celebrating became a "should" in my life. If I'm a mentally healthy, spiritually grounded person, I should incorporate some times for rejoicing in my life. That's the rule.

Unfortunately, because it was never a part of my growing-up experience, those observances never became a habit. It feels like something I've tacked onto my life and, when I forget anniversaries or birthdays, I feel like a failure. If I manage to remember and make special arrangements for festivities, it's stressful and joyless. It's a lose-lose proposition.

Every day I get up in the morning and give thanks for all of the blessings in my life, past and present. This is celebration, also. I have to remind myself that I'm not a failure if I forget "special" events (including my own birthday). I have to remind myself that, because every morning begins with prayer, every single day is a celebration.

Hubby and I forget our anniversary on a regular basis. It doesn't mean we don't love each other or that either of us feels unloved because we've forgotten. It's a thing we laugh about together.

I'm trying to learn to let myself be as I am, especially right now as I continue to struggle with fatigue and pain. Learning that lesson and living it is its own challenge. Everything in my life is exactly as it should be, including the consequences of a life I did not choose. I'm officially lightening up.

Don't Bother Me. I'm Drooling.

I was going to post something of substance today, but I took a trip to the dentist instead. I'm not really in pain; I feel like I've been run down by an 18-wheeler. Then, of course, there's the drooling issue. I hate it when you're drooling and you don't even know it. On the up side, maybe it makes people reluctant to talk to you.