Check out the orbs around and in my house

Somebody slept through dinner

SOMEBODY slept through dinner.

Dad: I found the asparagus and the stuffing in the fridge, but I can't find the porkchops.

Stepmom: Why are you looking for them?

Dad: Son's up and I was going to reheat dinner for him.

Stepmom: Why were you going to do that?

Dad: Is there a reason I shouldn't?

Stepmom: He knew dinner was at six and he slept through it. Let him reheat it himself.

Dad: I'm just getting him started.

Stepmom: Yeah, right.


SOMEBODY'S not cookin' tomorrow.

So there.

Remote

In order to unwind from an unusually busy several days, I thought I'd watch a little TV Tuesday night. Clicked on the set, then clicked the satellite remote.

Nothing.

Tried resetting the thing.

Nothing.

Figured it was the batteries, so went downstairs to look for fresh batteries. Husband asks, "What's going on?"

"Trying to watch TV, but it appears the batteries in the remote are dead."

"Oh, yeah. I noticed that on Sunday."

"And you didn't change the batteries?"

"Didn't know we had any fresh ones."

"Didn't bother to ask?"

"Figured I'd just surf the Internet instead."

"Instead of putting the remote to rights, for the next person?"

"What?"

"Never mind."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"If you're going out, could you pick up batteries?"

"I'm not going out."

"Of course not."

"What?"

"Never mind."

"I think I'll walk the dog."

"Damn straight you'll walk the dog."

"What?"

"Never mind."

He walked the dog and I figured out that the batteries were fine, but that a cable had come loose in the back of the receiver.

Then I watched TV.

For hours.

Because there is no way in hell that the selfish jackass who finds something not working and fails to do anything about it is going to get laid four consecutive nights.

An Issue of Fairness

I, for one, do not think it is fair that pain medication causes constipation.

Who is in charge of this?

Dove Onslaught

This one hits home. I have two daughters. They are strikingly beautiful, which I take no credit for, since they were adopted. Princess is ten, but could pass for fifteen if you didn’t know how short she is. She wears a size eight pants, but must wear a belt or have her waist taken in. And she thinks she is fat because she is not as skinny as her little sister (who would look anorexic if she were white). If the prettiest girl in the school thinks she is fat, what chance do any of our kids have in this culture?

You cannot eat off my floors

Perhaps the most pathetic thing about the state of my floors is that I desperately want to blog about it every single time I clean them. I don't mean every time I sweep the hardwoods or vacuum the carpets, which I do perhaps every week or two, depending on my tolerance for disgusting and the amount of cat hair and kitty litter tracked around. Rather, I mean that I want to blog about it every time I mop the floors. It is that much of an event in my life.

This urge is clearly so pathetic that I manage to restrain myself most of the time-- which amounts to the perhaps 2 other times this calendar year that I have had this urge. I think that's about it, though I honestly cannot recall the last time I did the task, so I can't be entirely sure.

I do sweep the kitchen pretty often, and I try to clean up spills as they happen (if of course I am present when they happen, which is not always the case). When I spill water, especially, I can be counted on to grab the dish drying towel to sop it up, then I will use the wet dishtowel to make a general swipe at any particularly repulsive areas, especially anything sticky. I think that this forestalls the need to actually mop, which is obviously delusional to anyone with actual standards about such things, but for the genuinely slovenly it works well enough.

For the bathroom, I sweep the kitty litter almost daily. There is a dust pan and brush in there for just that purpose. With the bathroom approximately the size of a very small broom closet and a small child and a small sink from which it is remarkably easy to spill water, well, the kitty litter simply cannot sit on the floor, ever, because it is mostly under the small overflow-prone sink. Let the clumping kitty litter get wet and it becomes an aggregation of concrete on the floor, and then it's just work work work.

However, I am imperfect, and no one else in the house seems to be capable of using the dustpan in the bathroom. The elves refuse to help (though I suspect that the rest of the family believe that they are the main sweepers of all the floors, really). Add to this that there appears to be a leak somewhere between the shower/ toilet/ wall containing the plumbing that feeds them both. This leak seems to get better and worse fairly randomly, which is disturbing in and of itself, and when it is particularly bad, the kitty litter ends out soaked and clumped onto the floor and the situation becomes intolerable.

At least to me.

Everyone else in the house seems fully able to ignore it, frankly. The elves refuse to clean, and I have not yet proved able to see what it takes to wait out my spouse or daughter on this one. Even I cannot manage that, and if you have not already figured this out, my standards are lower than those of perhaps everyone you know except for any people you know who live in fraternity houses.

So today was a banner day: both the bathroom and kitchen floors got cleaned. Swept, mopped, scrubbed, relieved of at least the topmost layer of disgusting crap that covers them.

I would not recommend eating off my floors, even now, but at least I think no one will call the health department on arrival in our home. Sad but true, but this is the best my housekeeping can hope for.

Good News Week!

My rebellious nature has stood me in good stead. Just as well I didn't listen to the surgeon's 'the tumour hasn't shifted, you should think about immediate surgery' less than two months ago. My visit to Bristol, all the emotional 'work' I did there with various therapies and the change of diet have resulted in a very positive step forward.

The tumour has reduced in size by one whole third!!! As it was quite big, that's no mean feat.

Howzat(as British cricketers are victoriously wont to declare)!!?!

Of course, I didn't bother to tell the consultant why and how come - leave them to their little self-serving victories. I know what made the difference. And I'm not tilting at windmills any more - not fighting fights I have no need to fight. I no longer need to 'change the world' or feel my integrity is a risk if I'm not 'making things better' for those who are yet to come. I'll find other ways that don't bring me into hopeless clashes with other people who believe what THEY want to believe, come what may.

Oh, here's the grumpy bit - the last time I saw the consultant (after three and a half months of hormone therapy) there was the urgency for surgery, resultant 'disfigurement' so wouldn't it be lovely for me to have breast reduction on the NHS, etc. This time, the same consultant is saying we give hormone therapy for a MINIMUM of six months and AND the tumour has been steadily reducing all the way through! Yerwot? Yes, he even stated the tumour had reduced by 3mm last time. (But last time he told me it hadn't budged!)

How can the same CONSULTANT give you totally different news each time???? It hasn't changed/it had already started changing; surgery now/surgery not immediately needed...He just fudges the facts to fit his opinion. I thought SCIENCE looked at the facts first. Just as well I knew more than he did, wasn't it??! (I remembered the oncologist saying 'minimum of six months and I wasn't going to give up my chance of going to Bristol!)

I didn't KNOW that Bristol and the change of diet would have this effect. I did know, however, that if the surgeon removed the tumour and I didn't remove the reason for it to be there, that it wouldn't make any difference. And I was right. I've even come across other people saying the same thing now, so it's not that outrageous. Louise Hay has a meditation tape for people with cancer - she says the same thing about her own cancer : if she hadn't sorted out her 'issues', the surgeons would have cut a piece of Louise out and then had to cut another and another until there'd be no Louise left. That certainly resonated with me.

I must admit that living with hubby has returned me to hysterical frustration again - even without the stress of wondering every day if I'm closer to dying or closer to getting better. I am trying to wiggle my way out of this relationship but there's always a surprise waiting for me no matter which door I open. I guess he wants and needs this relationship more than he or I ever realised. I feel defeated right now but I promise you it won't last. Everything takes its own time.

I just wanted to let you guys know the good news.

With love and light!!

He did it again!

My son phoned yesterday for a friend to come round. Will Dad pick him up at 10am? Yes, of course.

So this morning, Dad leaves with plenty of time to pick up said friend (much earlier than necessary) and I discover he's left son to eat a late (hot) breakfast alone. I asked, surprised, "Has Dad left without you?" "Yes, I said he should go while I eat breakfast so I can take my time eating it." Son had decided on soup for breakfast!

I'm furious with my husband for allowing this kind of thing to happen. Said friend doesn't get son's company in the car, hubby has to deal with child (20-30 minute car ride). It's just not appropriate and it's not teaching our young teenager to take responsibility - as usual. Son didn't get up in time (actually he did - they could have managed that situation!); hubby HAS to get everywhere far too early (picking up time is NOT an appointment; he's going to arrive about 20 minutes before time!).

Scream! I'm furious. I worked hard with son over the past few days while hubby was away. He was learning to take responsibility. He WANTS to gain some independence and do things for himself. He wants us to go away so he CAN! But hubby constantly undermines him, just as he does me. And I know by now that there's no point in reasoning or in saying anything AT ALL! It just causes bad vibes, bad mummy, me at screaming point through the sheer frustration of not getting through, son gets conflicting messages from us, husband feeling unappreciated and (probably) confused...bloody hopeless.

AAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

PS Having vented my spleen here, I successfully negotiated my frustration and dealt with things in a positive way by tackling son and explaining that he needs actively to take more responsibility because his father can't help him do that because of all his own issues. That must sound like a terrible betrayal of hubby and a negative burden on my son but I'm in a new place and my fear of shaming others, and the inevitability of my taking the blame on their behalf, being the fall guy, is over.

PPS By the end of the day, the coals had been heaped so high by my husband's inability to 'be the adult', 'be the parent' that, when I learned he'd let someone down in a way that put it at my door again (back to being the fall guy), I 'blew' and the day's frustrations all came out. He has acknowledged his immaturity in being able to respond and this has put things on a different footing but I'm back to tears of frustrated, angry hopelessness (if there can be such a thing!).

A second opinion...

I've been busy with my new nutrition regime. I've cooked quinoa and fresh mackerel, investigated shiitake mushrooms, created the most amazingly inventive nutritious organic dairy-free meat-free meals, chopped and sprouted and crushed and creatively substituted good stuff for bad stuff and been kind and patient with myself when I have not quite made the grade (haven't quite managed the juicing yet)...

Still not quite there with the meditation and relaxation yet - family stresses are not helping - tho I actually got to sleep before midnight last night which may be a first for several years...?!?!

It was also suggested to me that I ask for a second opinion. Not easy - don't want to upset any apple carts. I have a letter prepared but it's taken me a while and I'm not quite sure why I might be seeking a second opinion. I guess there aren't many choices out there - you just hope your surgeon has a good eye and a steady hand, and that the oncologist knows a bit about chemistry! ;-)

But in the process of scouring the web for organic delights, I came across this US website and their comments about getting a second opinion. They are of course selling their wares - but now I know why I'm seeking a 'second opinion'. And I'm feeling good and mad...

[Our] breast cancer experts practice integrative medicine — a unique care philosophy that combines technologically advanced conventional treatments with supportive and nurturing complementary breast cancer therapies—all under one roof. We work with you to build an individualized treatment plan around your needs instead of applying a standard treatment formula for everyone. You may not be getting the comprehensive, nutritional therapies you need, guidance and support for you and for your family, or you may be suffering from side effects of your treatment.

They talk about the importance of the team and being in the driving seat. Hey, I was just grateful my 'team' didn't throw me immediately into chemotherapy with the hope that I might not have to face it afterwards either. I pray for that. But I don't even know if the meds are working or not any more as the surgeon decided (as I was being difficult by not leaping at the opportunity of surgery after three and a half months of meds instead of waiting for the full six as the oncologist had anticipated) that he wouldn't keep an eye on how things were doing (is it reducing, staying the same or getting bigger?) until the six month mark - shithead).

But, oh my goodness - that website has lanced a boil of rage.

Integrative medecine : My very first thought after the diagnosis was to find out what Bristol could teach me. Where else would one find such an 'alternative' approach. They have a lot to say about diet and a healthy lifestyle, about a holistic approach. When I've asked at the hospital about diet, they've had absolutely nothing to say. Shitheads. When I talk about stress being a factor, I'm laughed at. Shitheads2.

And now I learn that the Bristol approach is everywhere in something officially called 'integrative medecine'. Of course, putting it all into context, what I knew about Bristol comes from the early 80s - it WAS pretty avant garde back then, pretty controversial, but things have moved on in the last 30 years or so. Der! It's almost mainstream now...and I *could* have expected a different approach from my 'team'. I haven't even had the minimum of continuity with a named nurse. Hell, I haven't even had continuity of anything. Just a bucketful of 'misleading information' (putting it kindly). Lying toerags. Hell, sometimes nobody turns up to see me.

And they care so little about side effects of the drugs that nobody ever bothered to ask me if I had any...And the people on this website actually offer naturopathic remedies. It's all right up my alternative street. The fact that I cried solid for days as a side effect is an irrelevance to them as well as screaming at my husband when the marriage was already in difficulties and it's the last thing an Aspie can cope with - and anyway, I'm used to misery and being ignored (know your place, dear, out of the way and be quiet). Having been brought up in an Aspie household, I'm a great candidate for the traditional approach. Shitheads. Oh, sorry, am I repeating myself. I would have thought that, with the Aspergers 'n' all that, we were a family crying out for some additional emotional and medicinal support. Ignorant toerags.

But I'm not quite sure what a second opinion could offer me. Just knowing that, if I lived somewhere else, I could have (had) a better experience doesn't quite do it for me somehow. Hmmm! How I hate living at the back of beyond with the sea on one side and meandering lanes on the other, a main road coming from the south, going north, leading nowhere except more sea either way and a two hour journey out of the county. Not even a plane to anywhere except...Aberdeen! (I wonder...) ;-)

I'm back!

Me and my cancer went to Bristol to visit the Penny Brohn Centre. I am a changed woman! Brainwashed, after a week's stay, into a vegan, organic, meditative, relaxed lifestyle. I've slowed down so much, I'm floating...on the sea of tears I shed while I was there.

There's work to do if you have cancer - undoing the stresses and stressors that led to the cancer in the first place. Spirit, body, mind, emotion.

It was easy to do 'the work' in that place. I welcomed it all. Bodywork, groupwork, spiritual healing. Art therapy, music therapy, wholefoods and 'You are what you eat'. Talks and videos and entertainment. Meet the GP, meet the nutritionist. They actually take you seriously. You don't often find that in the NHS. But towards the end of the week, I looked at one woman and suddenly knew she would die. You have to be prepared to lose your dignity to survive - admit that you need help, ask for it, live through the emotional pain. Humble pie. Humility. Serenity.

But, oh dear, the minute my husband came to pick me up, it was all downhill. His terror [of me] is escalating all the time. On the other hand, I was so chilled out, it was easy to see how we had ended up in such a bad place. It's difficult for anyone to live with the uncertainty and frustration of autism - whether you've 'got it' or are just partnered by it. Placid or not, I found it difficult to withstand his efforts to make sure I was just as stressed as he was by the end of the two hours it took us to drive home.

OK, he doesn't TRY to make me stressed, but it's hard to believe he's not working at it when you consider what he says and does - and to see the patterns repeated over and over. And if I point it out, he's stressed almost beyond coping...I refuse to feel badly for simply stating my case.

I sat quietly on the patio when we got home, and pointed out the pretty, frilly poppy which was growing all alone in the middle of the patio, frail but strong. As he walked away he kicked out at it.

!

I know he didn't intend to do it, but the fact is that he did it. And how symbolic. Me, returning frail but strong; him kicking out at it. I know that 'kicking out'; it's part of his way of getting around in the world - I think it's an autistic trait and enables him to know where the boundaries lie - like a blind man feeling his way in the world. I can feel compassion but I have to put my own psychological boundaries in place to protect myself - and that means simply ignoring him rather than hating him or feeling hurt.

How sad.

I have returned with some new 'rules of this house'. Hubby and son have to be out of the house together between 2pm and 5pm so I can get some rest at my 'dip' time. It can be leisure (eg bowling or cinema), physical activity (eg swimming or cycling) or (home) educational. So far it is working well as they are motivated to think of things to do instead of hanging around watching TV. It gets their engines revving and I think hubby has been having....(shock, horror!) FUN! (I'm jealous!!) And I'm not wholly and totally responsible ALL the time for everything that happens, especially son's home ed.

And (shock, horror 2!) I am sleeping alone. Space, quiet, light on and off when I want, music when I want, reading in the middle of the night in comfort if I wake up. And gradually I hope to get back into some sane sleeping habits, going to bed at a civilised time. Have I been going to bed later and later just to avoid him? It's possible. The thought often occurs to me.

I am hoping that, by not sleeping next to a man who is the essence of fear, I can maintain some kind of calm throughout the night and not wake up with my teeth clenched.

But I am jarred by them both almost constantly - physically, mentally and emotionally.

I hate my life - I'm sick of crying and struggling and feeling exhausted - but I did learn in Bristol that the part of me that hates my life really is only a part of me - the greater 'I' is in charge of what I decide to do about it. And I can overcome the cancer if I can overcome this impasse of needing to leave (= survival) but still wanting to find ways through to a better life together (= security).

Fuck the cancer. It's been a wake up call which has pointed the way yet also made the transition that much harder because of the physical incapacity which lies in its wake. F..., f..., f....

At least I'm communicating with the rest of the world again. Hi!!!

Why Women Eat Their Young

There are five hung over people in my basement.

One is son.

Two are son's friends.

Two are son's friends' girlfriends.

It's okay to be hung over in my basement.

It is not okay to wake me up in the wee hours while you are striving for the hangover.

It is not okay to spill your beer on my sofa. No, not even if you're that pity-inducing sort of girl whose eye-black looks more NFL than Avril Lavigne because you got a little weepy after you puked noisily in my bathroom and came out at three in the morning to be asked, "Who the hell are you and why are you puking in my bathroom?"

It's not okay to slam the door between cigarettes smoked under my bedroom window. In fact, under my bedroom window, it's not okay to joke and laugh or do anything but silently smoke and contemplate how the hell you're going to create a future for yourself that provides you with your very own private home in which to party 'til dawn.

It's not okay to litter your butts on my lawn.

It's not okay to spill your beer on my upholstery. It's not okay to spill your beer on my upholstery. It's not okay to spill your beer on my upholstery.

Thank you for turning your motherfucking "motherfucker music" down after I asked you to. Common sense and courtesy means I should not have had to ask.

All things considered, I'm only a little sorry that I just can't scrub my kitchen floor this morning without playing George Thorogood and the Destroyers's version of "Willie and the Hand Jive" on maximum volume, over and over and over and over, perhaps until my ears bleed.

issing Letters

I had soe stories to tell, bt that will have to wait. y oldest daghter spilled soda pop on y keyboard. I rinsed it ot, bt its not dry enogh to fnction yet. So I got y old keyboard ot, and it sees to be issing a cople of crcial letters. This pts a crap in y blogging activities, which is y ain sorce of incoe right now. I a nder deadlines! So I have been painstakingly copying and pasting the issing letters for iportant proects, bt that is really slowing e down. Does anyone have advice on getting y ain keyboard to dry ot faster (safely)? Or is there a way to goose this old one into operating properly? Please excse typos. Thanks.