Tag Archives: jaysa

Losing my history

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Today was Robbie’s birthday. He is 22 and is one of three of Mike’s siblings. He’s also a new daddy — someone PLEASE remind me to ask permission to post photos of Ciana — and has a wonderful girlfriend, Jaysa. We all went out tonight with a couple of his friends to the Chinese buffet in Watertown.

Sushi and beer, a girl's best friend

Sushi and beer, a girl's best friend

After over three years of dating Mike — we don’t subtract the two months we were broken up — I’d like to say that his family is pretty much my family. We’ve known for a while now that we are going to get married. He is my best, best friend, and the connection between us goes deeper than words can explain. If one of us is hurting, both of us are hurting. I don’t know about him, but I feel physically drawn to him, like a magnet to a refrigerator door (or to an old-school chalkboard, if you remember them).

Right now, we are both hurting.

That magnetic connection is still there, but we both are currently faced with the C word. I can no longer lean on him when I’m having a hard time accepting that Popi is sick and may not be with us much longer. Now, we must lean on each other, and I honestly don’t know how to be there for him when I am hurting so much myself.

You see, today we found out that there is a tumor in his mom’s brain. This strong, beautiful woman is like a second mother to me. No one could ever replace my own mother — I love you very, very much, Mommy — but Tracy is very dear to me. They — meaning the doctors — don’t know if it’s malignant or benign, so we have to wait and see, and anyone who knows me knows that I suck at the waiting game.

I thought for sure that maybe she had MS, and it was an MS lesion. I wanted it to be MS, so very badly, just like I wanted my grandfather to just have a damaged sciatic nerve. Instead, the C word looms.

And people act surprised when they discover I am smoking again.

With makeup and au natural hair

With makeup and au natural hair

Don’t get me wrong, things aren’t all bad. I went to my writers’ group this afternoon, although I was half an hour late because it started at 3:30 and I work at my PT job until 4. I didn’t bring anything with me, either, so it ended early because out of the four of us, only two people brought something in. One of us wasn’t even there to perfect her writing; she is an ESL student and joined the group so that she could hear more conversational English and learn from listening to us pick apart language in our writing. She’s Russian, so she is automatically cool in my book. I sometimes desperately wish I knew more about my Russian heritage, but thanks to my mom’s dad taking off when she was a teenager, we know next to nothing.

Anyway, she was very cool and for someone who claimed to not be a writer, she had quite a bit to offer to the conversation and lots of suggestions for Chick’s poem.

Even though I had nothing to bring in with me, I did spend almost two hours yesterday writing a chapter for Secondhand Mom. So far, it’s nine pages long and is probably going to be twice as long when I finish it. It might be so long that I’ll have to break it up into at least two separate chapters. Regardless, it felt really good to actually do some writing. I fell right back into pace, and am really loving my characters right now. I just wish that I had more time to spend on writing as opposed to working.

Yesterday was also my first appointment with my new psychologist, but that’s a whole other post.

I am trying really hard to see the good side of life right now, or else I’ll probably lose my mind. I often feel like my whole childhood, my history, is just being pulled right out from underneath me by some meaner, bigger kid. Life’s a bitch like that.

Anyway. How are YOU?

Which is worse: a migraine or a boy band?

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The headache started at about 7. It felt like just another, “Hey, asshole, you need to eat something” warning. So I ignored it for a little longer, working on my client’s blog design until I finally gave in and ate. It didn’t go away.

When I picked Mike up from work at about 9:20, the headache continue to hang around. Robbie invited us over to Jaysa’s for a bit, so we decided to head over after going to Mike’s so that he could change out of his work clothes. I figured the headache would hit the road once I’d had a couple of drinks, as we were going to play a little beer pong. As soon as I walked in the door and saw my niece Ciana, though, I lost all interest in beer. I know, I know; there must be something wrong with me! But no, it’s just the part of me that absolutely adores kids and is completely addicted to very cute newborns. So while Mike played a couple games of beer pong and the rest of the gang finished off the few remaining bottles of beer, I snuggled with Ciana, talking to her about this and that, and then fed her while her mommy and daddy got to have some fun.

The headache moved into the background, and I figured it would finally fade.

After the last drop of beer was gone, the four of us — Mike, Robbie, Jaysa, and I — sat around the kitchen table and chatted while Ciana slept in her infant carseat.

The night wore on, and soon Mike decided that he wanted to go home. He also decided that he wanted a Big Mac, so we stopped at McDonald’s. As we sat in the drive-thru, my blood sugar dropped and I felt pretty crummy, so I decided I’d get some fries and a McDouble (which is the double cheeseburger). I drove back to his house carefully, very aware of the snow, the slickness of the road, and my dangerously low blood sugar. (Ever since I was a little Elizabeth, I’ve been hypoglycemic, which basically means that my metabolism is really fast and keeps me skinny, but also absorbs sugar very quickly and leaves me really sick if I don’t eat every few hours AND eat foods high in protein.)

By the time I got to Mike’s, my head was pounding, my stomach was queasy, and I pretty much sat on the floor of the kitchen while he ate, occasionally nibbling on a fry or two when the headache and nausea ebbed momentarily. It would come back quickly, and all I could do was sit on the floor with my head between my knees, my hands pressing hard on the top of my head where the headache seared, making it feel like my brain was swelling against my skull.

I could barely eat, I felt so horrible.

I forced myself to eat a little more, if only to raise my blood sugar. Then, suddenly, the headache turned into a monster migraine. Pain would flare across my brow, through my eyes, looping in a nightmare. It would cease for a second, then it would go back around the front of my head. When it paused, the headache would go back to the back and top of my head. I knew I needed to go home so I could make some soup, take a Tramadol, and take my Seroquel, but I could barely move, it hurt so bad.

I’ve never had a headache like it.

When the searing pain in the front of my head stopped, I put my boots and coat on, grabbed the rest of my fries, and got into the car, hoping that I would make it home before it came back.

By the time I got home, I felt too exhausted to make the soup. I took 50mg of Tramadol, hoping that it would kick the migraine’s ass and let me sleep, as well as the 400mg of Seroquel (Pam bumped me up to 400 to see if it would make an even bigger difference from the 300 I was taking). I put my cold eye mask on, put my regular sleeping eye mask over it, and lay flat on my back as the headache sat in front of my head.

My plan was to get up at noon and work on my client’s site so that I could have everything done and go out bowling with Mike and his coworkers.

I woke up fifteen hours later.

Dazed, groggy, and annoyed that I’d woken up so late, I stumbled around trying to clear my head enough to do at least SOME work. I figured I could cram it all into a few hours and still be able to go bowling.

WRONG.

Pam had warned me that going up to 400mg would make me drowsy. Normally, Tramadol gives me a high and allows me to sleep really, really well if I take it before bed. Apparently, combining the two is a recipe for a fifteen-hour coma (but it did make my headache go away, so I guess we’re even). Gone were my plans of going to my aunt’s to work with her for a few hours and then coming home for a shower before going out to the bowling alley.

It’s kind of a good thing, though; Mike and I do a lot of stuff together, so it’s nice to see him go out and have fun without me. I do feel a little left out, but it’s my own damn fault.

I’m not sure what the lesson is here. Both medications are okay to take together — I made sure to ask Pam about it. I think what happened was, I took both too late (at about four in the morning), and should have just gone to bed with nothing instead. Had I known that we did have some Aleve in the house, I would have just taken that.

I just know that that headache was NOT a normal headache. It was awful, beyond any words. I’ve only had one migraine before it and that wasn’t even close to how bad last night’s headache was.

I still feel it, faintly there, as if it’s just waiting to come back and torture me more. It could be worse, though:

You’re welcome.

A recipe for batshit soup

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“I havnt talked to you in a while and wanted to say hi and stuff,” reads the text message. Ever since opening it, all I can think of are his hands around my throat.

* * * * *

Things have been absolutely bonkers on planet elizawhat. Aside from people from my past popping up like germs on a little kid’s hands, life has been packed with huge projects for clients with looming deadlines, a new niece to snuggle and love and gaze at while she sleeps, anxiety about Popi’s angioplasty that he had done today, a renewed sense of connection and even deeper love for Mike (who has been amazing beyond words through all of the shit hitting the fan), a slew of phone calls to schedule appointments with various doctors, more worry while we wait to see what the doctors say is going on with Dad, depression cycling in and out of me faster than fucking bunnies (and “fucking” is a verb here, heh), and a deep, unquenchable urge to play Sims and write even though I barely have time to sleep.

Suddenly, “bonkers” doesn’t seem quite appropriate; things are absolutely batshit.

* * * * *

Popi has been having chest pains, that go all the way down to his elbow. They found two clogs in the arteries of his heart, and did an angioplasty this afternoon to open up the arteries. They’re not sure why the arteries were clogged; it could be the chemo, it could be something that was already there before the cancer came along. More than likely it is the chemo, because a few weeks ago they did a full slew of tests and no clogs were detected.

I’m angry and afraid, to be perfectly blunt. I’m angry at the chemo, and afraid that it’s going to destroy him, piece by piece, before the cancer does. And then I saw him last night, and seeing him looking well and being with him made me think more positively. I look at my great-great-aunt Nan, who is in her nineties and was diagnosed with stage 3 cancer more than six years ago. She’s fine today, still kickin’, feisty for such an old lady. She makes her own clothing. She drinks wine. She cracks jokes, sometimes dirty ones. She’s got an uncanny strength for someone who looks so fragile. I admire her, deeply.

She is proof that Popi can make it through. It pisses me off when everyone starts discussing hospice. It’s like they’ve already given up. I don’t want to give up. Call me selfish, but I want to keep my Popi. I like to think that he can kick this thing’s ass, even if it’s already taken its toll in so many places: hip, spine, liver, lung. Fuck you, cancer. My Popi is stubborn and won’t go down so easily. I won’t let him.

* * * * *

My niece is a doll. She has Jaysa’s nose, Robbie’s face. Her hair is black and her head is full of it. Her eyes are big and constantly open, aware. She may not be able to see much yet, but she looks like she’s perfectly aware of what’s going on. Ciana Olivia Pelletier already has all of us wrapped around her tiny, long fingers.

* * * * *

It’s hard to talk about everything that is swirling through my mind. I don’t really even know where to start. I’m bone tired, thanks to a week full of nights spent staying up until the ass crack of dawn to get pieces of projects complete. I keep reminding myself that if I work hard now, in five to ten years I’ll be able to enjoy things. Sometimes I wish I could be a “normal” twenty-one-year-old, spending my late nights partying instead of working, falling asleep with veins full of thin, beer- or vodka-chased blood, then waking up to do it all over again the next day. But my partying stages were years ago, when being fifteen meant that I didn’t care much about my future. Now, I want that future, whatever it may be.

* * * * *

I know things have been pretty serious around here. I promise to try to make this place fun again. Thank you for listening.

How to get it all done in one day

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I wonder what would happen if I started blogging every day?

Today I looked up mental health care providers in my area and wrote down three names and numbers that jumped out at me. I was mainly looking for pain management, depression, and mood disorder specialties — and of course someone who is a chick. I just can’t picture myself talking to a strange man. Then again, it sucks talking to a strange anyone… Unless that anyone happens to be a cat, because they pretend to be good listeners. I say pretend because everyone knows that cats pretend to sleep, pretend to love you, pretend to listen, all while they plot your death for serious.

What was I saying?

I spent today kind of floating. I have a LOT of work to do, which is probably why I mostly just procrastinated all day. It’s overwhelming. Tomorrow is the last day to upload all kinds of content to Latest Client’s WordPress site, so that they can be all wowed and amazed on Monday. Meanwhile, my muse is screaming for me to write, to work on Secondhand Mom or the short story I started last week. Stupid muse. When I want to write, she ditches me. When I can’t write, she yells at me to write.

I wanted to do a lot of things today, and now I can barely remember what I did do. (Uh, nothing.) I really wanted to get a lot done and go to Mike’s so that I could hang out with Robbie, Jaysa, and Ciana (my new niece), but since I didn’t get anything done…

Tomorrow I’m supposed to be going to Mike’s to watch the Colts/Jets game, so I’m panicking because that only gives me a few hours to get everything done that I need to get done. I think today can be filed under LAZY.

Cursed

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I’ve decided that it no longer matters which disease I’m fighting. For so long, I’ve become wrapped up in finding out WHAT it is, rather than focusing on how to fix it. I’ve been focusing on trying to find a pattern, and the only pattern I can seem to find is that it just keeps getting worse. Whatever it is, it’s kicking my ass.

The thoughts in my mind are too loose, and trying to get it all down on paper is like herding kittens. I can’t think straight. All I want to do is cry, but I know that if I start I’ll never be able to stop.

A few months ago I would half-jokingly say, “what’s next, I won’t be able to walk?” I tried to picture the day that might happen. I couldn’t. I refused to. I was convinced that whatever this was, I’d have it all figured out and better before it got to that point. Now? Not so much.

Over the last couple of weeks — and more so the last couple of days — I’ve had a really rude awakening. The person I once was is gone. She’s dead and buried. As much as I’ve tried to come to terms with that, I couldn’t. Now it looks like I’m going to have to.

It started a couple of weeks ago, when I was house sitting. Actually it was the night after the Fourth of July, the night after the party Mike and I went to. (The one I went to wearing wedges, walking gracefully for the first time in my life. See what alcohol does?) That Sunday my right ankle ached a little. I wrote it off as a twisted ankle, considering the previous night’s shoes. I perhaps stupidly ignored the fact that the pain was awfully similar to the pain I get in my arms and sometimes my thighs and toes.

It went away — for a couple of days. Then it came back, and sometimes occurred in my left ankle, too. It came and went, and after a couple days I had to admit to myself that whatever was wrong with me was also now wrong with my ankles. I saw my PA on Friday and told her about it. She checked for pain and swelling, to make sure I really hadn’t twisted it. Nothing hurt when she poked at it or bent it, but she did notice a slight swelling in the tendon next to my ankle — which she said could occur with Lyme Disease.

I’ve been tested for Lyme Disease before, and the blood test results came back negative each time. Pam said that Lyme isn’t always detected in blood tests, and that it’s a great imitator of other autoimmune diseases — which would explain my crazy grocery list of symptoms. She said she might just put me on the treatment anyway, but that she had to check with Dr. Mongelluzzo (the practice’s head doctor) first. I also got my second B12 injection, and we also discussed the possibility of sero-negative arthritis.

At home, I did some research. No other doctor had ever told me that Lyme doesn’t necessarily show up in tests. They had all just written it off and gone on to the next thing. I was pissed. “If it’s been Lyme Disease the whole goddamn time, and I could have had treatment and relief two fucking years ago,” I said to Mike, “I’m going to flip shit.”

Saturday I was supposed to go play miniature golf with Mike, Robbie, and Jaysa. I was excited, but by the time it was time to go my right ankle hurt so bad that I couldn’t walk on it much. I canceled at the last minute, and convinced Mike to go without me. Granted, I got to go see Harry Potter instead, but I still felt bad. Here I was, giving up more because of the Disease With No Name.

Sunday it was a lot better. I felt a little twinge now and then, but in comparison to the day before I felt okay. I spent the afternoon at the beach with my mom and sister and made plans to go to Lake Compounce on Monday with Lauren and Mike.

By the time we got to Lake Compounce, my ankles ached a little but not enough to stop me. We went on a couple water rides and I let them talk me into riding Thunder and Lightening (which was actually cool, even though looking straight down at the ground the first couple of times was a little scary). But by about 8:00, both of my legs were aching, sometimes sharply, with the pain radiating up and down and all over. I could barely walk. In line for rides, I leaned on fences. While walking, I leaned on Mike. I went from amusement park Indiana Jones to feeble old man in less than a couple of hours. As much as I wanted to ride my favorite, Boulder Dash, I could barely stand the thought of standing in line for twenty minutes for it.

So I made us leave. Even though it was the last thing I wanted to do.

The walk from the park exit to my car was beyond excruciating. I’ve always been good with words but the closest I can come to describing it is saying that I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I literally look teeny, tiny baby steps, shuffling at Mike’s side while Lauren tried to slow down and stay with us. People kept going around me. I think the old people were even moving faster than me. I kept joking about maybe stealing someone’s stroller, or where was that security van when we needed it, but I honestly don’t know how I did it. I remember thinking at one point, “wow, this really fucking hurts.”

My only consolation was that it’s probably going to get a lot worse.

Meanwhile, I’m not noticing any difference from the B12 shots. Pam says if it’s going to work, I’ll feel a difference by the third shot. If anything, she said it would make me feel less lethargic. I think, if anything, I’m feeling more fatigued — even on the days when I get a lot of sleep.

Today I’m having a hard time smiling. Because now, to me, “what’s next” is not a joke. It’s a nightmare and my reality. Am I going to be in a wheelchair? Will I lose yet more of my independence — my self? I used to be able to carry things, play with my friends’ kids and little cousins, go hiking. I’m losing more and more of who I used to be.

On a totally different note, I will be blogging during Blogathon 2009 (July 25th) with Donnie of Voice the Silence to raise money for RAINN. Please read my blog post about this over at Scars Can Speak, and thank you for your support.