One Sick Mother

I'm Changing!

...this blog.

Because I'm sick of moaning about my health problems and all the "me" stuff. Because there is a lot of stuff I want to write about in the world that has nothing to do with medicine or autism or other former confines herein.

Because limitations are boring.  And bad.

And life is too short.

And I was bored with the green. It was too dull and dark. 

My sister -who is wise, suggested I start a whole new blog; a fresh beginning, without the baggage of the old stuff. It was a smart idea and I considered it. But I feel that's a bit of a cop-out. Plus, I like the name and the history. I feel it would be almost like a lie to leave all that behind. And I might still want to write about the old stuff.  I know I haven't finished outing scams, for sure.

So instead, I am changing the header, the parameters and the look and moving on ahead.

I hope it gives me incentive to write more and you incentive to come back.

 

My Mother's Clock

 

This clock hung in the hallway of our old house for over 30 years. It’s an 8-day clock. You wind it every week. Each Sunday after Mass, my mother would take the key from the top of the case, wind the clock and re-set it to ticking by swinging the pendulum, if need be. The tick echoed in the hallway of our Edwardian Dublin townhouse. You heard it in the hallway and on the stairs –anywhere outside a closed room; a constant, steady assurance that all was well.

Technically, that clock wasn’t my mother’s at all. It was originally a school clock. My paternal grandfather, an electrician, worked on the modernization of this school, replacing the old wooden wind-up clocks with plastic, modern, electric ones. This clock and several others were destined for the skip, but Grandad rescued three; one for each of his two married children, and one for his own house. So I guess it was my father’s clock, really. But only my mother could set it to telling time. If someone else tried to get it going, it would tick for just a minute or so and then stop.

I was always fascinated by this clock, with its doors and secrets.

I used to beg my mother to allow me to "help" her wind it, to let me swing the pendulum (at bottom of this frame), which -quite literally- made it tick.

My mother died when I was five. And while the clock still hung in its place above the hall table, it was quiet and still. Fitting, I suppose, that the heart of our house no longer beat. Many tried to make it tick for longer than a minute or two, but it refused.  Finally, it was declared “broken”.  But it still stayed in its place, semi-regularly cleaned and polished (by me. Cleaning the hall and stairs was my ‘job’).

My mother’s brother visited us one day, when I was maybe 9 or 10. “That’s a lovely clock. Why are you not using it?” he said. “It’s broken” said I. “Are you sure?” he asked. I wasn’t sure.  Tim spent the day going back-and forth between the conversation in the kitchen and the clock in the hall. “You just need to find the right 'tick'” he told me confidently and confidentially. “Every clock has its own 'tick'. You need to find the one for this clock, learn it, and it will work for you”. So every few minutes, he would take a trip to the hall clock. He would swing the pendulum high, close the wee pendulum door, and go back to his cuppa tea. He would check on the clock a few minutes later, sigh when he found it quiet; the minute hand having moved a faction. He would then try again, this time setting the pendulum to a different swing. He did this over and over again.  I lost interest and went upstairs to my room.

 Some time later, I heard a shout of triumph from the hall. The clock was working! Tim was beaming. “I told you I’d find the right 'tick'! Here. I’ll show you.  I hope I can find it again.” He stopped the clock, then stood me on the antique table and guided my hand to the pendulum. He put his hand over mine and gently moved it and the pendulum to one side, feeling the various internal landmarks of the clock for the right place.  “…right about …here” he said, and told me to let the pendulum go. The clock started to tick. It stopped after a few minutes,but Tim had me try again until we got it. He taught me to listen to the ‘tick’; to know when the rate was correct. It wasn’t hard once I knew what I was listening for; -that old, steady, heartbeat from the days when I had a mother.

After that day, I was the only person in the house who could set the clock to telling time. So it became “my” clock, and the heart of the house beat again. Sometimes, anyway. I wasn’t as consistent with winding it as my mother had been.

After my father died, this clock was the one thing from the house that I wanted to keep. My bestest childhood friend kept it safe for me, and then had it shipped to me in New York one year as a birthday present.

It was one of the best presents I ever received.  

Tim died years later. I have no other memory of him, but I cherish that one I do have, and the lessons I learned –and continue to learn- from him and the clock:

You have to find the right 'tick'. Set it going too fast or too slow, and it will stop. Set it going at just the right speed, and it will go until it  needs winding again. Sometimes you can hear when the tick is wrong, but it is hard to know when it is right. You often (usually) need to try several times before you get it –especially if it’s been a while. But practice makes it easier. And sometimes –rarely- if the clock was wound too tight, you have to unhook the pendulum and let the clock run right down to exhaustion, so you can wind it up -gently this time- and start again.

I realize that these rules are true for me, too, since I became sick. I need to find my own 'tick'. If I over do things, I will shut down. Similarly, if I set off too slow, there is no momentum to continue.

It’s not easy to find one’s own 'tick' under these circumstances. And I suspect –people being infinitely more complex than clocks- the 'tick' is slightly different on any given day. Still. I have a visual reminder to keep trying.

My mother’s clock now hangs in my home, close to the front door.  It still works, but I rarely wind and set it now.

…but I did today.

It took several efforts to find the right tick. I’m out of practice. But find it, I did.

Funny how a ticking clock speaks of hope.

What Would Milton Do?

I guess the world and it's mother knows by now that the Milton Hershey School turned away a student because he is HIV positive.

I cut & pasted this directly from the Milton Hershey School's own website.

Every day children are born into neighborhoods fraught with extreme poverty and limited opportunities. Many parents are unable to provide their children with the support they need to reach their potential. This is the reality of at-risk children in communities throughout the nation. Milton Hershey believed that providing children from families in need with a first-rate education and the support of a nurturing and caring community would enable them to break the chains of poverty.

I guess they forgot to add the following line

...But only if their HIV status is negative.

I guess one teen won't be reaching his potential because they are afraid he will have unprotected sex with another teen. At least, I hope they think "another teen" and it's not a case of a faculty member who doesn't want to use protection. Seriously. I was raised in an orphanage. You have to question these things. 

Milton Hershey founded this school because his own schooling was quite fraught. He wanted to create a place for disadvantaged kids to learn.

I think being HIV+ is a pretty big disadvantage for a kid to have.

I wonder what Milton Hershey would say or do if he were around today?

 

Would he support the school's decision, I wonder?  What do you think?

"The value of our good is not measured by what it does, but by the amount of good it does to the one concerned."
                                            -Milton Hershey

 

Top 10 Reasons Why We Suffer Fools

10. Because we don't want to get arrested for disturbing the peace.

9. Social conditioning: Mama taught us to be polite (this is especially true for those of us who are female)

8. Because they are the customer and therefore Always Right

7. Because the fool in question happens to be an authority figure (like a cop)

6. Because our kids (or other family members)  have to deal with whoeveritis, and we don't want to make things difficult for them.

5. Because we need something from them (amIright?) 

4. Because we live in the same community and an ongoing fight would be unbearable.

3. Because we have to work with them

2. Because we are related to them by blood or marriage.

And the #1 reason we suffer fools:

1. Because we are too busy, too tired or otherwise couldn't be arsed to do anything about the fool.

 

(What? You thought this was going to be a FUN post?)

 

I Don't Get The Threat?

A dear friend I have known for years realized -relatively late in her life- that she had been going about some things wrong. For most of her adult life, she had been playing for the wrong team. 

My friend finally came to terms with the fact that she is gay.

I was privileged to have been included in the conversation she had about this with a few close friends. I saw her conflict and wonder. I  was around while she embarked on her first relationship with another woman. I heard about the trip to NYC when she went to gay clubs, where she was celebrated and wooed. I also heard the fears: How to tell friends, parents, family? How would they react? What about my church (friend is deeply religious)? ...school, work, kids' friends, other parents...?

Embracing your difference is hard.

I saw how several of her friends just melted away. Or called her names and stormed away. Or berated her, but stayed (why?); their friendship permanently altered.

And my heart broke for her. My friend -Let's call her LeAnn, is still the same person. Exactly the same. She is just more LeAnn now. Freer. More relaxed. More herself. Happier than I have ever seen her. I am so amazed and glad to see this change in her. 

...but some of the people in her life, including some of her family and former "friends", can't be happy for her. They can't seem to accept LeAnn for who she is (and always was). They want her to go back to being the self-deluded and unhappy individual she had been for years. 

But you can't un-ring that particular bell. It's just not this easy -->

I can't quite figure out if these people don't like change, don't like happy, or don't like gay?

I can certainly understand that some people -especially older family members- will fear for LeAnn and not want to see her subjected to bigotry and hate. As a parent of special-needs children, I understand that fear only too well. But I honestly don't get the rest.

To an extent, I can understand not liking change, but I totally DON'T get not liking "happy" or gay (Ohai Irony! I see you sneaking in there). Why should straight people care?

I mean really. What's it to us?

Watching LeAnn's experience as it unfolded, got me thinking a lot about friends and friendships. I wondered how many of my friends would stick around if I suddenly "switched teams"? So I posted this on my Facebook page:

OneSIckMother idly wonders how many of you guys would unfriend me if I suddenly announced that I'm a lesbian?

I got 70 comments, some questioning if I was serious? (Still a straight woman TYVM, but it's a serious question), most very positive along the lines of "you're stuck with me. Sorry". It was nice to receive all that support and positive reinforcement, and it opened some interesting dialog. But of course, the ones who would probably actually disown me, wouldn't come out publicly and say it. They would quietly slip away  (fun fact: Since I posted that last week, two friends have quietly slipped away. Yes. I was counting!).  Who wants to publicly admit to being a gay-hater? It's not politically correct. Not hip or cool. And yet many people are secret gay-haters.

Maybe "gay-hater" is too strong a term? Maybe "gay-fearer" or "homophobe" is more correct? The end result is much the same, though. Therefore, I don't really distinguish. "Gay-hater" is my preferred term in keeping with my grandfather's tradition of calling a spade a "fuckin shovel". And it has a certain ring to it.

I would really love to have an intelligent (<-note keyword) conversation with one or a group of these anti-gay people. I really want to know what their problem is? I understand that some (few) people may have been assaulted when young -and I kind-of get that. Except there are other people who were assaulted by members of the opposite sex, who don't grow to hate all members of that gender. And I don't think the vast majority of gay-haters can claim their bigotry is based on an experience of that kind. They seem to have more of an inexplicable ...thing, which can't be understood by those of us outsiders (or maybe even themselves). Like arachnaphobia, I guess.   If gay hating is based on a clinical fear, I could probably understand and comiserate a little more, I guess.

However, I checked to see if "Homophobia" is, or ever was a clinical term or indeed a valid diagnosis?

Nope.

It's not a clinically recognised "thing" and never was. 

However "Homosexuality" was listed as a mental disorder as recently as the 1960s.

Backwards, much?

So the haters don't get to hide behind a diagnosis. 

If gay hating isn't a diagnosis, what is the specific problem some people seem to hold so deeply? I have heard some of the arguments

"What they DO... together. That is so disgusting"

To which I say: It's also none of your fucking business what consenting adults do in private. And it might very much surprise you to learn what some very middle-class and upstanding straight citizens do in the privacy of their own bedrooms (or brothels).

"I'm just afraid they'll be interested in ME" 

To which I say: "Get over yourself. You're not that fuckin special."

...Or my personal favorite: 

The religion card in its various forms. Especially the "Christian" card and the "It says in the BIBLE..." argument.

No. No. NO!

That's a red herring and I'm not buying it. Do you hear me? NOT BUYING IT!

You don't get to hide your hatred behind a religious excuse. Let's stop that shit right now. I know there is Leviticus 20:13, but it concludes that gays should be put to death. You don't get to pick and choose. If you don't hold with the whole thing, you can't hold with any of it. And if you DO hold with that entire verse of Leviticus, you have to hold with the entire chapter. Like 20:9 "Any person who curseth his mother or father, must be killed."  Well that's most of us wiped out before we even finish adolescence!

And Don't EVEN get me started on chapter 19! Don't wear clothing made of mixed fabric? Don't shave or cut your hair (then why are so many of the men who quote 20:13 clean shaven)? Picking and choosing one's beliefs through that one book is inconsistent at best, hippocritical at worst. 

 

 

...and FYI: the term "homosexual" was never originally in the Bible. It was added in the 1800s. 

So I am not buying the 'religion' card. I honestly see it as a convenient excuse for hatred. Put it aside and have the gumption to stand on your own true convictions.

 

So if gay hating is not a diagnosis, it's none of your business what adults do together in private, and we remove the "religion" series of excuses, what's left? Why do gay-haters feel so threatened by gay people? I really want to know, and LeAnn does too. The haters owe me nothing, but I think LeAnn deserves an explanation for the hate.

At least give her that much.

Conversations With The Dog

Ty is about 10 now. We adopted him as an adult so I'm not sure. He has lived with us for nine years or so. He is a great family dog. I'm very glad we got him.

Here is a picture (slightly old) of him sweltering in July heat, showing off his spotty tongue.

One thing about Ty: He communicates differently than many dogs I have owned. For example, If he wants to go outside, he won't go to the back door and scratch, whine or bark. He will come to me and give me a Pointed Look. Earlier in our relationship, I would get up and see where he led me (back door, front door, water bowl). Now, we have refined ao process, and we have a conversation as detailed below. I watch his ears for his response.

"Do you want to go to bed?" flat ears

"Do you want dinner?" flat ears

"Do you want to go out?" ears pop up

So I let him out. 

Two way communication achieved without running around the house. Happy days.

Sometimes, I can't figure out the need and he follows me around, directing increasingly hurt Pointed Looks at me, sometimes getting anxious and clacking his teeth together (which drives me nuts). Himself figured out two more reasons for his Ponted Looks: 

"A cat is in my bed again" (Ty has the premium spot by the heater and the cats frequently try to steal it -especially in winter. That a 15lb cat can bully a 72lb dog is proof that attitude will carry you a lot farther than pure muscle will)

"Thunderstorm coming. PROTECT ME!"

There may be some more we haven't figured out yet.

Ty has a different system of communication regarding walks with Himself, who walks him every night. If it is time for the walk, and Himself is showing no signs of movement, Ty will start to whine, huff and 'dance'.  If that has no effect, he will find me and them whine and huff at me, directing Pointed Looks back in the direction of Himself. The message there is very clear:

Make him take me out

The first time we figured this one out (which was pretty much the first time Ty did it), Himself commented that Ty knows exactly who is in charge around here. I should have gotten that in writing, now that I think of it.

 

So why am I telling you all of this? It is because communication has been on my mind a lot recently. I have been reading a blogger who started up around the time I was winding down. His name is Single Dad and he has a now-adult daughter who is very severely disabled

And she has no communication whatsoever. None.  Single Dad gauges her mood by her laughter or tears. 

it is very hard for me to get my head around this. I have a dog who answers questions with his ears and a cat who will stick exactly one claw into my ass if he feels the need for attention (yes, I have tried to discourage this, but if he wants attention and my back is turned, in the claw goes). Them's not words, but it's definitely communication. We forget how far communication can carry, even if one party is without spoken language.

I can't imagine caring for a child who cannot tell you if she is hungry, thirsty or in pain. Yes, I remember the early days when Joe couldn't speak meaningfully at all. But we could tell certain stuff from his behaviour or gestures. And he had this scream. God Almighty! You could literally feel your earwax vibrating and every dog for blocks probably ran for cover. It was horrible but it got a point across; although which particular point that might be, we could only speculate based on circumstances. 

 Single Dad, and the parents of other children similarly 'locked in" are not often discussed. You sometimes hear of people who are born unable to communicate, who somehow manage to find their voices. Two Irish Christys come to mind: Christy Brown and Christy Nolan. Both discovered a means to communicate; one learned to control and write with his left foot, the other learned to type using a stick attached to his head, and with his mother supporting the weight of his head in her cradled hands.

In each case, the family were amazed at the thoughts, words and insights that emerged from their formerly-mute son. 

Two success stories. I'm sure there are more.

But what of the others, those who have thoughts and no way to express them? Surely there must be technology that can help them?

I mean, there is a game available that one can control with one's mind.

It has been around for about two tears now. Surely, if the technology is available to do that, there must be research and development ongoing to help severely disabled kids?

Mustn't there?  I think there must be, but I don't know who to ask.

I asked the dog, but his ears stayed flat.

 

 

 

(Meno)Pause for Thought

In case you haven't guessed by the title, this post talks about Women's Stuff. My male readers will be forgiven if they bail out now.  

So early last year, our family was invited to join a relative at their fancy timeshare for a week. A good friend arranged to house/pet sit and all four of us went away on our first vacation all together in some years. 

As most of my readers know, food is a big issue for me. Big meals trigger seizures and there seems to be some kind of magic combination of proteins, fat and starch that will prevent this from happening so much. Unfortunately, I can't quite figure out what that combination is.  Also, I have gained a lot of weight in the past few years, so I do try to watch what I eat. Especially carbs, which like to bypass my digestive system and apply themselves directly to my ass. 

Except for this trip. For this trip, I made a decision to let all my hanguops go and enjoy myself. If I wanted to sit by the pool all day with a cocktail in one hand and a chocolate cake in the other, I would. 

After the first day, I didn't need my cane for the whole trip. I didn't have a single seizure, either. I attributed this to lack of stress; being on holiday or whatever.  But I had a sneaking suspicion my new "eat what the fuck I want" diet was a contributing factor. So I kept it up after we got home. And felt a lot better. Fewer seizures and I rarely needed the cane.

Except right when I got home, I started to have a huge problem with hot flashes. Problems on the "I need a change of clothes" level. And the "flashes" were badly named. They weren't just a sudden blaze of heat that dissipated quickly. They hung around for thirty, forty minutes or more. I was waking several times per night. One evening, Himself found me standing in the bath fully clothed. I had chucked every ice cube in the house into the bath and was standing in the icy water, holding two handfuls of ice cubes (which I was rubbing on my head and neck)  and crying, because I still couldn't cool down.  

After that incident, which I decided was NOT normal, -even for me- I took myself to the gynecologist. Tests, tests, tests; went back for the results.

"Remind me of your symptoms, again?"  

I reminded her.

"And you are ...43?"  

"Yes"

"Hmmm. well, based on your symptoms and this bloodwork, you are definitely in menopause."

"Perimenopause?" 

"No" she said, as she indicated the results again. "Post. Post menopause  (and I think she saw my face, which must have been a picture). You are very young for this, and normally I would wait until you hadn't had a period for a year, but these numbers are VERY low and combined with your symptoms, definitely indicate post menopause"

And then we had a long talk about hormone replacement therapy, due to my young age ("I don't want you to live the next 40 years without estrogen") and the severity of my symptoms.  

We also had a discussion regarding my seizures and if she thought they might be related to hormonal shifts. The timing fits right in there. She didn't know, but recommended a particular neurologist.

So that was a bit of a shock, let me tell you.  My perception of a post-menopausal irishwoman is a slightly less extreme version of this.

...definitely not me.

And while I had no intention of ever having more children, it was still a bit of a shock to know that the option had been removed without my prior knowledge or consent. More of a shock in my case than some: My sister, who is just a few years younger than me, had just had a baby.

It took awhile to get the HRT all sorted out. The doc needed more tests and a letter from my neurologist (#25)  saying he was OK with me taking hormones and I wouldn't die. 

In the meantime, I saw my rheumatologist, told her all this and she was all "you know, I thought it might have been a hormone thing..."  (funny how you always remember right at the end, Toby).

So I have been replacing hormones for a few months now. Most (not all) of the horrible hot flashes are gone and I am sleeping a lot better at night. I have NOT been seizure free, more's the pity (see the bread post) but the seizure frequency didn't seem to change when I started treatment. I have stuck to my "eat when I feel like it" plan, which has done nothing at all positive for my ass, but has definitely been rendering me more functional on a daily basis. 

Is my early and uninvited menopause related to my sudden onset of  atypical seizures (also uninvited) at the age of 39?

I don't know.  I can't think it's unrelated, but my gut tells me if there is a hormonal link, it is related to how hormones effect some underlying condition, and not a direct 'cause and effect' thing.

Whatever it is, it's not normal. That much I do know. Story of my life, lately.

Things I Thought I Knew. Part 2

I didn't exactly have a privileged childhood. Far from it. However, I did have a (single) father who loved me and raised his four girls to believe in themselves and not take shit from anyone. 

Good lessons.

And maybe because of him, or maybe it's an inbuilt ...thing.  Or the arrogance of youth. Either way: I grew into a young woman who didn't take crap from ANYONE. When you are twenty-something, with your own company, living in a nice place, driving a nice car and expecting significant return on hard work and ambitions, you really start to think you're invincible.

...until an enraged, six-foot man thunders towards  you in your own living room, fist raised, ready to strike your 98lb (at the time) self with all his weight and strength.

I had never thought I would be a victim of domestic  violence. I had always thought that if anyone raised their fist to me, I would simply reach for the nearest heavy object and smash in their skull. I thought I would take a stand; angry, screaming and fight. And even if I didn't win (unlikely, given my size), I would try bloody hard to do him as much damage as I could before he incapacitated me.   

Yes. I was a feisty wee thing.

But of course, when it actually happened, it didn't work out that way.  He came at me fast with fist raised and I reacted completey instinctually: I cowered; face covered, head down, waiting for the blow. 

The blow never came.  Instead, he checked himself and left the house, incandescent with rage, the tyres of his BMW  tearing up the gravel  driveway of our nice place, leaving me huddled on the floor by the window. 

I have never felt so betrayed in my entire life. I was shaking; shocked, horrified by what had just happened. The interesting thing is that I didn't feel too much shocked and betrayed by my then-partner. I felt betrayed by myself and shocked by my own reaction. Never in a million years, would I have predicted this:

I cowered.

I, who had once -as a skinny 13yo- faced down a snarling Rottweiler to retrieve a dropped purse, who had fearlessly handled German Shepherds and terriers alike (but not cocker spaniels. They mental).

I cowered

I, who had gotten between a violent person and their intended victim on more than one occasion, who had pulled a six-foot-something karate kicking man off an unconscious guy in Cork while a crowd of people had gathered and done nothing (regretted it when the guy regained conscioussness -he WAS a dick, I felt like knocking him back out meself!)

I cowered.

And I, there on the floor of the darkened living roon, with the moonlight creeping in, sat and faced a new and previously unimagined version of myself:

I, Coward.

 

 

Brown Bread Adventures

Recently, I have been craving brown soda bread, like we used to get at home in Ireland when I was growing up. Not a bad thing to crave; soda bread is very healthy; whole grain, low fat, delicious.

This craving started with a combination of a few things. After the Stove Woes of Thanksgiving (a story for another day) I finally -after 12 years in this house- have an oven in which I am willing to bake something a bit more involved than packaged brownies. And I found out that a beloved aunt had died back in Ireland, which made me sad, nostalgic and craving comfort food.

So I determined to bake myself some soda bread.  I have great memories of Mother Francis in the convent orphanage mixing up large industrial batches of brown bread by hand; apparently weighing and measuring nothing, but the bread came out perfect each time.  Those afternoons in the big convent kitchen where she baked, a few of us kids keeping her company and helping in small ways, are some of the warmest memories of my childhood.  

And I have a great book 

Which I got on sale when Borders was closing. I highly recommend it, BTW.  The French Onion Soup is to die for. There are a few recipes therein for brown soda bread (and yeast bread, homemade butter and .....loads of interesting stuff). Darina Allen advocates using sour milk in brown bread. Not milk that has lemon juice added, but spoiled milk. She says it is the old-fashioned way and that it gives a better flavour than buttermilk (which is the common substitution). I remember this clearly. I remember Mother Francis reserving the "gone off" milk for use in the soda bread ("Waste not, want not. There are starving children in Biafra"). OK fine.  Spoiled milk it is.

I found some half&half that had been bought for Thanksgiving and only half-used lurking in the back of the fridge. The expiry date was  December 16th. I found it on December 27th. Great! I took a whiff. It smelled perfectly fine; fresh, creamy delicious. Not a whiff of sourness. I left it out overnight. The next day it STILL smelled great. And the day after. At that point I posted a rant on Facebook, and several of my friends left comments to the tune of "Are you out of your mind? You'll poison yourself!". But of course, I knew better. I had eaten bread made with spoiled milk in Ireland in the 70s and I was FINE (mind you, that milk only took a day or two to spoil). The bread would be baked in a (working!) 400 degree oven, which would kill any unpleasantness, anyway. Right?  

What could go wrong?

On the third day out in the warm kitchen, kept  close to the radiator, the half&half was finally starting to whiff and separate. So I made me bread. It rose beautifully, smelled gorgeous, was a bit crumbly from the extra fat in the half&half, but tasted delicious! I was so proud of myself! I had gotten up early to jab the cat, and had stayed up to bake bread. It was 9:30am, I had fresh bread from the oven for breakfast and the whole day ahead of me.  

And then I had the biggest  seizure I have had in a long time. Five hours blown. And when I came back, I felt horrible; weak, tired, shaky and running a fever of 101.5. 

"BUT IT WASN"T THE BREAD!" I insisted, while banning the other family members from trying it. "Mind you, I'm afraid to have more, in case I seze again" I admitted to Himself. "Have some more at bedtime", was his unhelpful reply, which to my addled brain made perfect sense. That way, if it did make me seize again, it was while the Monsters were sleeping, and I would lose no more of the day. He caught me eating it at bedtime and was all "WTF? I was JOKING!", but by then most of the slice was down me gullet, anyway.

It did make me seize again. Not fun. The next morning, I threw that bread out. 

And I thought about what I learned from this:

I learned that American commercially-produced milk of today, is a lot different than Irish commercially- produced milk of the 1970s, and indeed, different to Darina Allen's Irish organic-farm-produced milk of today. Which makse sense if you think about it (as I did after the fact); these days, cows are given a horrifying amount of antibiotics, so there is no bacteria in the milk to spoil it quickly. Therefore, the stuff that is going to hang around and eventually spoil it for you, is probably the really, REALLY nasty shit -that is probably antiobiotic resistant. 

I'm lucky I only seized.

The other thing I learned; -and I don't know how useful this wil be- is that I have actually found a single food that will produce a seizure. One of the most frustrating things about this journey has been the inconsistencies. Food makes me seize, yes. But I have never been able to identify any particular food that would do it (except a large dose of sugar after a fast, as in a Gloucose Tolerance Test). A meal I could eat with no consequences one day, would make me seize violently on another. This makes it very difficult to control my seizures via diet. 

And I learned that if intelligent people you respect tell you a plan is stupid, it probably is. OK I knew that already, but apparently I forgot it in my obsessive nostalgia.

There is a happy ending: 

I baked this non-toxic speciman yesterday.  It didn't rise quite so beautifully, but it didn't make me sick, either.

Buttermilk, baby.

 

Stating this publicly. Hold me to it.

I haven't been blogging seriously in some time. Since early 2010, in fact. There have been a few reasons for this.

The first reason involved some real-life friends. After a brief absence from blogging, a few of them pinged me on Facebook: "What happened?" "Why aren't you blogging?" "Are you OK?..." or words to that effect. 

And I thought. If I don't update, sooner or later one of them will pick up the goddamn phone, like they used to.  No one did. And my passive-aggressiveness turned to butthurt.

Around the same time, I found out that a third party with whom I was in a rather large dispute had the name and URL of this (supposedly (mostly) anonymous) blog, and I felt invaded and a bit violated by that. This was my safe place to update my friends on how I was doing and vent a little. Now, all of a sudden; I felt like my friends barely gave a toss and my place wasn't safe anymore.  What was the point anymore?

So I stopped blogging about my health stuff -which was the main point of the blog in the first place, and I mostly stuck to more general topics.  

I have missed blogging. But it is hard to get back after a long absence. Hard to find which threads to pick up and to know where exactly I left off. I look back at some of my older (but more recent) posts and I have absolutely NO recollection of writing them. This "scammers and vitamins" post? It's definitely by me, but I don't remember writing it at all. That's kinda scary and makes me wonder if my neurological issues are quietly progressing? Because I haven't been seizing with the same kind of regularity of late.

So, how to pick up after a long absence? You draw a line in the sand. Today is New Years Eve, a very good place to draw such a line and say this.

I am making a resolution to blog "properly" again in 2012. My goal is to update every other day, if health and circumstances allow. If they don't, then to update at least once per week, and back to every other day (or more) when things are back to abnormal again.

I also discovered recently that some of my old scamming enemies have new scam products and targets out there, so I really need to get on that. 

So here I am saying this officially, publicly. I am blogging again. If I try to wiggle out of it, you can take me to task, here or on Facebook.

OR...

Call me?