What? Me? Bitchy????

Last night I was attempting to find something on the Internet.  I was tired and getting confused.  I was frustrated.  After a while I started to swear at the computer, and my Hubby asked me if I was getting BITCHY?  (I thought….watch out…I’ll show you bitchy Buddy).  Later he apologized. I accepted.

But I realized that my many moods sometimes are misinterpreted by others, especially the fabulous Hubby.  Before I got sick I was very even-tempered and easy-going, but I know that my mood fluctuates now depending on how I am feeling.

Chronic illness is a pain in the ass.  I never know how I will feel when I wake up in the morning.  I can’t make plans because if I do, I might have to cancel.  I can’t go out shopping alone, what if I can’t drive home?  Shit, I can’t go anywhere alone because I might get lost.  No, I am not a hermit or loner, I am just not up to par most days.

As far as reading my moods, I have learned that I need to make things easier for people around me.  A frown or a growl doesn’t mean I want to bite your head off, it might mean I am nauseous and I’m afraid I am going to puke get sick.  Laying on the couch with my eyes closed doesn’t mean I am avoiding you, it might just mean I am really dizzy. Staying in my room under the covers doesn’t mean I am anti-social, it might mean I am just too sick to come out of my cocoon.   And yelling at the computer doesn’t mean I’m being bitchy, it might mean I am frustrated that I can’t think clearly through the brain fog.

Maybe I will make flash cards to hold up that will let anyone around me know my mood at the time.  I think that will work.  I will never be called “bitchy” because I have been in the bathroom all afternoon with a diarrhea fit or because my joints have been screaming at me all day.

Thank You for understanding.

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R.I.P. Fridge

Our refrigerator up and died a few days ago.  It was a slow death.  One day it got confused and poured water into the broken ice maker and it ended all over the kitchen floor.  All the drawers and shelves were wobbly. If you took the chance to open the door you needed to be prepared that your feet were going to get hit by a flying yogurt or worse….the entire veggie drawer and the contents. Then the ice cream started to melt.  That was the last straw.

So, we took a trip to our local Menard’s store, the wanna-be Home Depot of the midwest.  Mr. “I can’t make a decision” actually agreed on my favorite (!!!) and we happily went to the front to arrange delivery.  Then it hit me.  Weakness, dizziness, dry mouth.  The “I am going to faint if I don’t sit down now” feeling.  Thankfully Joe found a chair for me or I was going to lay down on the floor.  People look at you funny when you do that.

You would imagine that after twelve years of this disease I would be prepared for this to happen every so often. Nope. Getting pissed off upset doesn’t help at all.  But of course I did.  Really really pissed me off upset.   Then I was good for shit nothing the next day.  

The refridgerator will be here Wednesday.  I hope I’m awake so I can open the door for the delivery men.

AHHHHHHHHH  Mr. Addison, I love you!

The day I always dread

When I can’t sleep I read blogs…..this one is especially moving.

Country Life and Death

youngones1

You can see how quiet they are, this mob of weaner heifers and steers.  So quiet. These beautiful, quiet little animals. It’s more than likely they are all dead now.

On 30 June, the day before we left the farm for a long trip away, I walked among these 30 heifers and 21 steers who we were sending to market the following day.  Here’s what they did;  they gathered around me. It’s what I expected them to do but it brought tears to my eyes. They gathered around me and followed me wherever I went in the paddock.

For me, it’s never a good day when we sell cattle. I always dread it. It’s inevitable but it’s always hard.  I felt guilty that I was glad I wouldn’t be there the next day when they were trucked to Scone sale yards. I’d left instructions, as always, banning the use of…

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Nails

Very moving post, get the tissues before you read it.

Get Behind the Muse

I’d never cut anybody else’s nails until I was thirty-one years of age. Then, in the space of a couple of weeks, I was cutting the nails of two of the most important people in my life, neither of whom was able to perform this task themselves. At one end of life’s journey was my father, riddled with cancer and possessing neither the strength nor agility to wield a nail clippers. At the other, my newborn daughter whose facial lacerations a day after emerging from the womb demanded the application of mouth to tiny finger and the careful nibbling away at her delicate, but razor-sharp nails. I was struck at the time by the difference between the two sets of nails. My father’s were dry and brittle, almost turning to powder on contact with the metal of the clippers; further evidence of his decline, the cancer-driven weathering of his tissues…

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