If It's Not One Thing

It started back in February when I was laid up with the 3rd worst bout of the flu I'd ever experienced.

As an aside, many people I know have never had the flu. Not the real flu - the upper respiratory ick that takes hold and knocks you flat which not only makes death seem way more appealing than it ought to but also feels as though it is just around the corner. And you can quote that poem about raging against the dying of the light all you want but, if you go by flu, there won't be much raging unless it's a raging coughing fit. There just isn't energy for it. So yeah. Lots of people I know have never had the flu. They'll say, "I don't know if I've ever had the flu." And my response is, "Then you've never had it. Because if you ever had, you would know it, remember it, and hope like hell it doesn't happen again."

I digress.

Anyway!

I had the flu back in February - 3rd worst bout by my reckoning...although, now that I think about it, it's only the 3rd time I've had the flu so the fact that it was the 3rd worst also means it was the easiest bout and by easiest I mean it was the only time I've had the flu during which I didn't once consider going to the hospital. It was still 9 days of lying about, watching Frontline, and attempting to convince myself I had once felt well and would feel well again.

Long about day 3 of the Flu 2013, my back started to hurt. That's what happens when one has a crappy bed and occasion to be in it coughing almost continuously for 72 hours. There wasn't much to be done about it. I had to rest, the couch is worse than the bed, and so I sucked it up and spent as much time as I could at my computer watching Frontline instead. Still...every time I crawled back into my bed, it was with trepidation knowing my back was going to feel even worse when I awoke.

And it did.

Eventually though, the flu went away and, even though my back didn't exactly feel well, the pain was much more manageable with some daily activity mixed in with Advil and/or Aleve. So I sucked it up hoping it would go away in good time.

But it didn't.

During the course of the last 2 months, I must confess, I wasn't very kind to it. Spending hours at Denhac standing on concrete, going to the home show and walking around for several hours, again on concrete, carrying too many groceries in the house rather than making more than one trip, boxing up an extraordinary amount of books for donation at work and subsequently tipping a cart full of 3 cases on top of myself, not dealing with anxiety and stress in a healthy way like exercise. Good times.

Still...I was managing. Granted, I'd had to increase my intake of NSAIDs a couple of times but I was managing to get through each day without tears...mostly.

And then, last weekend, I came down with Norovirus - what many people refer to as the flu but which is really the stomach ick that causes the innards of one's body to organize a mass exodus of its contents through any available orifice. EVERYBODY OUT! That's not the flu, folks. That's something infinitely worse for a shorter duration.

Along with the Norovirus came a wicked fever. And with that fever came the overwhelming need to roll up in a blanket burrito on my bed as the waves of icy chills crashed over me and I began to hallucinate the presence of ice caps and polar bears. I spent most of the weekend like that...

Way too much time like that.

Because now the back Piper has come calling and he's demanding to be paid.

Wednesday, I could hardly walk without crying. Every 6 hours, I was taking 800 mg of ibuprofen without relief. My back screamed if I stood or sat for more than 5 minutes. The only relief I could get was by lying down or to alternate sitting, standing, and walking. I knew I had to do something.

But I was afraid.

And, I guess if I'm going to be honest, the reason why I hadn't done anything about it before this week was because, underneath the denial, the false optimism, the "if I ignore it, it'll get better on its own" pep talks, I'd been afraid. 2 years ago, a friend went through several months of excruciating back pain...months of physical therapy, epidurals, MRIs, x-rays, and dilaudid prescriptions before finally FINALLY getting relief from the most extreme treatments - spinal fusion surgery. She's better now but she will never be the same. 

That kind of experience terrifies me. I saw the pain in her eyes day after day and heard the defeat in her voice after every doctor's appointment. I don't know that she'd ever known depression until that time in her life...that time when she thought the rest of her life would be consumed by this intense, hopeless pain. It was horrible to helplessly watch her go through it. It was awful to think about the possibility I might be getting ready to go through it myself.

On Wednesday though, I knew I had to do something. It was to the point I could no longer ignore it and the anxious thoughts of packing, moving, unpacking into a new house with stairs compelled me into action.

I called my chiropractor* and left an extremely embarrassing, tear-filled message.

Help.

He got me in as soon as he could yesterday afternoon. By the time I walked into his office, the circles and bags under my eyes and the scrunched up set of my mouth told their own story. I hurt. And how. 

He didn't even ask me where it hurt. He instructed me to lie down on my stomach and, after he grasped my ankles and did a quick 1-2 bend of my knees, he walked over to my right side, put his hands just to the right of my lower spine and said, "If I had to take a guess, I'd say you hurt right here" and he pushed down.

Let me tell you, I about jumped off the table as I screeched in torment. 

He'd nailed it.

And then he said, "That's great news!"

Uh...OK. At that moment, as I pried my fingernails out of the vinyl covering on his exam table, I didn't really think so.

"It's not a disc, girl. And that is phenomenal news. I can easily fix this. The bad news is that it's going to take time. Your sacrum is so jammed up, frankly, I'm surprised you are able to walk."

I started to cry.

Cry because I was relieved. Cry because I still hurt. Cry because I felt incredibly stupid for having waited so long to see someone I trust to help me.

And he said, "It's OK. It'll be OK. I can fix you. You've learned a lesson. Next time, if it isn't better after a few days, you call me."

And I said, "I'll do anything you say. If you say come every day, I'll come every day. Tell me what to do."

And so I'm doing it.

Today was my second appointment. And I hurt. Bad. Worse than I did yesterday. Worse than I did when I had the flu in February...when this first started. If you know me...really really know me...you can likely guess just how bad I hurt then. I don't even think I know how bad. What I know is that I can't sit at my computer to write this blog post for longer than 5 minutes before I have to get up and move, stretch-ish, breathe, and shake the pain off as much as possible.

But I'm also hopeful. Hopeful that he can fix me as he says he can, yes. But also hopeful because, as I left today, he told me explicitly to call him over the weekend if I needed him...I think because he likely knew the extensive treatment he gave me today would be about as much as I could stand and I might need him to just talk me through it until Monday when I saw him again...and the knowledge of just knowing he's there - one of my healers - is enough to see me through.

And now I shall e-mail my acupuncturist, another loved and trusted friend, to see if she would see me on a Sunday if I have to call.

I love my holistic, minimally invasive, non-narcotic prescribing, healers!

As I tell myself...it's just another thing.

* I have known my chiropractor on a personal level for years. He is a dear, trusted friend who, when I'm on or off his table, not only knows how to heal my physical pain but also listens to and helps heal my emotional pain. He has a very few handful of patients he sees like me...ones he knows and trusts himself outside his office. If you are one of them, you know it, and you know what he can do for us. He works miracles in many, many ways.

That One Night I Actually, You Know, Blogged

Oh!

Hi!

I didn't expect anyone to still be here lurking around in my blog space waiting to hear from me. You must be starving! And likely thirsty. I would be too if I'd stuck around this long with nary a word. You should go fix yourself a snack. Perhaps a cocktail too. I'll wait. I'll just, you know, occupy myself by blowing the dust off and vacuuming up the cobwebs around here until you get back.

Ready?

OK!

So...let's see...where should I start attempting to fill you in on where I've been, what I've done, and why I've neglected the blog? Well...I know! Let's start with the big stuff.

1.  I am under contract to buy a house! And while you are likely thinking, "Oh! Of course! That's where she's been...looking at house after house after house in search of her dream first time home!" you would be wrong in thinking that's where I've been spending my time. Because, in reality, I saw that first house and then, five days later, saw the second house and put an offer in on it the very next day after receiving the stamp of approval by my realtor, my boss, and non-husbands 1 and 2. 

That's right. I am buying the second house I laid eyes on and I'm not even sorry because it's EXACTLY what Lex and I wanted. It's so perfect (for us) that Lex was practically bouncing about it. For the record, Lex doesn't ever really bounce. He doesn't ever say he loves pretty much anything. Ever. So when he said he loved it, I knew this was the one. Of course, I knew it was the one the day before - likely from the moment I saw the Mormon pantry or the all-mirrored, 70s disco powder room on the main floor - but I figured I might as well give him the illusion of having a say so.

The one down side to this particular house - OUR house-to-be - is that it is a Short Sale. In essence, the sellers are thisclose to foreclosure and, in order to avoid foreclosure, are attempting to sell the house for less than they owe on it hoping their lender will take what they can get and save everyone the time and expense and additional loss created by the headache of an actual foreclosure. Why is this a downside, you ask? Because it takes forever to get approved. It could be 3, 4, or even 6 months before I close on this house. And there's always that added extra stress of wondering if the lender will approve the offer and worrying about whether or not, once it's approved, if it'll pass inspection and/or come in at a reasonably comparable appraised value. 

Ugh. I don't even want to talk about all the little things that are keeping my sub-conscious busy with all sorts of bizarre anxiety dreams (of which I ought to write down because they are just that weird and frequent).  

Just...trust me. I love this house. I'll wait for a long time for it if I have to just...let everything go smoothly. And while I'm waiting I'll just keep pinning stuff to my decorating ideas board on Pinterest. Because yes, apparently I've finally figured out just exactly what Pinterest is for and I don't believe any good will come of it.

2. Let's see...oh yes! Right after I wrote a letter to a sick co-worker, I got sick! With the flu! It was really awful. I ran a fever upwards of 102º for the better part of 9 days and didn't think I'd ever feel well again. woot. If you've ever run a fever that high then you know there isn't much to do except lie about feeling sorry for yourself and watching television. Except I have no television or Netflix or much of anything really (because I'm a cheap bastard) except books and a computer. Reading, however, is out of the question with a fever - I mean, if I want to retain anything more than a few words. The saving grace was that, after a couple of days lying around in germy pajamas, trying not to moan so loudly the neighbors would call for the police or for a sex addiction intervention, I discovered PBS has every episode ever produced of Frontline available online. I don't know why that is important. It certainly seems ridiculous to me now that, while burning up with fever, the one saving grace in my life was hard core documentary porn, but it was important.

No Rocky and Bullwinkle, Inspector Gadget, or Loony Tunes here in this sick ward, folks! No, no! It's all about the opium brides of Afghanistan, AIDS in black America, or poverty through a child's eyes. I suppose maybe I got hooked because misery loves company. Either that or, relatively speaking, the flu ain't got nothing on the street gangs of Chicago. Regardless, I spent 9 days off work, in my pajamas, eating cough drops and Advil while watching people talk about euthanizing themselves.

There's a party all up in here, y'all! Just a barrel o' laughs. Clearly.

Eventually, even though I thought it would never happen, I got better. But not before I'd forsaken every one of my new habits ...with the exception of rubbing the lotion on my skin every day. Oh well. There's always next year.

3. Mostly what's been keeping me away from the blog though is actually a great thing! I've been spending most of my free time volunteering as a board member for Denhac! I don't remember if I mentioned it when it happened but, back in October, I was elected to the board and subsequently elected as an officer - secretary - of the board. After a massive Denhac-ian kerfuffle in December that had me re-thinking relationships and led me to the discovery of the drama triangle - in which I am most often pulled into playing the part of rescuer but found myself in this instance being cast as the villain to which I said wholeheartedly "No thank you. I won't be playing your bullshit game henceforth" (I paraphrase...I didn't actually say it quite like that) - I took over the all important role of managing communications for the space. Turns out, I love it! And I'm really good at it. But it's a lot of work that, for the most part, was neglected in the past. So I've been spending most of my free time building an audience for the space while neglecting the audience I've built here. 

For that, I am sorry. Because I miss my blog. I miss my friends. I miss writing for me...without much purpose and without intent to promote.

But I'm not sorry to see the Denhac hours I put in every single day make a difference. And there is most definitely a tangible difference. Of that I can be extremely proud.

So there.

That's why you've been left to your own devices for much of the last several months. Hopefully you'll forgive me and will continue to poke your noses in every once in awhile to check in on me. I promise I won't make you watch any Frontline episodes on undertaking while you wait...unless you want to, that is. It's a pretty cool episode. I mean, if you like that sort of thing...

Which I do.

The House Equivalent of Duck Face

On my 41st birthday, I announced here that I, for the very first time ever, was buying a house.

And then I subsequently, quietly disappeared from recording my infinite wisdoms.

And if you're a person given to powers of deduction, you might have drawn the conclusion that I wasn't writing because I was busy house hunting and frantically pinning decorating and DIY home improvement-type stuff to Pinterest. 

But you would be wrong.

In fact, until this week, I hadn't stepped foot into one available property for a look see. 

Mostly this is because our lease isn't up until June 30 and I was terrified I would find and fall in love with a house too soon and either have to let it slip through my fingers or get stuck with months of rent+mortgage payments. But now we've entered that sweet spot - that period of time during which I have time to browse the inventory, make an offer, counter-offer, and close without fear of double payments.

Except...inventory is pretty low in my price range. Inventory is pretty low in every price range. People are still underwater on their mortgages and unwilling to list for less than they owe unless they have to. And what little inventory is out there is getting snapped up almost as fast as it gets listed by investors who are back to quick flipping for profit. Fuckers.

So, on Thursday morning when I received the auto-email for new property listings meeting my criteria that my Realtor, Courtney (yes, she's blond and also full of win), set up for me and saw a house meeting all my must and love to haves except one - it was just a tad outside the physical locations I wanted but still manageable - and the price was an unbelievably reasonable price, I pounced. The pictures showed a lovely, two-story, 1970s-era vision of my kind of perfect.

Nice, right? Photo shamelessly taken from the property listing

Formal living room of "the perfect house" - photo shamelessly taken from the property listing

The family room of "the perfect house"

I immediately e-mailed Courtney and told her "I must see this house. TODAY." Fearing an investor would snatch it out from under me before I even had a chance to shower and shampoo.

And then I immediately e-mailed everyone I know. Well...OK...I e-mailed Acr0nym and Lex. Still...I was excited. THIS WAS MY HOUSE! I knew it! Even the address told me so (long story)! 

IT WAS PERFECT!

Never mind that I'd not looked at any other houses. Never mind that I have no idea what I'm doing. Never mind that, in the back of my head, I was thinking it is absurd to put an offer in on the first house I see. It's not that simple. Very few things in life are ever that simple.

Regardless, I got caught up in house hunting hysteria, crazed by the knowledge that it's a seller's market with sharks circling every property out there just waiting to drive up prices. I could barely concentrate on getting myself ready for work. I couldn't concentrate on my actual work once I got there. I coerced my boss into going with me at noon, knowing full well I needed a steady head to talk me down from offering up way more than I could afford just to secure this piece of homey heaven for me and the boys.

Heh.

The moment my boss and I pulled up in front of the house, I knew it was all wrong. While the rest of the houses on the street seemed peppy and smart, this house seemed tired in a way I couldn't really identify. There wasn't anything exactly wrong with the outside - other than the extremely worn out wooden platform acting as a front stoop to the door - it just...there wasn't any life to it.

I attributed that to the fact that it was empty and had been vacant for who knows how long. It was a foreclosure after all. It could have been vacant for months...years. We'll breathe life into it! That's how it works...right?

And then we - Courtney, my boss, and I - stepped inside.

The moment Courtney closed the door, she said, "OK. Before we really look, here's what we're up against."

My heart sank.

Nothing good ever starts with a sentence like that. And, for the next five minutes, I got schooled on the delightful dealings of HUD foreclosures, bidding processes, preliminary inspections, repair escrows for things like plumbing and septic system damage of which there were several repairs required. 

Ugh.

Why did it have to be plumbing?!*

And then, with that information gurgling around in my guts, we looked around.

I'll start with the good.

The house was perfectly laid out. I loved the light, the windows, the way the formal living room flowed into the dining room, the size of the kitchen, the bay window over the kitchen sink with shelves for an herb garden, the gorgeous fireplace and hearth in the family room. The basement was great for Lex - a bedroom, an office, a 3/4 bath, and a large room for working out and/or gaming. The upstairs, which could have used another bathroom aside from the master bath, was also laid out well for my purposes...a bedroom, an office, and a guest room.

But...

Every single room - EVERY ONE - had glaringly obvious cosmetic needs. The previous owners had painted nearly every room in bold colors - not awful ones but bold...mahogany, purple, blue, red - but they were lazy painters and hadn't bothered to tape off AT ALL and then used a paint sprayer. So nearly every single ceiling had 3-4" of bold-colored paint bleeding into its 70's-style popcorn texturing. Nearly every wall had a punch through the drywall. Every wall had a number of nail holes and masonry plugs. There had obviously been a plumbing problem in the basement bathroom because there was a huge cut through the drywall that hadn't been replaced and exposed the pipes. The ceiling in the master bedroom was stained from an obvious leak in the ceiling. The carpet was disgusting throughout the upstairs and, in one place, had suffered extreme damage but, instead of replacing it, the previous owners had cut a stripe - about a foot wide and 8 feet deep - of a different carpet, color and texture - and nailed it down to cover the damage. The humongous backyard, a yard that, at one time, had been a gardener's delight, had been so neglected, it had become a snarl of weeds that had choked out every other living thing.

The backyard, more than anything else, surprised me the most. The front yard was beautifully groomed and landscaped. It was one of the things I liked best! But the backyard - hidden from the prying eyes of the neighbors by an 8-foot privacy fence - had been so horribly neglected it would require a backhoe in order to dig it all up and start over.

I was quiet on the way back to the office. Disappointed obviously but also lost in thought.

This house...this "perfect house"...at one time, had truly been perfect. It was a lovely, traditional, colonial-style house and, when it was brand new, must have been quite nice. The selling agent knew just how to capture duck face pictures of this house in its best light to convince everyone looking at it online that this was something truly special. A must see! A must have! 

But just like the duck face pictures we see of our friends, that we post of ourselves, online - those allegedly candid selfies in which we portray ourselves in the very best light, hiding the wrinkles, the double chins, the hard facts of life - the house, in real life, had a decidedly different story to tell. The house, like people, hides behind a facade. Behind the walls, it's another story. The pictures show us the shell of what it once was - what it should be. But the only true story it could tell was a story that included neglect, abuse, indifference, laziness, and bad decisions. 

And, just like a person who has been neglected and abused, this house was, at times, overwhelmed with its sadness.

I felt it.

It gave me new meaning to the phrase "domestic abuse" and, in some ways, I felt horrible when I made the decision to pass it by. That house needs love! And I have lots of love! I just don't have a whole lot of energy to put into patching up that kind of damage done.

So...I hope some energetic, caring person grasps onto that house and gives it the love it so desperately needs. I hope it gets the chance it deserves. 

But then I hope those same things for all of us.

* The day before, I'd had to leave work early, ONCE AGAIN, to meet the plumber because The Grotto had yet another random explosion out of the bathroom sink which spewed sludge all over the ceiling, walls, mirror, vanity, our TOOTHBRUSHES, and destroyed literally everything not encased in plastic that we'd stored in the medicine chest (how it got in there, we do not know). The joys of 100+ year old properties.

It's Probably Best Not to Ask

Have you ever had one of those nights where you're just lying there, drifting off to sleep, and slowly become aware that you're counting?

OK but have you then come to realize you aren't counting sheep or butterflies or LOLcats but you are, instead, counting (and naming) the kids from Eight Is Enough?

OK but have you then found yourself wide awake because dammit! You've only managed to name 7 and who was the 8th kid? Not Nicholas. No. You got him right off the bat. And not David or Tommy or Mary or Elizabeth. And not Joanie either. Susan took some time but you got to her eventually because you remembered she'd been married to Meryl the Pearl and who could forget Meryl the Pearl?!

Clearly I can't. 

OK but have you then started naming the spouses and the actors and plot lines of various episodes and even though you STILL can't remember the name of that 8th kid you are now playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon except with Willie Aames? 

And then, just about the time you are trying to decide whether or not you're going to admit you are now fully awake and obsessing by going through all the trouble of reaching over to grab your phone so you can google the cast of Eight Is Enough or just wait, lying there sleeplessly until the morning, and risk forgetting that you've got this burning first world problem to solve, you sit up in bed, snap your fingers, and exclaim...

NANCY!!! Blond, ditzy, beauty pageant contestant Nancy!

Which startles the cat who was, until then, sleeping soundly next to your head and sends him skittering off in the direction of a quieter place to get some sleep uninterrupted by outbursts from a crazy 80's-pop-culture-obsessing lady. Which is too bad really because once the mystery was solved you were able to fall almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep?

Well...have you?

No?

I guess it's just me then.

A Letter to a Sick Co-Worker

Dear Co-Worker,

I want you to know I like you. I really do! You're nice, hardworking, passionate about our company, and have some really good ideas. You're usually pleasant to be around and, even though you're never the go-to-gal for chocolates, people seem to like stopping in to visit with you on occasion chocolate or no.

Bob in accounting, Mary in sales, Debbie in reception, Les in operations, Carol in IT, and Ben in marketing...they* all think you're swell too!

So you know how you came to work yesterday and today looking as though you were an under-cooked turkey, hacking, sniffling, sneezing, and blowing your nose every 20 seconds? We could all tell you weren't feeling well and we encouraged you to go home. Because we care, yes. We want you to feel better! 

But also...

Bob's got severe asthma. When Bob gets a cold, which is rare thankfully, Bob goes to the emergency room and then is on oxygen for a month afterward because that cold automagically turns into pneumonia.

Mary's undergoing some pretty heavy duty chemotherapy treatment to get rid of that pesky cancer. If Mary gets sick, they'll have to stop treatment right in the middle of the cycle...and then the chemo won't likely work so well. 

Debbie's going on a trip of a lifetime next week - one she and her partner have saved and scrimped and planned for over the course of the last 3 years. If she gets sick, she can't fly and, even if she can fly, she'll be hunkered down in her hotel room for the first several days too exhausted and sick to sightsee. All that time, effort, and money going to waste.

Les's got a brand new little baby - a baby conceived after years of trying and tens of thousands of dollars spent on IVF treatments. A brand new little precious bundle of joy, born 10 weeks early and who has spent the first 6 weeks of her life in the NICU while her wee little lungs develop. He rushes from work right to the hospital to be with his wife and daughter, holding her for just a few minutes is easily the best part of his day. If Les gets a cold, he won't be able to see or touch his daughter for possibly weeks.

Carol, well...remember how Carol had that organ transplant awhile ago? That life-saving organ transplant she'd been waiting for for more than a decade? She's on some crazy immuno-suppressant drugs to keep her body from rejecting that organ. If she gets sick, she's on her way to the ICU. 

We, of course, can't forget Ben. He's HIV positive. Enough said.

And then there's me and the rest of your 90+ co-workers who just really don't like being sick. We don't want to be sick. Being sick sucks...as you well know.

Yet, there you are, sitting at your desk, hacking, sneezing, sniffling and blowing your nose just before you use the copy machine, the printer, the shredder, the file cabinets, the door handles, the microwave, the refrigerator, the restroom, the faucet handles. There you are, in my office, multiple times a day, handing me a stack of invoices to review...invoices you've been coughing all over for the last 3 hours. I know because I listened to you attempt to hack up that lung every couple of minutes and cringed outwardly knowing you'd eventually be standing just where you are saying, "Here you go!" as if you've handed me some incredible gift you're so very proud of.

You aren't winning any medals or awards or even friends by working while you're sick, you know. Management isn't watching you and thinking, "Wow! What a dedicated, wonderful employee!" Management isn't actually paying any attention. If they were, they'd likely tell you to go the fuck home because they don't want to get sick either and the work you do, while extremely important, can wait a day or two until you feel better. It can even be re-assigned to someone else who would gladly take it on as long as they didn't have to say, "Gesundeit!" to you one more time without really meaning it.

Just so you know, while you're crawling through your day thinking you are such a trooper, the rest of us are fantasizing about featuring you as the dunkee at the carnival dunking booth where those of us with a good arm (and my arm can be lethal when necessary) could douse you in a pool of Lysol. And when we aren't thinking about that, we're wishing Human Resources would install a Silkwood Shower we could all partake in at the end of our work day.

Right now, we don't really like you. Right now, we all think you're an asshole.

So just stop it and go home.

Sincerely,

The Staff

* Fictional characters