Getting Frogged

I'm starting to get a little frogged. I have a CD with all my photos, backed up when I salvaged the hard drive from my last computer after it puked, AND I CAN'T FIND THE STUPID THING. It seems to have been misplaced in the recent move of my office from the basement to the upstairs, along with a ton of other stuff, presumably in the mountain of shit I still need to move from there to here... in all my spare time. I did happen across one of my daughter's Spongebob CDs that she lost, though, so all is good in Lululand.

I also can't find the photo editing software CD that came with my camera, and I hadn't gotten around to installing on this new computer. A computer, by the way, that I really do not like; but I needed one fast and cheap, so I got this instead of the one I really wanted. I will remedy THAT soon enough, since the "hobby" I've turned to most recently is gutting and rebuilding computers. That's definitely something I would have imagined impossible even a few weeks ago with little to no use of my dominant right arm and, of course, the loss of vision in my right eye. That's all much better now with gobbling megadoses of vitamins 4 times a day. I'm obviously doing well if I can move most of an office full of shit and not feel worried about moving the rest of the mountain, right?...

Amazing how so much of life is a chain reaction...

Anyhow, this weekend I found an HP PC at a garage sale, $15 for the whole shebang. The OS is fried, which is easily solved, but it also doesn't have an ethernet port and needs a NIC installed (I just happen to have one lying around here). I want to install XP, since I used hubby's PC with Vista, and I can unqualifiedly say I DO NOT LIKE IT. But for now I gotta find those CDs. And the USB cable for my camera, which has also disappeared. And the battery charger, since the camera batteries are dead.

This sucks.

Contrary to how it seems, it's not all bad or even mildly irritating around here by any means. In fact, sometimes some pretty funny shit happens. My 3-year-old is learning his letters and he loves looking at books (gets his smarts from me, heh heh). He's rightly understood that the toilet is in the "library." DH walked in on him the other day, sitting there pooping and reading a book. Just now, I was in there peeing and he barged in on me to sign in his oh-so-cute way "poop." The book he had been "reading" before (mine, The Fifth Profession) wasn't there, so he came back a few minutes later with some new reading material. This time, he brought Webster's Dictionary. I about died laughing, thinking about my son shitting to Webster's.

Hooo-leeee Shi-i-i-i-i-it

I am so sick. No, I'm not sick in the head. Honestly. And I'm not talking about MS "shit" either. Just regular run-of-the-mill sick. One of the pleasures of sending your kids off to school is having a couple of hours of "free time." Another is cleaning up snot and puke when they bring home some nasty little bug that some other kid dragged to school because their parents were too selfish (I'm entitled to my alone-time hours, too!!!) or too stoopid (what do you mean a cold is communicable???) to keep their kids home when they are blowing chunks or snorting up loogies the size of golf balls.

I don't just get the sniffles like everyone else. Whatever malfunction of my immune system that has given me the gift of MS - a gift that just keeps giving - has also given me an uncanny ability to fall prey to monsters that other people would experience as mere common colds.

A couple of weeks ago, my daughter came home from school full of snot. She was out of school for 3 days, since I don't feel the need to shove my kids' germs off on others. DH then got the snot, and I kind of chuckled since - AMAZING!!!! - I didn't get it. I allowed myself to be lulled into a sense of security behind my barrier of 2000 mg of vitamin C a day (part of my MS thing). The other kids all went through their bouts with snot, and I signed in relief, thinking it was over - at least until the next time some dickheaded sends their sick kid to school to infect mine.

I couldn't get that lucky, now, could I? No way. I have been afflicted. Only I didn't get the snots like everyone else, I got walking pneumonia. I can't breathe. I can't smoke, because I can't breathe. I'm in a really pissy mood, because I want a cigarette, and DH is standing outside on the porch thinking I can't see him out there smoking... smoking MY fucking cigarettes.

I hack and bark, bark and hack. My ribs are crackling louder than my lungs, and motherfucker do they hurt. I cough so hard, I nearly black out because I can't catch my breath. I coughed so hard at one point, I fell off my fucking chair and pulled all my equipment down behind me, breaking the stupid little stereo adapter I need on my headset, so now I get to buy a new one - even though I just bought this one two weeks ago.

Why can't people just keep their kids home from school when they're sick? Have they no sympathy, that they torture someone like me who has a rogue immune system? Sadistic punks.

Around and Around We Go

Where it stops, only some grasping-at-straws-while-looting-state-coffers CPS worker will know.

HOW CAN IT BE that, in this great nation of ours, the news is filled with story after story documenting the failures of countless "parents," their stories often wrapped deeply within and, therefore, pointing out the inherent failures of the Child Protective Services system...

All across this country, children are abused and/or die as a result of the actions (or INACTION) of CPS workers, people voluntarily taking on a job that must be performed in an exceptionally UNAMBIGUOUS manner (is there any way to possibly misinterpret "Child Protective Services"?). HOW CAN THIS HAPPEN? Sometimes ignorance, sometimes laziness, sometimes indifference, all leading to the suffering of a child at the hands of the one who claimed to have been protecting them when it was felt their parent(s) could not.

This is not a "black" problem or a "white" problem; these are children of every color. It is not a problem isolated to "the slums" and "welfare recipients"; parents may be poor or working poor or lower-middle-class but are almost exclusively of lower income. Regardless of background, these are children that should have been OUR future but instead had their own futures stolen, in the end depriving us all.

On the other side of the coin are children needlessly ripped from the arms of their parents, lives and families destroyed - emotionally and financially - for no legitimate reason, to serve no legitimate purpose. To anyone who would insist this never happens, that those parents "deserved it," I say "Shame on you." Shame on you for not listening and learning, ignoring the truth. Shame on you for thinking that any child should suffer for someone else's mistake, regardless of who made it. Shame on you, and I hope you count your blessings every day for not having walked a mile in those shoes.

I know there are children who are neglected and abused, beat, tortured, mutilated, molested, raped, and murdered by their so-called "parents." I know there are - OFTEN - times when the system seems to work and a child in need is rescued. I know that there are, in fact, top-notch social workers in HHS/CPS agencies across the map that go above and beyond the details of their job description, for those little lives they have pledged to save, and that there are foster parents committed to the cause.

However... I also know that even the very best social workers can only be as good as the laws under which they must operate, and that far too many (federal and state) laws are inadequate, poorly constructed and misinterpreted, misapplied, subverted, ignored, and unevenly applied in practice. I know that there are times when the most inviolable and sacred rights held dear to us as American citizens, those involving due process, are thrown out like yesterday's trash.

The laws governing the CPS system and those who create them need to change. There IS a problem in this country, swept under the rug in the hopes that it will go away if no one sees it. Unfortunately for those who want it to go away, there ARE people who see it - people like me, who have LIVED it - and demand that the problems be fixed. Our Presidential candidates shout "CHANGE" from every rooftop and every mountaintop, three of whom are part of the legislative body with the power to effect that change - yet they have chosen not to do so.

In my mind, they, too, have failed the children.

What do you do when you are forced to SEE that failure,
~~~~~day after day,
~~~~~week after week,

haunting the eyes of a child destroyed in an effort to "help,"
knowing it will not be fixed,
~~~~~lives saved,
~~~~~perpetrators punished,
~~~~~families preserved,
~~~~~futures ensured?

What do you do if CPS is the agent of fear in a child's life?
What do you do if CPS is the agent of continued abuse of a child, or the abuser in its own right?

Died and Gone To Heaven

I love this new template. It so totally rocks. Yeah, I lost all my gizmos from before, but it's not a big deal to add them back - after I restore my pictures from my old computer to my new computer. They're backed up on a disk floating around here somewhere.... I've moved my office from one room of the house to another, so everything is kind of all over the place right now. For the moment, though, I have most of the important stuff up, including a new blogroll (created from the Blogger gadget thingamabob) but I need to verify because there are some not in my Google Reader but on the Desktop or in Technorati or.... you get the picture.

PS: Those are NEURONS in the header picture, because I'm, like, SMART, ya know?

Raising Awareness: Shriners Hospitals for Children

I recently received and read a newsletter for the Shriners Hospitals for Children, and I was amazed at the strength and courage demonstrated by the child patients' stories portrayed and overwhelmed at the depth of compassion and generosity of child donors' stories.

The Shriners Hospitals for Children are located across the United States, with facilities in Canada, and they help children no matter what their parents' financial status. Treatment is provided for children needing orthopedic care and burn treatment, spinal cord injuries and burn care. Investing in the future of our greatest natural resource - children - The Shriners enshrine an ideal we should all strive toward.

You can visit their website for more information, from applying for treatment to making a donation.

When You're Wrong

You're definitely wrong. But when you're right, you're still just as wrong, MAYBE EVEN MORE SO.

Ummm.... What the fuck? I mean, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you? (We'll be right back with the answer to that and much more, after this brief message from our sponsor.)

My latest project: American Worker Exposed - Anthology; a collection of stories spanning my working life, milkmaid to bartender, receptionist to small-business owner, and a few other things along the way....

brevity and longevity, a little levity to pass the time....

documenting my metamorphosis from a loud-mouth asshole kid....
....to a more cautious, thoughtful, and tactful adult....
....and eventually to a loud-mouth asshole adult....

and the absurdity of hiring someone who is actually capable of independent thought.

Highlights include:

• Tales from the Barnyard - Some people are cut out for farm work, and some are not. I am of the latter group. Of all the cows I've dealt with in my life, my "favorite" was a Hereford named "Hamburger." Years after her mission of giving me grief began, she lived up to her name and I.relished.every.bite. Contrary to popular belief, Revenge is a dish best served hot on a bun with cheese.
• Say That Again, Please, I Still Don't Got It - Tutoring and mentoring are rewarding and fulfilling endeavors but can also be trying to your patience, especially when you've just been reduced to drawing the explanation to "Sam and Debbie leave Atlanta at 6 p.m., Sam driving 58 miles per hour and Debbie 55 miles per hour...." on a piece of paper and your pupil still "don't got it" because "It's about caaaars, man, I don't do no caaaars," and not about boards and half pipes and other shit you have no idea what the fuck it is and having nothing to do with algebra anyhow. Talk about exercises in creativity.
  
• If These Speculi Could Talk - Have you ever wondered what REALLY goes on at the OB/GYN office after you've left the building? Or in the operative suite while you're out cold and the surgeon is up to his elbows in your innards? (No names or personally identifiable information will be released--sorry if you were hoping to hear your ex has gonorrhea or something...) Let me give you a glimpse into my world.
  
• Death of a Neat Freak - You can't kill people for touching your shit, but if they can't find it, they can't touch it anymore. I was anal at one time. I would even polish the inside of the car door at the hinges that you could only see when the door was open. I was nuts. Therefore, my workspace, should be inviolable. When I put the phonebook in the drawer and some asshole loots my desk, takes it and then leaves it in the middle of the Na-Ne file drawer, it just pisses me off. I was violated.
  
• How Many Drunks Does It Take.... - Sometimes the funniest motherfuckers to ever stroll through your life are drunk; unfortunately, though, far more often the biggest potlicker assholes to ever trample all over your life are also drunk. And there's an almost surreal number of bodily function malfunctions that occur in the men's room of the local bar in Anytown, USA. Or in the parking lot.
  
• Screw You, and Your Little Kid, Too - Trials and tribulations of a young single mother, desperate to get off the welfare rolls, turned down for a permanent (open) position because "you're too honest."
• And my favorite: Behind Closed Doors - Do your job in the manner in which it is laid out in the formal HR job description, even going above and beyond, and it's just not good enough. What do you do when you hear the death knell for your entire department, knowing there is no way to stop the demise but angry as hell at the SMILEY face shown to you in the front office and the whispers of backstabbing and undermining in the back office?
  

That's actually what the fuck is wrong with me. Two-facedness and placation and sometimes outright lies. Just sick of it. I hate games, and I hate when people play games and use my life as a pawn, especially when they're just not very good managers in the first place.

Totally Ready

I am totally ready for another change to the face I present The Blogosphere, but nothing has tickled my fancy yet. My fancy seems to have vacated the premises, a deduction I'm basing on the complete and utter lack of response I've gotten from it lately. Bitch went on vacation and didn't invite me. I want something funky. Or classy. Or bold and sassy, shiny as the Brass Nuts I proudly display on my mantle, polished to a bright finish. ***I don't really have nuts, brass or otherwise. I don't even have a mantle. But it sounds cool, doesn't it?***

My mind's a little fuzzy, so I need to find new pursuits, I guess. Personal and professional. I've gotten over my infatuation with the medical field, in every way, shape, and form. Modern medicine has failed me over and over, then got me with the Big Nellie, bent me over the exam room table and .... never mind. Anyhow, I've decided I will most definitely not be pursuing a career in the profession, since I could never look my patients in the eye and hand them the load of shit I've been handed for far too long.

In my past life, I used to go bowling and sometimes biking and hiking and I painted and did all kinds of cool shit. With the loss of most of the use of my dominant right arm and little to no fine or even gross motor skills, or much of the use of my legs for that matter, I was stumped as to what hobbies might excite the inner "me," having been deprived of ALL the things I loved to do.... save one. Reading. I have always loved reading above all else, and I was thankful fine and gross motor had nothing to do with it. Until my eyesight decided to take a shit on me, too.

Because I'm so good at reading and it's something I love doing, I've read and read and read some more, (gotta love CTRL++, to make the fonts BIG) and come up with a lot of "what ifs" and done a lot of AH-HA!-ing, in my quest to beat this monster that's been diddling my mind, my body, and my entire life the past 2 years. Diseases like MS were made for people like me. And that's the reason why--I'm not afraid to exercise my "cranial muscle."

A couple of interesting things I've come up with:

1. There is a strong association between MS and viral illnesses, particularly Epstein-Barr, a member of the herpes family. I contracted EPV in high school and was out of commission for months. Years later, crushing fatigue and malaise were written off by my physician as reactivation mono, not digging deeper to find the gold nugget of truth or even broaching the possibility that there could be something far more sinister at work.
   
2. There is a link between MS and vitamin B deficiencies, particularly B12. I was diagnosed with pernicious anemia at age 22 and have been self-injecting cyanocobalamin since 1995. In hindsight, this diagnosis is really quite absurd considering all the factors (young age, white race, NO family history). My doctor stated I was at risk for developing MS and SLE, something the other doctor ignored later while revisiting mono, but I had been advised all those years ago to be tested routinely. Testing doesn't always produce a diagnosis, though. There really is no 100% definitive test for entities classified as autoimmune dysfunction, only an educated guess based on constellation of symptoms and abnormal laboratory tests, and even then criteria must be met before a patient can receive a firm diagnosis (screw the 5% of MSers that have a NORMAL MRI scan or have only ONE lesion, treatment is REFUSED until you have an ABNORMAL scan showing AT LEAST TWO lesions, even if it means loss of vital functions that may have been preserved with treatment. This was my case, but.... I'M.NOT.BITTER.).
3. Pregnancy often induces MS into remission, but the mechanisms behind this are unclear, whether it be hormones (testing is underway with a specific estrogen receptor) or the fact that a woman's immune system is lowered during pregnancy, or ?????. That explains why I felt great for a couple of years, two back-to-back pregnancies, but then it kicked my ass even harder after my son was born. As disgusted as I am with you-know-who, during ovulation I feel an overwhelming urge for him to impregnate me. Killing two birds with one stone. Or three. Kicking the MS for a few months, satisfying my screaming uterus, and having a weewiddleone to cuddle and snuggle and teach and watch grow.... Call me crazy. I love new baby smell. Even poop.

Some weeks back, I got so pissed with Modern Medicine, I stopped my Copaxone injections. I figured "What's the point?" I was having - to date - my worst flare ever, worse than the original symptoms leading me to suspect MS and more disturbing than the optic neuritis-related flare I had last summer. So this shitty medicine that cost $1900 a month and which the manufacturer cannot even explain how it works (if it works) because they don't understand the chemical processes and which DOES NOT CURE the disease but only TRIES to reduce exacerbations does not seem to work for me. Tie into the fact that I believe wholeheartedly my NL has misdiagnosed me as RRMS when I more rightly fit PPMS, and the medication is not for those folks anyhow, so I didn't see where it mattered. And I was tired of the bruises.

I raided the vitamin store, based on what I found when reading. Everything from Omega 3-6-9 to vitamins of every letter of the alphabet, and everything in between. I jumped in with both feet and bought a basket full of goodies, a little worried in the back of my mind about starting so many new things at one time and *gasp* without the advice and recommendation of my physician! but saying FUCK IT out loud. I bought a 7-day pill minder, one of those M/N/E/B sorts. Then I sat down with a sheet of paper (no spreadsheet, har!har!) and devised my own treatment regimen.

DH's eyes about bugged out of his head and I heard him say "motherfucker" as I swallowed a handful of pills in one giant gulp. Four times a day. After a couple of weeks, I started getting some feeling back in my arms and legs. Another week, and I could move my flaccid right arm, even lift it over my head. Another, and the vision in my right eye went from a dark gray curtain shuttering my eyesight to a light gray fog that I could distinguish shapes AND COLORS within, something I have not been able to do for more than a year. Several weeks of intense vitamins, and I can now walk up and down the stairs without crawling, tap my feet to the music, and recently at my nephew's wedding reception even danced with DH when he asked me.

Where will my journey lead me? Who knows, but at least now I feel I will walk there instead of being pushed in a wheelchair.

All Roads Lead to Somewhere

"AH-HA," you say, "Dead-end roads lead nowhere, that's why they're called dead ends." Well, even those roads lead to something, just maybe not what you thought you were looking for in the first place. . . and not all dead-end roads are marked; so if it's not specifically posted as such, is it really? "Well, what about roundabouts? They don't really 'lead' anywhere, either." Ahh. . . but they do! They lead to alternate exits, and they circle back onto themselves, giving you the chance to choose a different route each time you circle around.

Now, my mind isn't really on "roads" other than metaphorically. Negotiating the "roads of life" is never easy and can be often downright treacherous. A map would be nice but, unfortunately, life doesn't come with a map, instruction sheet, owner's manual, or a frigging flow chart. Even if it did, my map was torn to shreds - and after my bold attempt to tape it back together, set on fire and the ashes left to scatter in the wind.

I have, throughout my life, gone from being a shy child bursting into tears upon being addressed to a bold adolescent tired of being whomped on and called "Tits" and learning to stand up for myself to a loud-mouthed young adult having an opinion and not being afraid to express it. As life progressed and I found myself a mother and wife (in that order) and mother yet again, I learned to temper my attitude with some amount of tact, to preserve my credibility so that what I had to say would be listened to and found relevant, even as I listened to and considered other people's positions. Yes, I wanted to hear them, but I wanted to be heard, too! Frequently, however, I was drowned out, dismissed, ignored out of hand. Too often I let it go, failing to stand up for myself and what was inside me - I don't know if it is residual from my early childhood fears or a survival function, telling me to keep my mouth shut to preserve my ability to support my family. Anyhow, I think I am just wandering to see where I end up next and, if it's not the destination I desire, plotting my next course to try to get there.

* * * * * * * * * *

I find myself waxing philosophical more and more now than at any other time in my life. I've always had strong opinions and beliefs and although the "cores" of these essential building blocks in the foundation of my interpersonal construction stand strong and true, I find that what is actually housed inside the buildings of my personality can vacate and be replaced as rapidly as tenant turnover in a shitty apartment complex. (I don't have the strength, mentally or physically, to explain that right now. Sorry. Strangely, I have a mental image of a box of donuts from a gas station convenience store - chocolate, powder, and plain - even after you eat the "good" ones, the plain ones pick up some of the powder from inside the box, so they don't look like it but are really still just plain donuts; I know this makes no sense, so blame it on the drugs.)

Part of me wonders why this change is happening, or whether it's been happening all along and I just never noticed it before. Is it age, mellowing? Is it chemical alterations from the MS and/or the pharmacy I now need to treat (not cure, just TREAT) it? Is it just a natural human reaction to opening my eyes and seeing the plight of my fellow man and an inherent desire to create a better world?

I'm very upset lately, confused and kind of. . . I don't even know the words anymore. I want to blame my disease for that lack of clarity I always had, but now part of me wonders if it's entirely the "cognitive impairments" associated with MS or something else.