Matilda

Alas! Has it been a month since my last writing? Why yes, yes it has. Just one more thing to blame Matilda for.

Who, you ask, is Matilda? Is she a house guest, who despite the fact that both fish and guests smell bad after three days, stayed a whole month? Is she a new addition to your brood of Boy 1, Boy 2, and Wee 1? Is she an imaginary friend?

Well, no, she is none of those (though there are times when I must re-convince myself that she is indeed NOT imaginary).Matilda is the name our family has given to whatever this/these illness/illnesses is/are that plague me.

I decided to name the havoc being wreaked in my body until such time as a doctor can give it a proper name. To say, "I'm sure having a Matilda day today!" is much easier than, "Whatever this is I've got...or had...or might have...or, oh you know what I mean...is really bothering me today."

And on days when my brain battles fiercely to get my mouth to say the words it has found and to find the words it's lost, proclaiming, "Stupid Matilda!" is not only easier but also somewhat gratifying.

For Her Eyes Only

For years I have held out hope for the early menopause my mother and grandmother both enjoyed...42 and 38 respectively. Being right in between those ages, I hope to average out the age at which our family's women go through "The Change." Consequently, about 3 years ago I stopped buying the Costco box that would last a whole year. I didn't want to get stuck with a bunch of pads when my time finally came.

As I near 40, I have more and more reason (read: unrealistic hope) to buy month to month. Consequently, I have been privy to the changes in the feminine hygiene industry and have learned much from my frequent perusals of Target's "Feminine Needs" aisle.

For instance, there must be at least 100 permutations of wings. They can be long or short. The peel off part can be one piece or two, or even part of the stuff that peels off the back (I'm not sure how they accomplish that one). Wings come alone or with "Cottony Soft Side Barriers" for full length side protection.

I've also learned good absorption depends upon myriad factors: Whether one has heavy or light flow and is wearing the product at night or in the daytime. The type of quilting, a variety of oval shapes, and the nature and number of the micro-thin layers of padding.

Fortunately for all of us, the complexity of the absorption problem has been solved by at least one feminine protection manufacturer in the form of a sort of all-purpose box containing pads of every length and level of absorption, making it possible for us to go from heavy to light days with just one box!

Finally, there is the bit of fabric that keeps a woman feeling fresh and clean all day long.

During a recent sprint into Target (after discovering that I had not yet been blessed as my ancestors had), I found something completely new to me:

Fashion Feminine Hygiene

I have never had qualms carrying a box of pads for my monthly through the store and then out of the store without a bag. In fact, I would be one of those women in commercials who plop down a box of kotex and look the male cashier in the eye while paying, if only those commercials existed.

But last night when I found the Fashion Feminine Hygiene, I walked taller and prouder than ever before!

Sleek with its black matte coloring and hip color accents, the box was decades away from Kotex blue and Playtex pink. But the real joy came when I got home and opened the box...every pad was wrapped in a different hip color that did not carry the shame of the peach, yellow and light green I'd become accustomed to carrying in my purse.

Maternity clothing may have joined the ranks of the hip and cool after my time, but I am glad to have had a chance to participate in the coming of age of feminine hygiene.

That said, bring on the change!!

My Thumb...It Burns Me, Or, Why I Like My New Yoga Class

Several weeks ago I found a yoga class that suits me perfectly. A good mix of the lithe and lumbering, I fit somewhere in the middle of the participants. The instructor is a perky, young, aspiring physical therapist who kindly teaches us how to make slight adjustments to our poses which facilitate a deeper stretch or make the pose significantly easier to hold.

The class meets at midday on Saturdays; not too early, not too late. The facility has a whirlpool I can sit in before class. Most days I finish feeling incredibly loose, relaxed, and generally wishing I could stay on my yoga mat and sleep for a few hours.

I have done yoga in fits and starts in the past, but it never resulted in a strenuous workout that did not require that I push myself harder than my body is ready to go. This class, however, is different. My own PT insists that I do nothing that pushes my body beyond a comfortable workout. Slowly Dr. Jim has taught me if I let my body go where it is ready to go in yoga, it will naturally get there faster than if I try to push it. My perky young yoga instructor agrees and often suggests one of her students pull back a bit and let the body find its pose.

So as I balance on various parts of my body upon which I would previously have sworn it was impossible to balance, the sweat running in large drops down (or up, as the case may be) my face attests to the strenuousness of the workout.

Not only have I begun regaining the strength I lost during the 6+ months of sitting on the bench while my body decided it was time for everything to hurt all at once, I have also come to love yoga...most of the time.

There will always be times when I stick out like a sore thumb because FMS pain forces me to modify and/or not do certain poses, even ones I perfected the previous week. But frankly I do not care because sometimes my own thumb felt like it is on fire (nerve pain can make you feel some funky things).

So I think I will stick with this yoga class, its perky instructor, and whirlpool prelude. And when my thumb burns me or various other funky feelings come upon me, I will simply modify as necessary and choose not to care.

Nunnymolers in the New Kitchen

For the better part of three weeks our entire family worked hard and lived in a bit of chaos as our kitchen was renovated. Since then we have been pondering what would serve as an appropriate celebratory meal in our new kitchen. Tonight Boy 2 got tired of pondering and did something about it: he planned, purchased, and prepared a three-course gourmet meal from the land of Redwall.

Redwall exists only in the minds of author Brian Jacques and his innumerable readers. In this land the mice and other small animals of field and forest often sup at a banquet table laden with delectables such as the Nunnymolers we feasted upon tonight, along with Shrimp and Hotroot Soup, Golden Hill Pears, and October (Ginger) Ale.

Boy 2 read most of the books written by Mr. Jacques (I think he has counted 32) over the past year. Every time he entered his school's library, the librarian chatted with him over the new volumes she had recently added to their collection in anticipation of his readiness for the next one.

As he read, I had the pleasure of hearing his laughter, exclamations, and empathy for the land of Redwall and its residents. More than a few times I heard Boy 2 exclaim, "Oh, that sounds so GOOOOOD!" as he read of their many feasts.

Perusing Mr. Jacques's website one day months ago, we discovered he had written a cookbook with many of the scrumptious recipes his Redwall folk enjoyed. Thankful for his hard work for our new kitchen and knowing his love for cooking, I presented him with his very own copy of The Redwall Cookbook.

Immediately, Boy 2 read the cookbook straight through and planned his first meal; the meal we all enjoyed tonight.

Although he insisted upon cooking the feast with only the help of his sous chef (Boy 1), Boy 2 did allow me to transport him to the grocery store for his purchases and sought my advice at certain points in the preparation.

Boy 2's efforts resulted not only in an unmatched culinary experience and grand celebration of our new kitchen, but a warmth of spirit as we all anticipated and enjoyed his meal. The satisfaction his father and I witnessed on Boy 2's face as we enjoyed his creations was priceless.

But the moment that topped it all for me was the moment Boy 2 looked at me and exclaimed, "I am so tired and my feet hurt! I cannot believe you do this every night!"

Hope Hasn't Killed Me Yet

I'm not very good at not getting my hopes up. I like to think that things will work out in just the right way that will result in the best for everyone involved. Sure, I've been more than disappointed on an number of occasions, but until the disappointment I got to enjoy the pleasure to anticipating in hope.

When we first learned about my fibromyalgia, I was tremendously hopeful that this would lead quickly to ways of feeling better. Sadly, it hasn't. But the way I see it is those hope-filled days didn't kill me and I am suffering no more now than I would have had I not felt hopeful. (But it's still early in the symptom management process, so there is still hope for feeling better!)

Often folks look at me crosswise when I talk about my hopeful plans, especially the ones about having greate teen-aged boys and eventually daughters-in-law who adore me. Even those who don't say it with words certainly express with their expressions the standard you-can-hope-all-you-want-but-you-can't-control-who-those-boys-marry response.

But I don't sit around hoping and not doing anything to influence things to turn out well. I have got to be one of the most compliant patients most doctors have ever seen. And I've been working for years on influencing the love of my future daughters-in-law. I have taught my boys to clean, do laundry, cook, bake, and generally be independent. I have instructed them in respect and the proper ways to treat a girl. And I have said more than once, and only partially tongue-in-cheek, that I know they would not marry anyone who could not love me...it's simply not in their natures.

Of course I know there are no guarantees in life. The best raised children sometimes grow up into complete messes and those who seemed to have no chance manage quite well. But why should I expect the worst when I can hope for the best?

So when I get that crosswise look, I just smile and say, "Hope hasn't killed me yet."

Retro Cool

On a recent trip to Target to purchase a birthday gift for Wee 1, a small, metal tea set caught my eye. It was just like the one I had 35+ years ago. Painted white with red and blue flowers, that tea set was a favorite toy. My mother once made me coffee (lots of milk and sugar and an itsy bitsy bit of coffee) in one of the cups. Of course, I hated the coffee, but I loved that tea set.

Looking a bit further down the aisle, I saw a clock and a phone and a set of blocks that also looked just like the ones I had when I was little. Noticing a pattern, I inspected the toys closely and realized they were the Fisher Price toys we all had repackaged in retro boxes and priced more as collectors' items than kids' toys.

The first time I realized my life had become retro was a few years ago when a Christmas commercial featured the tree lights we always hung on our yule branches. When the mother plugs the lights in, the father and son ask, "What's that?"

Claiming that the 70s and 80s are cool now because we were so cool back then, I have coined the term Retro Cool. Sadly, every time I try to explain this, all I get are blank stares from teens wearing Hello Kitty t-shirts.

So instead of trying to convince young people that we had remote controls and indoor plumbing when I was a kid, I will just quietly wait for penny loafers and pegged pants to become Retro Cool.

Marinated Posters

One of my favorite movies is "Joe vs. the Volcano." Joe lives a bleak existence as a former-firefighting hyperchondriacal advertising library assistant in a rectal probe factory. Pasty under the gray lights, Joe spends all his time and money trying to discover what's wrong with him. Finally he finds a doctor who tells him what he has always known: Joe is dying. In a twist Joe discovers that he is not dying from anything related to the systemic symptoms he suffers. Indeed, the doctor tells him he is a hypochondriac. Rather, Joe has a "brain cloud" that will kill him in a matter of months.

I, too, have a brain cloud. Called brain fog by the medical community, Fibromyalgia Syndrom causes memory, recall, and other cognitive difficulties. For years I have had difficulties recalling the precise word I want to use. I can create convoluted explanations for the one word I seek, but I cannot get my brain and mouth together on the word. All of my friends have watched me staring at them trying to find their names only to end up having to point and say, "You."

Often such experiences are tremendously amusing. Like when I tried to tell our children's minister that I had taken down all the laminated VBS posters. The only word I could say was "marinated." Of course, I knew the posters were not marinated. My poor friend was at a loss trying to guess what on earth I was trying to say.

Another recent event took place on my 18th wedding anniversary. Having gone to a lovely restaurant to celebrate, I foolishly closed my menu before ordering. (Keeping my menu open is a little trick I use to avoid displaying my cognitive inabilities to every restaurant server in the universe.) In the process of ordering I needed to say "New York Strip" four different times. Not once could I do it. Fortunately, I have a loving husband who, each time I turned to him, would supply the necessary words.

Boys 1 & 2 are used to hearing me telling them to do things like put their laundry in the dishwasher or go comb their teeth. Most times they simply go and do what they know I meant to say.

Certainly everyone does this kind of thing from time to time. But anyone with a syndrome that causes similar cognitive symptoms knows that few can come up with some of the crazy things we say.

My "brain cloud" will not kill me, though it may slay many with laughter. And like Joe, I choose to live life as a grand adventure rather than give into the adverse effects of this "dark cloud of tissue running through the center of my brain."

So when you hear me call you, "You," know that I love you and your name, I just cannot recall it in the moment. And if I try to tell you about marinated posters, laugh with me until we find the right word.