It's another limerick based on an icanhascheezburger post!
A cat who liked cars very much
found himself just a tad out of touch.
To the humans they pandered
when making a standard;
his paws were too short for the clutch.
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
On Making a Donation
There is a lot of dialogue regarding giving and charity and the complexities therein lately, and I think it's a good conversation to have.
I didn't really want to engage in that conversation, but it was only a matter of time before my name popped up in blue, inviting me to post a video of someone (including but not exclusively me) dumping a bucket of ice water on themselves.
I admire and support all my fun-loving friends who have participated in this campaign.
But I'm terrible at following directions. Also, we just moved and it occurs to me that we literally don't own a bucket.
I didn't really want to engage in that conversation, but it was only a matter of time before my name popped up in blue, inviting me to post a video of someone (including but not exclusively me) dumping a bucket of ice water on themselves.
I admire and support all my fun-loving friends who have participated in this campaign.
But I'm terrible at following directions. Also, we just moved and it occurs to me that we literally don't own a bucket.
However, the nomination did give me the opportunity to evaluate my giving practices, and it occurs to me that I cannot remember the last time I donated to a nonprofit, which is shameful.
So even though we're not exactly flush with cash (just bought mahself a new hoopty! -- She's old enough to drive herself, and I love her so), I figure that if I can justify spending $20 on a filtration pitcher to make our already clean drinking water EVEN CLEANER, I can justify spending the same to help others have that human need.
So I'm making a donation to charity:water. You can read all about them here: http://www.charitywater.org
And you can see how they rate in terms of how they use their funding here: http://www.charitynavigator.org/index.cfm?bay=search.summary&orgid=12548#.U_SAE15H1SU
And I would like to invite anyone who has a spare dime to give to find a good cause and donate to it, because....
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JuUZiPh-h7c
Thursday, August 14, 2014
On Making Things Okay
Since the faeries are on hiatus (awaiting a new scanner--see the latest memo here), and a great deal of discussion surrounding the topic of mental wellness has come to the surface of many conversations, I feel the urge to write this post about my personal journey of wellness.
In 2007, at the tender age of 29, I was diagnosed with a herniated disc. There was no sudden accident, no particular reason that what started as mild scoliosis in my teen years became an acute herniation; it simply 'developed' over the years. I learned that I had a herniated disc when I decided to (finally) see a doctor about my back pain which I had been "dealing with" (isn't that a hilarious way to convince yourself it's all okay?) since I was a teenager. I had been experiencing pain, muscle spasms, and stiffness for nigh on 15 years before I sought help.
Because up until then I was okay.
But as my mom recently (wisely) stated, "You're always okay until you're not okay anymore."
I got some advice from my doctor to, you know, care for myself so that it wouldn't get worse.
But of course I didn't.
And it did. Get worse. Much worse.
There was the night at the emergency room, when the pain was so severe I was screaming in my sleep.
There were the days I staggered from lamppost to lamppost, weeping at street corners, unable to make my paralyzed and agonized leg (the sciatic nerve was pinched) walk more than a few steps.
There were the two weeks I spent lying on one side on the floor, unable to sit or stand, unable to work. Unable to be on my feet long enough to boil water (I, the pan, and the scalding water wound up on the ground).
I had to reach this place of helpless debilitation before I took my condition seriously. I saw more doctors. They use these charts to try and determine how much pain you are in...
It's absurd. Where was the "burns like hell lightning down my leg and incapacitates me" face? Where was the "this Vicodin does nothing, so you may as well give me the whole bottle" face? Where was the "I literally can't go on living like this" face?
Where was the "I won't be an invalid burden to my family" face?
They told me that the pain of childbirth was a level of 10. I'll let you know if I ever get a chance to compare it, but this was worse than anything I could imagine.
I think the chart should go to 11.
The short version (too late!) of my story is: after 6 months of doctor visits, psychotherapy, and 1 cortisone shot that started wearing off far too quickly, I selected surgery: a discectomy. It's a somewhat risky procedure, in that many people who get it don't feel a whole lot better afterward. But I knew I couldn't feel worse.
They say surgery hurts. They say recovering from it hurts.
When I woke up from surgery, I felt like I had been released. I had forgotten how it felt to be feeling only a quite a bit of pain, as opposed to a horrifying amount. I begged the nurses to stop giving me the "big crazy pills" (percoset) which gave me vivid hallucinations involving Sarah Palin and Joe Biden In Flagrante Delicto (it was fall of 2008 by this point) and to please just give me Tylenol instead, because it really didn't hurt any more. The pain of surgery was nothing compared to the pain before surgery. I welcomed it.
I don't mean to say I'm cured. I'm not. I still live with pain, muscle spasms, and stiffness. And one day, I may have to re-live the hell I went through that year. I'll cross that bridge if I come to it. In the meantime, I live with my injury. In some ways, it's a blessing. I feel best when I am in constant motion. I cannot sit, stand, or even lie in one position for very long. In that way, I stay very fit and active. It's not so I look cute in a bikini. It's not so I have big strong muscles. It's so I can function. It's so I can be self-sufficient and able to work and live with only a 'life is tough, sometimes things hurt' amount of pain.
What does this have to do with mental wellness?
Well.
If people who battle with conditions such as depression, anxiety, OCD, bipolar, or anything else I'm failing to mention (because hasn't this post gone on long enough?) feel even a fraction of what I felt, whether it's above your neck or below your waist, or visible or invisible or in your spine or in your brain...
If anyone has to feel pain that is anything like what I felt...
It's horrible. It doesn't care if you're young or skinny or fat or light or dark. It doesn't care if you're rich or poor or whom you love. It attacks viciously and with little warning.
And that pain is as much in any person's control as mine was in my control. Which is to say, it is, a bit. To an extent. But sometimes it goes beyond 'dealing with it.'
And then you need to get help.
Because sometimes you're okay. Until you're not okay.
And if you're not okay, it's okay to say so.
In 2007, at the tender age of 29, I was diagnosed with a herniated disc. There was no sudden accident, no particular reason that what started as mild scoliosis in my teen years became an acute herniation; it simply 'developed' over the years. I learned that I had a herniated disc when I decided to (finally) see a doctor about my back pain which I had been "dealing with" (isn't that a hilarious way to convince yourself it's all okay?) since I was a teenager. I had been experiencing pain, muscle spasms, and stiffness for nigh on 15 years before I sought help.
Because up until then I was okay.
But as my mom recently (wisely) stated, "You're always okay until you're not okay anymore."
I got some advice from my doctor to, you know, care for myself so that it wouldn't get worse.
But of course I didn't.
And it did. Get worse. Much worse.
There was the night at the emergency room, when the pain was so severe I was screaming in my sleep.
There were the days I staggered from lamppost to lamppost, weeping at street corners, unable to make my paralyzed and agonized leg (the sciatic nerve was pinched) walk more than a few steps.
There were the two weeks I spent lying on one side on the floor, unable to sit or stand, unable to work. Unable to be on my feet long enough to boil water (I, the pan, and the scalding water wound up on the ground).
I had to reach this place of helpless debilitation before I took my condition seriously. I saw more doctors. They use these charts to try and determine how much pain you are in...
It's absurd. Where was the "burns like hell lightning down my leg and incapacitates me" face? Where was the "this Vicodin does nothing, so you may as well give me the whole bottle" face? Where was the "I literally can't go on living like this" face?
Where was the "I won't be an invalid burden to my family" face?
They told me that the pain of childbirth was a level of 10. I'll let you know if I ever get a chance to compare it, but this was worse than anything I could imagine.
I think the chart should go to 11.
The short version (too late!) of my story is: after 6 months of doctor visits, psychotherapy, and 1 cortisone shot that started wearing off far too quickly, I selected surgery: a discectomy. It's a somewhat risky procedure, in that many people who get it don't feel a whole lot better afterward. But I knew I couldn't feel worse.
They say surgery hurts. They say recovering from it hurts.
When I woke up from surgery, I felt like I had been released. I had forgotten how it felt to be feeling only a quite a bit of pain, as opposed to a horrifying amount. I begged the nurses to stop giving me the "big crazy pills" (percoset) which gave me vivid hallucinations involving Sarah Palin and Joe Biden In Flagrante Delicto (it was fall of 2008 by this point) and to please just give me Tylenol instead, because it really didn't hurt any more. The pain of surgery was nothing compared to the pain before surgery. I welcomed it.
I don't mean to say I'm cured. I'm not. I still live with pain, muscle spasms, and stiffness. And one day, I may have to re-live the hell I went through that year. I'll cross that bridge if I come to it. In the meantime, I live with my injury. In some ways, it's a blessing. I feel best when I am in constant motion. I cannot sit, stand, or even lie in one position for very long. In that way, I stay very fit and active. It's not so I look cute in a bikini. It's not so I have big strong muscles. It's so I can function. It's so I can be self-sufficient and able to work and live with only a 'life is tough, sometimes things hurt' amount of pain.
What does this have to do with mental wellness?
Well.
If people who battle with conditions such as depression, anxiety, OCD, bipolar, or anything else I'm failing to mention (because hasn't this post gone on long enough?) feel even a fraction of what I felt, whether it's above your neck or below your waist, or visible or invisible or in your spine or in your brain...
If anyone has to feel pain that is anything like what I felt...
It's horrible. It doesn't care if you're young or skinny or fat or light or dark. It doesn't care if you're rich or poor or whom you love. It attacks viciously and with little warning.
And that pain is as much in any person's control as mine was in my control. Which is to say, it is, a bit. To an extent. But sometimes it goes beyond 'dealing with it.'
And then you need to get help.
Because sometimes you're okay. Until you're not okay.
And if you're not okay, it's okay to say so.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
ICHC Limerick: TP
What's that, you say? It's been ages since you last heard a limerick based on captioned photos of animals? Oh, all right.
A cat who preferred the world numbered
slipped into the loo unencumbered.
When confronted with tissue,
he conquered the issue,
posed for photos, then spit up, and slumbered.
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