The Zen Pretzel Trick

A New Holiday? Un-PC Day!

2011-06-10T01:09:00.000-07:00

Do you know what I think would be a really good idea? A day abolishing political correctness: an Un-PC Day.

One day where we all agree to ask each other frank, honest questions and answer them the same way...while also agreeing not to be offended by anyone approaching the day with an honest, earnest desire to learn and to teach.

Seriously...just ONE DAY to ask me if I've ever lived in a tipi, or what is frybread, and is it true Native Americans don't grow body hair? (no, it's kind of like an American Indian tortilla, and no again)

Just one day.

I bet we all could learn a lot from each other and do more to obliterate harmful stereotypes if we set aside just one day a year where we could ask about them without fear of being labelled a bigot or getting your hind end kicked.

Not to mention, if someone (say, a persistent co-worker or well-meaning but annoying in-law) is bugging you for the tenth time that month with intrusive questions about your culture, ethnicity or race, you can say to them: "Hey, it's not September 27th yet. Ask me then, ok?" It could suddenly become rude and socially unacceptable to ask those irritating but sincere queries on any day OTHER than Un-PC Day.

Think of the freedom, the liberation!

Colleges could give lectures on such topics as, "The Japanese: Not All Ninjas or Karate Experts" and "Jamaicans: Actually Not Stoned Most Of the Time." Major television networks could throw a telethon to raise awareness and money for organizations such as Trevor's Hotline and the Anti-Defamation League. Big stars like Margaret Cho, Chris Rock, Jon Stewart, Graham Greene, Ellen DeGeneres, Kal Penn, John Woo and Neil Patrick Harris could answer calls from anonymous, everyday Americans, reaching thousands if not millions of interested citizens. Journalists could go into the homes of gay men who are messy and really bad decorators, as well as Native Americans who don't live on reservations and Mormons who only have one wife. Knowledge is power!

There should definately be a dessert for Un-PC Day, too. Every major holiday has a drink or dessert associated with it. This one should be no exception.

Picture it: you could show up at the home of your Mexican neighbors and say, "Happy Un-PC Day! Is it true you and your family are in this country illegally? Oh, and how rude of me! Here's your pineapple upside-down cake. It wouldn't be Un-PC Day without it!"

Your neighbor could graciously take the proffered dessert and reply, "Happy Un-PC Day to you, too! No, it's not true; we're actually third generation Americans. By the way, is it true you African-Americans all love friend chicken? And don't forget to take YOUR pineapple upside-down cake! My wife made it just for you."

And white people need not feel excluded simply because they are the majority. Think of all the stereotypes the Caucasians could field! Informative pamphlets could be freely distributed with titles such as: "The Irish: Not Perpetually Drunk And/Or Brawling," "A History of British Dentristry," "Italians: We're Not All In the Mafia," "Germans: No Longer Genocidal" and "It Actually Only Takes ONE Polish Guy To Change a Lightbulb."

Religions, also, would be fair game. Finally, Catholics could ask Jews if a bar mitzvah is when you circumsize male children, and Muslims could at long last ask Buddhists who they were in their past lives and by the way, do you know anyone who has reached nirvana? Burning questions they ponder, secretly, all year long!

Of course, it wouldn't be a holiday without some sort of celebration, so I propose we utilize that sadly declining fun-filled neighborhood event: the block party.

Inter-racial, inter-faith, GLBT-friendly barbeques & picnics would sprout up all over the country (if not the world). Neighbors would set up chairs on the sidewalks and long tables of such goodies as samosas, skyr, rice calas, vaca frita, bifanas, balut, langos, palta reina, gefilte fush, kippers, baba ghanouj and barbuljata. People would share gossip over glasses of sweet tea, aqua fresca, kvas, cuaker, bellini, rivella, bunna, masala chai and pinolillo. School children could share some of Grandpa's drunken utterances that Mommy and Daddy tell them to ignore the rest of the year. Marathons of "Will & Grace," "Northern Exposure," "The Cosby Show" and Spanish telenovelas would take over television stations (those not covering the telethon, of course).

Ethnic restaurants could offer discounted meals on everything from Indian curries to traditional Greek gyros to toast smeared with Australian vegemite. Bars & pubs the world over could have wine tastings from the finest France, Spain, Portugal and Napa Valley have to offer. For those who prefer a stronger wee bit of the creature, those establishments could freely pour Greek ouzo, Polish slivovitz, Appalachian moonshine and absinthes from New Orleans, Paris and Canada. Street vendors would sell out of bangers & mash, Hawai'ian bento and Tex-Mex barbeque. The smell of escargot, baba ganoush, tiramisu and udon would fill the air and even the most zenophobic of stomachs.

The entertainment would be equally fun and harmonious: people could feel free, nee encouraged, to dance the can-can with French lasses, throw dishes to the ground with the Greeks, and lift a groom into the air on a chair with the Jews (just after he jumped the broom). The sitar, shamisen, digeridoo, African box drums, accordian and Native American flutes would blend in harmony, while B.B. King, Enya, Ravi Shankar, Shakira, Seal and Carlos Santana jammed together happily. Ladies and gents could dance the hora, do-si-do in a square dance, thrill spectators with a Ukranian arkan, or shake their hips to some sassy salsa, all to great acclaim.

And there'd be fun for the kiddies as well: they could learn to make an Israeli chuppa, Chinese paper dragons, Alaskan totem poles and Dajo pottery from Nigeria. They could prance about in Dutch wooden shoes, play with Russian nesting dolls and try their hand at origami. Not to mention their glee as they try such delicacies as poi, curry, sushi and traditional English spotted dick (accompanied by much giggling, of course). Dress-up competitions would see the youngsters vying for the blue ribbon in their Japanese kimono, Senegalese kaftan, Mexican sombreros and Maori pake karure. Girls would be painted with beautiful henna designs by the Egyptians while the boys learned how to dance the whirling dervish by the Turks. When it's time to play, they can have a blast with German topfschlagen, Vietnamese rong ran, Nepalese dundi biyo, Venezuelan trompo, Indonesian gasing, Columbian oba, peirilia from Cyprus, Brazillian queimada, Mexican gallinita ciega, Korean MuGungHwaggochchipiubnida, and paper dolls from Taiwan. Let the games begin!

At the end of the day, that marvelous Un-PC day, we'd all pick up our things, give one another a hug or a bow, and head back to our homes a little bit happier, a little bit smarter...and hopefully, a lot more tolerant and accepting.

In Pain? Too Bad! Part One

2011-03-07T19:17:00.000-08:00

I've had some problems lately at my clinic. This, as you will read, may be the understatement of the century.

Now faithful readers of ZPT will note that I've had problems there before, particularly where prescription refills are concerned. Lately, however, that issue had seemed a thing of the past: the Rx Dick was taken off of refill duty and the new procedure (calling the receptionist and making the request through her) has thus far worked pretty well. I personally had preferred Dr. Fetus' method of simply seeing me every 3 months and writing out 3 months' worth of prescriptions at that time, but I understood why Dr. Forthright (Dr. Fetus' replacement) wasn't comfortable with that and honored her wishes.

And then Dr. Forthright finished her fellowship and moved on.

When I got the letter announcing her departure, I was disappointed. I had, over the years, built up a great doctor/patient relationship with Dr. Fetus, and considered myself fortunate to have found a like-minded physician in Dr. Forthright. For me, it's essential that I trust my doctor, and my doctor trusts me...that we can both speak freely and air concerns without fear of censure. I am not one of those people who likes a doctor who "pussy-foots around," as we say in the South: I want to be told directly, honestly and then get on with it. Having had success with three doctors in a row (The Well-Accessoried Doctor, Dr. Fetus & Dr. Forthright), I had high hopes that the new physician would be in the same vein.

Little did I know the awful sequence of events that would be unleashed as a result of Dr. Forthright's departure.

Below is a letter I've written to Patient Relations and the clinic, and it explains it all:

PLEASE PLACE THIS LETTER IN MY MEDICAL FILE. THANK YOU.

To whom it may concern:

I have been a patient at the clinic for a number of years. During this time, I have had numerous difficulties in obtaining prescription refills (both for narcotic and non-narcotic medicines). I entered into a pain management contract, but the problems did persist. Most of these ongoing issues, however, were resolved some months ago when the clinic re-vamped its prescription refill process. I had been happy overall with the new clinic procedures, but unfortunately these procedures failed me in the months of February and March 2011.

I have secondary-progressive multiple sclerosis and MS-related trigeminal neuralgia. It took some time before a suitable medicine regimen was found to adequetly treat my severe chronic pain. Before that regimen was found, I was frequently forced to go to the ER for pain in addition to numerous office visits. Eventually, the combination of medications that I am currently taking was prescribed. That was four years ago, and in that time I have not once been to the ER for TN pain, nor have I exceeded my monthly medication allowance. I have been randomly drug screened during this time and never failed. I have upheld my pain management contract to the best of my ability. I even sent my former doctor, Dr. Fetus, a thank-you card every January in appreciation for the regimen that has made my life bearable again.

A few months ago, my doctor finished her fellowship and I was switched to an NP. I requested, both by telephone and in person at the office, to be switched to an MD and assumed that had been done. When I called to get my prescriptions refilled in February, I was told I could not have them until I was seen and that I could not be seen until the 10th. I was also told I was still on the NPs rotation, but that I could fill out a form to request a change (this was the first time I had been told about this form).

As a result, I went several days without my medication. The medication takes some time to build a "level" in your bloodstream; because I didn't have my medication on time, the entire month I dealth with much more pain than I am accustomed to dealing with. I am permitted to take my oxycodone every 6 hours and at times I unfortunately had to do so. This has led to side-effects that are most unpleasant, and to my running out of medication prior to March 10th.

While at the clinic on 2/10, I was randomly drug-screened, which I passed. I then asked again to be switched to an MD. I filled out the form, and the NP made a note in my chart as well. I was given my prescriptions, and at no time did anyone inform me that I would need to make an appointment for March or I would once again be denied medication. Had I known this, I would have made said appointment while I was in the office and the following situation would not have occured.

On March 1st, I contacted the office to request my 3 hard-copy prescriptions as I do on or around the first of every month. I was told for the second month in a row that I could not have my medications unless I came in to be seen. I assumed the note had been left in the computer from the month before, and told the receptionist I had just been seen 2 1/2 weeks prior to the call. I was told it did not matter, I had to be seen again. I explained the situation I was in, with higher levels of pain because of the delay the month before and that further delay this month would only lead to more pain and even possibly hospitalization. I was told I could be seen on the 8th, but that was all they could do. I was then asked if I wanted to discuss the matter with the office manager, and I agreed.

I spoke at length with Office Manager "Norene," who was both cordial and helpful. She agreed that my current situation with the medication was due to the clinic's mistakes, and assured me they wanted to do everything possible to "keep me out of pain." She told me more than once, "We certaintly don't want you to be in pain." She suggested I come into the office to "brainstorm ideas" to "help me get over the hump" until I could be seen on the 8th. I argued that the only thing that could be done was to give me medication or a shot, and I did not want a shot. She insisted again that I should be seen. I told Norene I felt I could make it another day or two, and then revisit the matter at that time. She pointed out that another day or two would be the weekend, and my contract disallowed medication requests on the weekend. I would be better off, she said, if I came in to see the NP at 7PM that evening. I was still hesitant, but after considering it for a few minutes, I agreed and the appointment was set.

After my conversation with Norene, I was under the impression that my appointment was set for the sole purpose of finding a way to help me manage my pain until my appointment with my new MD on the 8th. However, when I arrived at the appointment, I discovered that the NP did not believe this to be the case.

When I arrived, the first thing I noticed was the cup for a urine sample. I was taken aback; I just took a random drug screening the month before and as I said above, I have never failed a urine screening. I felt insulted, so I asked the nurse to allow me to speak with the NP before taking it. I wanted to know why I was being asked to take the test.

When the NP entered the room, she immediately told me that she "didn't know why I'd come in." I was surprised, and told her about the medication mishap of the past two months. She was aware of this, and told me there was nothing she "could or would do" about it, and couldn't fathom why I had made the appointment. I told her I had not wanted to come in that evening, but had been persuaded to do so by Norene and repeated to the NP Norene's assurances that we could "brainstorm" a way to "help me over the hump." The NP told me that she had no such intention, and that she was under the impression that I had "insisted upon coming in" for the appointment. I asked if Norene was still in the office so we could resolve this obvious miscommunication, but was told she had already gone home.

At this time I was told I had violated my pain management contract by using all my medication before the date of refill. When I tried to explain what had happened and why I was put in the position of needing more medication than is my usual wont, I was told it didn't matter: I was wrong, I was in violation, and there was no way I was getting any medication or help from her. She asked me what I had "expected" out of this appointment. I became upset and told her that I had obviously been misinformed, as I was talked into coming in to see her under the impression that she would at least have some ideas on how to help me. I pointed out that I was in this position not of my own accord, but because of mistakes and miscommunications by the clinic. I invited her to check my records to see that I had not violated my contract in the many years I'd been there, nor had I been to the ER for TN pain in four years. I had recently been seen and both took and passed a urine test, and had not been in to the office for a shot in nearly a year. There was no evidence that I was drug-seeking, so why was I being treated as if I were?

The NP's attitude became more and more combative. She inquired as to how issues of the pain being out of control had been handled in the past. I told her that years ago, I would go to the ER, but had not done so in four years. I had, however, come into the clinic for a shot twice during that period. She asked what I meant by the word "shot," and did I mean the drug Toradol? I told her that such NSAIDs had stopped working for me years ago and generally were ineffective against trigeminal neuralgia in any case. The shots I had received in the office in the past were either demerol or morphine. She then told me "they don't carry those anymore" and had not done so for months. I pointed out that such shots were covered under my contract, and why had no one told me that part of my "safety net" was now gone? I then asked what I was to do if the pain got out of control, did I have any options other than the ER? The NP then told me I could not go to the ER, either! I was amazed. I informed her that I had an ER addendum to my pain contract and it was my understanding that I was absolutely allowed to go the ER if needed. I was then told I could go, but they (the ER) would have to call the office and they'd be told not to treat me!

I was repeatedly told that this was all my fault, that I had run out of pills and violated my contract, and that I had put MYSELF in the situation I was in now. I asked her to explain, and she said, "If you have to take pills every 6 hours one day, then you have to know you can only take one or two the next day, or none." I asked her if she had any idea what chronic pain was like; it simply does not work like that. She said it had to work like that, if I intended to follow my pain contract. I asked her if I was permitted, as the label says, to take the pills every 6 hours if needed. She agreed that I could, but that if I did so I would run out of pills and "face the consequences of violating the pain contract."

I then remarked that I should probably leave, as she had made her intentions to not treat me quite clear and was making me uncomfortable. She then told me I could not leave without taking the urine test. I asked her why it was necessary and she said, "Because I said so." I asked again, and was told, "Because I said so, because I want you to." I rephrased, asking for the medical reason behind the test. She repeated again, "Because I want you to," and then let me know that I had every right to refuse, but if I did, not only would I not get medicine that day, I wouldn't get it on the 8th, either! I felt threatened and coerced, and I told her so. She again told me I was in violation of my contract and this situation was my fault entirely, and the need for this test was also my fault entirely.

I told her I would take the test and pass it as I always do, but that I felt coerced and insulted. It was beyond my understanding why I was being treated in this matter, and being required to take a drug screening while at the same time having treatment for my pain withheld. I told her that I often wished medical personnel could spend a week in my shoes, that they'd be better for it. She asked what I meant, and I told her I felt I was being treated unfairly, as if I were a criminal or a junkie. She insisted she was not doing so, and I told her she did not know how it feels and to not diminish my pain. But the fact is, everyone "ends up on my side of the bed sooner or later," and how would she feel if when that time comes, she is not believed or told to take a urine test first while she agonized in pain? She told me again that I could refuse the test, but the clinic would then refuse to give me any medications; the choice was mine. She told me she couldn't understand why I was "choosing to be offended" by the test, when they were permitted to drug test me randomly by the pain contract. I told her that coming so soon after the last test, and only because I came in looking for help and being told none was forthcoming, it felt both insulting and accusatory. I told her I was amazed that mistakes on the part of the clinic had put me in such a position, and that same clinic was refusing to help me and blaming me for it, not to mention threatening me with further refusal of treatment.

I related an incident that had occured in March 2010: I had an appointment set up and could not get my refills without it; unfortunately, my father died unexpectedly (I have the death certificate, if necessary). I called the clinic begging for an earlier appointment or for them to simply write the prescriptions this time and allow me to be seen when I returned. I was refused, told nothing could be done. I had to wait until 3:45 the next afternoon to have my appointment, then have my prescriptions refilled before I could begin the 3-day trip to arrange my father's funeral. I had believed this was the worst treatment I had ever gotten at the clinic, but at least in that incident I had been apologized to and not told that I myself was to blame!

I could see that attempting to continue talking with the NP was useless; she had no interest in "brainstorming ideas" to help me, and certaintly was not at all concerned that I was and would continue to be in pain. I told her I was taking the test, and was told to give the sample to the nurse and await the results.

In tears, I went down to the bathroom and took the test. I also took a moment to compose myself. I felt let down and insulted by my medical providers, abandoned and humiliated through no cause of my own, and then blamed entirely for it. I had days of suffering to look forward to, and every means my pain contract gave me as a safety net had been taken away from me. I resented the fact that I was being held to every word of the contract, while the clinic felt no need to uphold their end. And charging me for the pleasure!

On the way back to the room, I met the nurse at the computer station and she took the sample from me. I then returned to the room and contacted my husband to come and pick me up. I was crying, and he did become understandably upset. I waited for 20 minutes before my husband arrived, and then waited 10-15 more minutes before the nurse poked her head in the room and asked why I was still there. Again, I was taken aback. I told her I was under the impression I was supposed to wait for the results. She told me my test was "fine" and I could leave now, as the clinic was closing.

It is hard to describe how I felt at this time. I am not ashamed to admit I cried, which only made my pain worse. In all the years I have gone to this clinic, I have never been treated in such a way, nor do I believe I have done anything to deserve being treated that way.

On the following morning, I again spoke with Norene. I was then told that the NP had considered me "aggressive" and that I had talked about death! I was shocked. I explained my comment earlier, and it seemed that perhaps Norene had been told something different, I am not certain. I was also told that my husband was "acting aggressive." I said yes, he was upset at how I had been treated, but the security gaurd was in the corridor when my husband was there and never once approached us, so I find the charge of being aggressive a diversion from the actual issues at hand.

I asked Norene if what I had been told about the ER was true, and she did not know. She told me that I could feel free to call the doctor on call if needed during the weekend. When I asked if there was a note or order prohibiting my treatment at a hospital, she did not have that information. I let her know I had no intention of visiting the ER (and in fact did not go), but I was distressed at having the measures that constituted my safety net taken from me without due notice or cause. I felt I was being told by the clinic that I simply had to suffer with no recourse. Again, she was cordial and attempting to be helpful, but nothing was accomplished.

I then contacted "April" at Patient Relations and told her all that had occured. I was encouraged to document my experience in a letter, which I could mail or email. She assured me she would also contact Norene and try to discern how and why this situation had arisen. I assured her that I had found Norene to be helpful as much as was possible and was grateful for her efforts.

I spent a very unpleasant weekend, simply suffering, as I apparently had no other option. I find this unacceptable, and I am concerned that I am not being given due consideration in my long-standing pain contract with the clinic. I am apparently expected to uphold my part, and threatened with "consequences" if I do not, but apparently cannot count on the clinic to uphold theirs.

I am extraordinarily disillusioned and offended by my treatment. The clinic is keen for me to renew my contract with my new MD, but I cannot help but wonder if I can hope to expect an honest meeting of the minds, or any form of due consideration.

It is my fervent hope that all of this unpleasantness is the result of miscomunnications and minor mistakes that can be easily rectified. I do not wish to believe that the clinic is in the habit of using pain contracts to decieve and coerce pain patients who are, after all, at the mercy of their treating physicians. It is also my fervant hope that my meeting with my new MD on March 8th will be productive and pleasant, and that I will receive both my medications and a reasonable pain management contract at that time.

Thank you for taking the time to read this, and for your efforts on my behalf. I look forward to resolving this issue in a positive manner in the very near future.

Sincerely,

Angel
March 7th, 2011

I did not receive a response to my letter until the second week of June (the letter is dated June 3). Here is the response to my five-page letter detailing my experiences and concerns:

Dear Angel:

Thank you for contacting the Patient Relations Office expressing your concern regarding the clinic. I am sorry for the experiences that were upsetting to you. The appropriate people have been notified and action taken where appropriate.

If you would like further assistance with this, please contact Norene at the clinic.

Sincerely,

Molly

Yes, I got a response three months later....all of four sentences long.

Think things couldn't get worse? So did I.

I was wrong.

Stay tuned for Part Two....

Stranger Things Have Happened

2010-09-29T01:42:00.000-07:00

Longtime readers of ZPT are well aware of my problems with my clinic, particularly with the Rx Dick and the procedures involved with getting three of my prescriptions. For those readers, go ahead and skip to the red font. But if you're new here, here's some background:

Three of my prescriptions cannot be refilled like the others. All my other meds, I simply call or take in the bottle and get my prescription filled, or the pharmasist faxes my doctor's office and gets the refills authorized that way. But these three (Oxycodone, Methadone and Diazapam) don't work that way; the law requires a brand-new hard copy of the script every single month.

Getting this done has proven to be difficult. The office policy was for me to call 5-7 working days (not on weekends, this is prohibited on my pain management contract) and leave a message for the Rx Dick. The Rx Dick (in theory, mind you) would write up a note to the doctor requesting the meds. When that is sent to the doctor, the meds are now "pending." After the doctor approves them, the Rx Dick calls your home (again, in theory) to let you know that the scripts are waiting for you at the front desk. You then go to the office, get an envelope with your name on it, check the scripts to make sure they are correct, show your ID and sign for the scripts. Finally, you take it to the pharmacy to be filled.

Sound simple?

It's not.

I get my scripts on the first of the month. Rather, I'm supposed to get them, but this system has more holes than a collander. The majority of the time, when I call to leave the message for the Rx Dick, the voice mail is full. The receptionists refuse to take messages for him, and if you try to speak to your doctor's PA or nurse, they refer you back to the Rx Dick.

One of the reasons the voice mail gets clogged for days is that on top of being the prescription coordinator, he's also the clinic radiologist. If that sounds bizarre to you, you're not the only one.

When you do finally get the message sent, you are told it will take at least two days. This rarely happens. Whatever you do, though, you don't want to call and check up on the status until day three, because you will get chastised by anyone and everyone you speak to on the subject.

Finally, the Rx Dick rarely if ever calls you to tell you your scripts are waiting to be picked up, leaving you to call every morning and afternoon for days, even a week or more. The receptionists are often annoyed by these calls and by being forced to look on the computer to see if you're still "pending" or if they are at the desk waiting for you. You can leave a message on the Rx Dick's voice mail, but even if it isn't full he's very unlikely to call back.

When there is a holdup, the Rx Dick will not contact you to let you know what's going on. The receptionists will not be told, so they have no information to give you. Your doctor and their PAs and nurses have nothing to do with the presciption refills process, so there's no point in enlisting their help (they will just refer you back to the Rx Dick anyway).

I go through this every month. At least, I used to.

A few months ago, the office changed their policy. There is no more Rx Dick (he's still there, as radiologist). Now, you must call the receptionist 3-5 working days ahead and have THEM send the "note" to the doctors. And then again, you call and you call, hoping that your meds are ready for you before you run out (and run out I have, more than once).

Now when I call, I have to explain to the receptionist why their immediate response of, "Just have your pharmacy fax the request to the office" won't work. The law requires my having a hard copy every time. This annoys many of them. All you can do is cross your fingers and hope they send up a "note" in a speedy manner with the right meds requested.

Yesterday, I made the dreaded phone call. I had tried the day before, only to have the annoyed receptionist snap at me and tell me that it "isn't three days prior yet." Gee, I'd been told 3-5 days, but whatever. I made the call yesterday, and prepared to go over the whole rigamorale all over again.

The phone call went like this:

RECEPTIONIST: Hello?

ME: Hi, my name is Angel, and I need to make a request for three hard copy prescription refills.(bracing myself to have to explain)

RECEPTIONIST: Oh, yes, I see in your chart! By the way, my name is "Norene", and I'm the new office manager. Would you mind staying on the line while I write and send the note?

ME: (surprised) Yes, of course.

NORENE: (over the sound of the computer typing) Request for these three prescriptions, request that attending sign if prescribing doctor is unable, send. There! All ready.

ME: (shocked at the added request, as I usually have to beg and plead for that eventuality) Thank you so much.

NORENE: Now, could you do something for me? Could you call tomorrow and check on the status, make sure it's moving along so they'll be ready for you to pick up Friday?

ME: (completely, utterly stunned, as making such a call in the past led me to be lectured, snubbed or oraly bitchslapped) Sure, I can do that. No problem. Thank you so much!

NORENE: Well, thank you. And if you have any problems, you just ask for me, Norene. OK?

ME: (not sure I'm awake, as this must be a dream) OK. Thank you again.

NORENE: Have a nice day!

ME: You, too.

I hung up the phone and stared at it. Did that just happen?

Has the Rx Dick been replaced in my life by Nice Norene?

I have no idea what will happen when I call today. Lecture? Rudeness? Or more Nice Norene?

I'll keep you posted...

Ah, Pain & Insomnia: The Bitches Are Back

2010-09-26T20:03:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure why, but the trigeminal neuralgia has been unusually ballbreaking this past week. These bouts used to be common before the methadone, but I've only had a handful of them since. I'm pretty proud of the fact that I haven't had to go to the ER for TN pain alone for almost four years.

The methadone has been such a blessing in my life. Before, I was hardly living. All day, every day, was constant, excrutiating pain. I understand torture, how it wears you down physically and emotionally. I lived it. And I don't want to go back.

Maybe it's time I increased my Oxycodone for breakthrough pain. I haven't slept more than four hours in the past two days, and there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. I haven't had to increase my Oxycodone in almost six years. I'm very wary of my tolerance level and of increasing my pain meds, but I can't bear the idea of my life going back to the way things used to be. Maybe I'm being over-cautious. It took me six years for the Vicoden to stop working and for me to have to step it up to Extra-Strengths, and then to Oxycodone. Maybe six is the magic number in my tolerance. I hope not; the reason I'm wary is that there are only so many pain options out there. I'm only 36, and I'll be on pain meds for the rest of my life. If I go through my options too fast, I'll be left out of options. And that is a concept not even worth considering.

And then there is the possibility that all this is just the usual changing-of-the-seasons MS calvacade of crap, and if I just hold on for a few weeks, it will pass.

And so I come to a decision: if I'm still having this much trouble one month from today, I'll make an appointment and discuss this with my doctor. Perhaps I need to go to a pain management clinic now, maybe there are other options I don't even know about. And I won't know, until I ask.

One month...

FAQs: General

2010-09-12T04:21:00.000-07:00

I’ve been a blogger for some years now, as well as being active on message boards, support groups, Myspace, Facebook and Twitter. And as a result, I find myself answering some of the same questions over and over again.

So I’m putting out a personal Frequently Answered Questions list; two, actually: one in general, and one for multiple sclerosis and trigeminal neuralgia.

The latter will undoubtedly be the longer of the two, as I am very often asked about MS in general and my MS specifically. It requires a lot of long answers, important details and weblinks. It’s one of the most rewarding aspects of the Zen Pretzel Trick: people who are new to MS, or love someone who is, seeking help about this often misunderstood disease and turning to me for it. I am always more than happy to answer those questions, knowing all too well the sense of urgency and the feelings of confusion and panic that are the hallmarks of the newly-diagnosed. I am forever grateful to those wonderful web folk who helped me out during my tumultuous first year, and I feel a deep sense of obligation to pay it forward. It’s occurred to me on several occasions that having an FAQ list would be so much more helpful than my making a number of emails and hoping I got all the information in them.

And because that FAQ is destined to be the longer, more detailed one…I’m starting with the general questions first. If you have a question for me you don’t see on here, leave a comment and I’ll be sure to add it to the list. I will also add to the list as needed. Note: some of the questions here aren’t really ones I’ve been asked before; they’re just added for fun. What can I say, I’m bored.

ZEN PRETZEL TRICK:

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

GENERAL

Q: Why do you call yourself “Zen Angel”?
There are 3 Angels in my support group, so we gave out nicknames to make life easier.
Q: Where did you get the name for your blog?
The Zen Pretzel Trick is a pseudo-martial arts "move" that appears in one of the Star Wreck books by Leah Rewolinski, a Star Trek parody series. It involves a character based on Sulu, who can knock down a stack of pretzels with pure concentration and a sharp move alone. I am a Star Trek & a Star Wreck fan, and because of my MS, I know all about concentrating very hard before attempting to do things that may seem easy to others but take “tricks” for me to accomplish. Voila!
Q: Why are there no photos of you on the blog, or in your avatar?
I have a stalker, whom I have written about before on this blog (click here). Also, I prefer to be

able to tell people I’m sick first and let them get used to the idea before letting them see me. It lessens the shock and makes it easier for everyone involved.

Q: What should I do if your stalker contacts me?
Copy & paste the correspondence, and email me the file at Pendragon525@aol.com. I will then contact the proper authorities; I have a restraining order and it is illegal for him to try to use others to contact me or anyone in my household. If he continues to contact you and is menacing you, contact the authorities in your area.
Q: You write a lot of posts about Native Americans. Are you Native?
Yes. My father’s side is Eastern Cherokee. My mother’s side is Irish.
Q: What made you start this blog?
I began this blog as a way to vent and to educate others on MS and related issues. It’s also a great way to pass the time when you’re up all night in pain. I highly recommend it.
Q: Why haven’t you been updating your other blog, Bad Baby Names?
Ever since my MS went progressive, I have found myself in a situation where I don’t have as much Internet time as I used to, or as much healthy time to write and research as I once did. I am considering taking BBN to an actual website (not a blog) sometime this winter or next spring. It’s still an idea I am toying with.
Q: Why are there sometimes long absences between posts?
MS is a bitch.
Q: I’ve seen you refer to the “Arthurian” book you’re working on. What does “Arthurian” mean?
Anything related to the Matter of Britain, otherwise known as the King Arthur legends.
Q: I’ve seen a lot of photos of your tattoos. How many do you have?
14, presently. I never get tattoos in the summertime if I can help it (MS being a bigger bitch in the summer than in all the other seasons combined), so I get my “birthday ink” late. I plan to get 2 more in the next few months, as well as my usual Valentine’s and Mother’s Day tattoos.
Q: Who does your ink?
Mostly Sean at Captain Jack’s. I also occasionally use Mav Mess at Deluxe Ink. Both are here in Portland.
Q: Are you into piercing, too?
Not really. I have 6 earrings in my left ear & 2 in my right. I’ve also had my nose pierced for21 years. I might get a few more earrings done, but I’m not interested in any more body piercing.
Q: Are you single or looking?
Neither. I’m very married. This means I’m not interested in cyber sex, thanks anyway. I’ve never really seen the point of it, and I don’t want to have it explained to me, either. I am not interested.
Q: How many kids do you have? Do you want more?
I have three kids, and a tubal ligation.
Q: What is your religion? I’m confused because you seem to celebrate Chanukah and Christmas.
I am a Christian, my husband is Jewish. We celebrate both sets of holidays in our home.
Q: Are you a Democrat?
No. I’m an Independent, always have been. I take voting quite seriously. I look at it like hiring someone for a job: do they have the education, the experience, the skills? I have voted for Democrats, Republicans and even third parties like the Green Party. I have never voted anything but Democrat for President, however.
Q: Are you a liberal?
Yes. Although fiscally, I’m more of a moderate.
Q: Do you live on a reservation? Don’t you have to live on one?
No. I live in Portland. I can live anywhere I choose. (You’d be surprised how often I get this question.)
Q: Did the DMV thing really happen?
Yes, it did. And it didn’t seem at all funny while it was happening, I assure you.
Q: Will you help me find my Cherokee roots? I’m pretty sure my great-grandmother

was a Cherokee princess.
No, she wasn’t. There’s no such thing. Princes and princesses are a European concept, not a Native American one (read all about the myth of the Cherokee princess on this great site). That’s not to say you don’t have Native blood. The first thing you’ll want to do is find out Granny’s full name, including her maiden name, and check the Dawes Rolls. If you strike out there, I recommend finding a good geneologist. That’s not my profession, so I can’t help you out, but there are many good people who can. Good luck, and stop telling people your ancestor was a Cherokee princess. It irritates the hell out of Natives, and makes you look like a fool.
Q: Can you help me get benefits and free college and stuff?
If a complete stranger walked up to you tomorrow and said, “Hi, you don’t know me, but

my grandmother was an American. I just got here myself, and I’m not really sure I can prove Granny was an American, but everyone in my family swears she was a President‘s daughter. Can you help me get welfare, food stamps and Section 8?” What would your response be? Yeah, well, that’s how we feel, too.
Q: Do you consider yourself a feminist?
Yes. The kind that thinks a woman’s choice to stay home with her kids is just as valid and should be just as supported as her choice to join the workforce. And if she does the latter, she should get paid the same amount as her male counterparts.
Q: Did you ever find your missing friend, Danell Lewis?
No. It pains me more than I can ever hope to express, but I am still looking.
Q: Why do you home school?
It’s what works for our family. I am not one of those people who believes that public school

is bad or evil or what have you. I think public (and private) school works great for some families, and home schooling works great for others. It’s a matter of what is right for your kids, and what’s right for your kids isn’t always going to be what’s right for everyone’s kids.
Q: Do you have any pets?
We have one cat, Woody.
Q: What are your pet peeves?
People who use the words “retard” and “retarded” as insults. People who do not control their kids in public and allow them to completely act like little monsters with no consequences. People who believe that because their way works for them it must therefore be the only right way for every person on planet Earth.
Q: Why did you move to Portland?
Dayton sucks. This is my personal opinion, hate it if you must, but you won’t change my

mind on the issue. Ever since I was in junior high, I wanted to get out of Ohio. I went as far

as I could without hitting an ocean and never looked back. I LOVE it here. I never belonged in Dayton. I belong here. That is a precious thing, not to be taken lightly. I can’t imagine myself ever moving back.
Q: What is that icon you use on Facebook, the thing with the two circles?
That’s the Chalice Well, in Glastonbury Abbey, Glastonbury, England. Legend says the Holy Grail is located inside it. Legend also connects Glastonbury with the isle of Avalon, and thus with King Arthur. It is also said the Abbey was the site of the grave of Arthur and Guinevere. I have the Chalice Well tattooed on my arm (courtesy of Mav Mess of Deluxe Tattoo in SE Portland).
Q: What is “Tin God Syndrome”? I’ve seen it in several posts.
Tin God Syndrome is a term I use for medical professionals who believe they can do no wrong while actively doing everything they can wrong. There are various forms of it; look up the tag for it on my blog and you’ll see numerous accounts.
Q: What do you look like?

I'm 5'7, a bigger gal with brown eyes, long hair that is shaved around (a traditional mohawk) with bangs. The bangs are pink, the rest is black. I have brown eyes, pale skin, a nose ring & 14 tattoos. That about covers it.

Q: How can I reach you by email?
Pendragon525@aol.com
Q: Are you on Twitter?
Of course! You can find me @ZenAngelSinger. I give regular #MSUpdates there.

Anything I left out? Leave it in the comments!

The Death of My Father

2010-05-11T18:59:00.000-07:00

I've been putting this off for quite some time, but I realized that doing so is making me feel worse. It's hanging over my head, an impediment to the grieving process. I need to purge. I need to do this.

A lot of people are uncomfortable with the subject of death. More than a few are uncomfortable with the subject of my father, as you can see from that email I got a few weeks ago. So rest assured, I will take no offense if you choose to skip this post.

I'll be honest: it's been hard to write it. I've worked on it in pieces, over the course of nearly two months.
It's a very long post, so again, I'll take no offense if you choose not to read it.

But for those of you who wondered what happened...here we go.

First, I want to explain the family dynamics for the benefit of those who don't know me personally. My
father had been married eight times. He had four children with his first wife, my mother (she died of breast cancer in July 1998). I am the oldest. After me is my sister "Ellen." Up until Dad's death, Ellen and I had not spoken in over five years. We do not get along. After her is my sister "Leah." She and I are very close. Finally, there is my brother "Kirk." Kirk is currently incarcerated in the state of Florida. I have not spoken to him in a number of years, either. Then there was my former stepmonster, who died three years ago. My father raised her six kids as his own, including my sister Lisa, who died two weeks after Dad did. The others are all boys. I do not have relationships with any of them. I also have a number of half-siblings and other stepsiblings via the Parade of Internet Wives, none of whom I associate with for varying reasons.

My father struggled with diabetes and alcoholism. He had cirhosis of the liver, COPD and Hepatatis C.

I woke up at 5AM on March 26 to the sound of my cellphone and my sister Leah's ringtone ("Family" from Dreamgirls). She has been quite ill lately, having recently been diagnosed with Crohn's Disease. I have been very worried about her, especially as her doctors were also evaluating her for MS, thanks to me (note: her MRI and other tests came back clear, so no MS for Leah, thank God!). So although it is my custom to ignore calls that wake me up, because it was Leah I answered the phone.

My father was dead. He had been found in his bedroom, having apparently fallen out of bed. The police had been called, and were at his home.

My nine-year-old neice, "Amanda," found him. My father had been raising her for the vast majority of her life, owing to my sister Ellen's inability and/or disinterest in doing it herself. Of her three children by three different men, she is only raising her youngest. For now, anyway.

I told my sister to go to Dad's house while I contacted the police. I first called his house, hoping to speak to his lifelong best friend and roommate, "Mitchell." A strange woman answered the phone. "Who is THIS?" she demanded. "I am Rick's eldest daughter. Who the hell are you?" I hear the phone being dropped, and then Mitchell's voice. "Oh, Angel, I am so sorry. I am so sorry," he kept repeating. I could not get any information from him; he was beside himself. Frustrated, I called the police and was directed to the sargeant in charge at my father's home.

There was evidence of "quite the party" having occured the night before. Police removed four tubs of medications (some his, some questionable) from the home. I was told that as his next of kin, I needed to make some decisions, foremost of those was where to send his body when the coroner released it. I gave him the name of the funeral home in Dayton that always handles my family's arrangements.

I then spoke to the coroner, and asked him what had happened. My father's blood sugar was over 300, indicating that it had probably been closer to 700-800 at the time of his death. His blood alcohol level was four times the legal limit, and a half-empty can of beer was on his bedside table. It appears that he woke up feeling ill, and attempted to get his blood sugar monitor from his bedside table. While doing this, he fell and died. Ultimately, what killed him was a "toss-up." His heart stopped, due to either insulin shock or alcohol poisoning...quite likely a mixture of the two. He lay dead on his floor for somewhere between four to six hours before my niece discovered him. He told me that legally speaking, there was no need for an autopsy, and one would only be performed if I so requested. I did not.

I then called Leah back, to let her know what the police and coroner had said. While I was on the phone with her, Ellen arrived. Leah asked Ellen if she'd like to talk to me, and she declined. I told Leah that I had to see my doctor in order to get my pain prescriptions, but would leave for Ohio immediately following the appointment. She asked about the funeral arrangements, and I told her that my next call was to Martin's.

George Martin Funeral Home has always handled my family's funerals. George had been friendly with my late paternal grandfather. I contacted them, and told them my father had left instructions with me that he wished a simple service, and then to be cremated. He could not be cremated, or the funeral scheduled, until I arrived and signed for them. I told him when I expected to arrive, and we made an appointment.

Suddenly, I was left with nothing to do. I had done everything I could do from 2500 miles away. I sat down with my husband and wept.

By that time, my kids were waking up. I intended to take a few moments to collect myself and then sit them down and explain what had happened. My husband was already beginning to chart a route for the three-day car trip.

Then the doorbell rang. It was the police. Ellen had called them and told them to come to my home to "notify" me that my father was dead. This is how my kids found out their grandfather was dead. I have no idea why Ellen did this; she was very aware of the fact that I already knew (as illustrated above). She knows I have a special-needs child who is very sensitive. Why she did this, I will never understand.

She gave the police her cell phone number with instructions for me to contact her. I did. She did not answer the phone. After about a half hour of attempts, she changed her voice mail message: she did not want to talk to anyone. She did not want to be involved in the arrangements. She wanted to be left alone.

I was very angry with Ellen, but had bigger issues at hand. And in all honesty, making the arrangements and doing all that needed to be done would go a lot more smoothly without Ellen involved, so her self-imposed exile was a blessing in disguise. I needed to get moving, get the packing done and get on the road. But first, I had the doctor's appointment to be dealt with.

As longtime readers of this blog know well, I have three prescriptions that can't be refilled like my other medications. By law, I have to pick up the written prescriptions at my doctor's office every month, requiring me to call a week in advance to the Rx Dick. Every six months, I must have an actual face-to-face appointment with my doctor in order to get the prescriptions. Unfortunately, this month was my required appointment. I couldn't go to Ohio without my meds, couldn't get them without the written prescriptions, and couldn't get the written prescriptions without the appointment. I tried in vain to get them to give me an appointment earlier in the day (it was a 3:30 appointment) or to just give me the prescriptions, in light of the family emergency. The receptionist assured me that neither were going to happen.

Jonathan decided to use the hours we had until the appointment to take the car in and get the oil changed and so forth, in preperation for the rather grueling trip from Oregon to Ohio. I spent them arranging for the house/cat sitter and cancelling upcoming appointments, as well as finishing the packing.

Preparing five people (3 of them kids) for a long car trip and a stay of indeterminate length isn't the easiest thing to do in a short period of time while under a great deal of pressure. The phone never stopped ringing. My sister, my aunts, various other persons---it was a deluge. I begged everyone to just WAIT until I got to Ohio and we'd get everything all worked out. I had been assured by Martin's that there was nothing of an urgent matter from here on out; they could wait for me for weeks if need be. Certain members of my family had difficulty understanding this. They were driving my poor sister crazy with all the calls and messages that had to be "immediately" forwarded to me. Every little detail was debated over and commented upon, every decision questioned endlessly. Over the next few days, I longed for a tape player with the message, "I understand and I'll take care of it as soon as I get to Ohio" recorded on it that I could simply push a button and have the message relayed while I saved my breath. I understood the grief and urgency they were all feeling, but I had done all I could from 2500 miles away. I also understood that some of them would rather make the local call to Leah and then have her call me, but they couldn't seem to get it through their heads that Leah had just been diagnosed with Crohn's. The doctors had yet to get her meds just right, and she was very sick. On top of all that, she has a three-month-old nursling to care for. I was afraid they'd make her sicker with the incesstant calls and demands. Everything else could WAIT until I arrived. What was so hard to understand about that?

One of the bones of contention was the obituary. Many members of the family wanted me to simply email the info to the funeral home so the obit could go out as soon as possible. I had other ideas. I wanted the obit in the paper only a few days prior to the funeral, at most. I had good reasons for this. My father had accumulated more than his fair share of enemies, none of whom I wanted at this funeral. Everyone who really loved him, anyone who actually cared about him, already knew and would get plenty of notice as to the date of the services. I hated that I had to consider the posibility that there were people who would come to the funeral to either start trouble or prove to themselves beyond a shadow of a doubt that the old man was really dead. But I am a realist, and I knew that by limiting the advance notice of the proceedings, I would hopefully also limit any undesirable persons or behavior.

Finally, it was time for the doctor's appointment. I told my new doctor, Dr. Forthright (I still haven't come up with a good nickname for her yet), what had happened and that I didn't mean to be rude, but I just wanted my prescriptions and get on my way. I needed to get on the road. Every moment that separated me from Ohio was one moment too many. I had this terrible ball of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I needed to get the hell of out Dodge, the sooner the better.

She asked me how he died. "He drank himself to death, he died a stasistic." I told her, choking on tears. "Thirty-five is so young to have lost both parents," she replied. I just nodded, took my prescriptions and we were on our way.

We took off, all five of us crammed into our midsized car. The calls continued, unabated. I was actually relieved when we entered the Rocky Mountains and were out of cell phone range for a few hours.

Jonathan was amazing on the trip. He drove for hours and hours, fueled on bad gas station coffee and a desire to get us there on time. His zeal led to a remarkable incident in the state of Colorado.

We were driving through a small town at around 10PM when we were suddenly pulled over. The officer came over and asked for his license, registration and proof of insurance. Because we'd packed so much in the car, including the glove compartment, we couldn't immediately find the registration. When we finally located it, the officer told us we'd been driving about 8 miles over the speed limit. Jonathan explained that my father had died and we were trying to get to Ohio, and the officer cut him off. "I only partially stopped you for the speeding," he explained. "Up ahead, there has been a significant rock slide. With you folks having kids in the car and in an obvious hurry, I wanted to warn you. It's a big mess up there. You folks would be a lot better off spending the night in a hotel in town."

This was bad news for us. This particular town was home to a fancy ski resort, and it was almost spring break. The chance of finding accessible, affordable lodging seemed damn near impossible.

But the officer had an idea. He had a friend who worked the evening desk shift at a nice--and accessible--hotel. "Follow me," he said, and we all made a U-turn and went back the way we'd come. When we pulled into the hotel's parking lot, our hearts sank. This was quite a ritzy place. We had no choice, really; we were getting out of a ticket and avoiding a dangerous drive by staying here. I said a little prayer as my husband and the officer went into the lobby.

When my husband came back, he was grinning from ear to ear. The officer's friend had come through, and we got a room for $60, plus an additional $10 for a rollaway cot for my son. It was typically a $200 room! My prayer had been answered.

The room truly was gorgeous. We had a view of the mountains that was nothing short of spectacular. And after all that driving and catching catnaps at rest areas, the big soft beds were quite welcome indeed (not to mention the shower). And not only did we get the room at such an amazing price...the manager told us she would leave the jacuzzi and pool open longer (it was due to be closed in a matter of minutes) just for us if I felt the water would help my MS. I was so touched, I left them a letter letting them know just how much their kindness meant to me at a time when I surely needed it. God sends you angels sometimes, when you really need them, and He gave us two in Colorado. My unending gratitude to them.

Our final day on the road, Jonathan drove for over 19 straight hours. When we rolled into Dayton, we had an hour to spare before our appointment. And we spent that hour in a way my father would have whole-heartedly approved of: eating at Marion's Piazza. That was my father's favorite. When I was a little kid, I didn't even know there were any other pizza restaurants in Dayton! And every time we came to visit, my dad would take all of us to Marion's to celebrate. Sitting at his favorite of the local chain's eateries (the one in Northridge), I was filled with nostalgia. I could almost see him, sitting at his favorite table near the photo of Jerry Orbach on the wall, waiting for his steak sandwich with pizza sauce and banana peppers.

I met my father's sister, "Annie," at the funeral home. I had never had to make funeral arrangements before. When my mother died, my grandfather handled it. My job was simply to call her many friends and the few family members who didn't know. I now have a true appreciation for all he'd done, and I am forever grateful.

Walking into Martin's was like taking a step into the past. So many of my loved ones had funerals in this beautiful building. I thought about my paternal grandfather's funeral, about when they played taps (he was a WWII hero; served in Okinawa), my 7-month-old son saluted. I thought about my mother's funeral, the room so overflowing with mourners that it was quite literally standing room only. And I thought about the last time I was in Ohio, five years ago, attending the funeral of my uncle who had died unexpectedly. How wonderful my dad had been, during these hard times. And now I was back, and it was my father I was mourning here in this building so familar, so respected.

Almost immediately, I discovered that my mantra "WAIT until I get there" had been pretty much ignored. Leah and I were opposed to a viewing. My father wanted a very simple service, and that's it. The funeral home would have allowed the kids, grandkids and sisters to have a small private viewing prior to his body being sent to be cremated. But again, certain family members were opposed. By the time I got there, the viewing was a done deal and to my shock and dismay, it doubled the cost of the funeral.

I would have cancelled the viewing, had it not been for the fact that those certain family members had made that next to impossible. You see, when a viewing is held for a person who will be cremated and not buried, what they use is a "rental casket." A special insert is placed into the casket; these are one-time use objects, meant so that no one else's body had been in there before (something that was apparently of great importance to many families). Due to my father's unusual dimensions (he was short, very overweight and had a large upper body from years of being a stone mason), they had to special-order a casket and insert for him. Those certain family members had told them to go ahead and order it, and I'd already been charged for it. Naturally, it was non-refundable. So it made little sense to cancel the viewing.

I refused to let that bother me. After all, the family members were trying to be helpful; it took a few days for the special order to arrive and they were attempting to save me time and effort. I just wish that when I said WAIT, they would have WAITED.

If you've never handled funeral arrangements before, you're in for an eye-opener when you do. There is so much paperwork involved, so many details to attend to, all during a time when you are emotionally overwhelmed. So much to sign, so much to arrange. There was paperwork for the cremation, for the services, for the obituary.

I also had no idea how much obituaries cost. Ours listed all four kids, all ten grandkids and all six sisters. I also felt it important to mention his work (he was a construction supervisor for years, and I wanted two of his favorite Dayton landmark creations mentioned: the Dayton Daily News building and the Salvation Army Rehabilition Center). There was also mention of his service in the Army. This sounds like a lot, but the obit was actually average-sized when compared to others in the paper around the same time. Final cost? $190. And although we paid almost $200, they made several mistakes, the worst being that my father served in Vietnam. He did serve during the war, but he was stateside. We have a number of Vietnam vets in our family, and we didn't want to dishonor them.

When the obituary came out in the paper the next day, my phone nearly blew itself to the moon and back. The errors were upsetting to many family members, especially the Vietnam one. So I tried to contact the newspaper to see if it could be corrected. I was transferred at least a half-dozen times, before finally reaching a woman who was short, cross and downright rude. After berating me for several minutes (including demanding to know the name of the person who transferred me to her, and her becoming irate when I didn't have that answer), she finally told me, in a huff, that she shouldn't be talking to me at all anyway. Even though I paid for the obit, the funeral home faxed it in and therefore they were the people who put it in the order and the only ones she could talk to about any "so-called mistakes." She implied that it couldn't possibly be their SNAFU; it must be the funeral home at fault! She then hung up on me. Gee, what a lovely individual to put in charge of dealing with people in MOURNING. And although the funeral home did in fact call them per my request, no changes were ever made. I ended up addressing the problem in my eulogy.

My next big surprise is how cremation is handled. First, they had to make sure the right person was taken to the crematorium. Then they asked how many boxes we wanted the ashes in. My aunt immediately said, "Three." I was shocked, and asked who we were purposefully leaving out. "Kirk. After all he did to your daddy..." I replied that if we were going to leave Kirk out, it made no sense to include Ellen. It was now my aunt's turn to be shocked. Apparently, Dad never told anyone in the family about all the times he had to clean up Ellen's messes or how she quite blatantly either stole from him directly or used him as some sort of talking, breathing, easy-to-manipulate ATM machine. Ellen was always his clear and admitted favorite, and it was obvious that he had portrayed her to the rest of the family as someone she most definately was not. And regardless of anything Kirk or Ellen had done, my father had (and loved) four kids.

I ordered four boxes.

Having never had to make funeral arrangements before, I assumed that cremation was a quick and simple process. It isn't. First, I had to sign permission for the cremation. Then, I had to sign a paper saying that to the best of my knowledge my father had no foreign objects in his body that might explode. I told them that other than the bullets, no. I was assured the bullets and bullet fragments posed no risk. The worry was about items including batteries, such as pacemakers. I was then told that it could take up to five days or more to cremate him. First, there was a list and there were two or three people ahead of him on it. Secondly, no one can ever be sure how long a particular person's cremation will take. My father, being a bigger man, could take longer than what was average, but you never know. Each person is very individual in these matters. I was told a story about a body builder who, because of his exceptionally large muscle mass, took days and days to cremate. I was encouraged to be patient. I told my husband I had absolutely no intention of leaving Ohio without my father's ashes.

On the day of the funeral, I arrived at the funeral home first. I was the first one to get there, and the last to leave. It seemed appropriate. There were a few last-minute details to tend to (including working out a hand signal for the Elvis songs: one in the beginning, one right before the eulogy during a moment of silence and prayer). I also wanted a few moments alone with my father.

He looked so bloated, and he had bruises all over one arm (likely a result of his insulin shots). I could see no sign of the bruising to his lip the coronor had reported to me; Martin's had come through on their promise to make it disappear. Leah had bought some clothing for him: a lovely blue polo shirt and a pair of pants. I worked hard not to cry; I was officiating this funeral, and I couldn't do that well if I had a throat swollen and hoarse from crying. Ever a realist and a pragmatist, am I.

Soon, people began to arrive. Leah made a beautiful collage of photos of Dad from over the years: Dad as a young boy, Dad with me as a baby, Dad with his biker friends, Dad with my mother, Dad with my stepmother. Many, many photos. It was a big hit; many people made wonderfully positive remarks about it. I made only one contribution: a photo of my brother Kirk. That way, he was still a part of these proceedings, even though he could not physically be there.

Speaking of Kirk, the chaplain at his prison was tremendous. Kirk had been moved to the hospital ward (they were afraid he'd try to hurt himself) and the chaplain was making a point of being there for him and offered to do a prayer service. I was touched, and I am grateful for his efforts.

I was surprised to see my godmother "Nadia" and her mother "Ava" at the funeral. She had been my mother's best friend since they were in diapers. They were like sisters. I have a soft spot in my heart for Nadia. When I had called her to tell her that Dad had died, she told me she was sorry for my loss, but had no intention of attending the funeral. "You know how I felt about your dad," she told me, and I did. She had every reason not to like him. When I saw she was there, she hugged me and said, "I thought about what your mom would want me to do. She'd say, 'be there for Angel,' and so here I am." I don't think I could ever articulate how much that meant to me, and how much strength she lent me that day. Thank you, Nadia.

As the guests began to arrive, I marvelled again at how families generally only get together at weddings and funerals. I saw relatives I hadn't seen in years. Many I did not immediately recognize. I did find slight amusement in the fact that no one seemed to have a problem identifying me. Once the family punk rocker, always the family punk rocker.

Jonathan was just wonderful throughout the day. He took over a small room and brought toys, snacks and videos for the younger kids. Over and over, people praised me for his efforts. I know many of the mothers greatly appreciated it. "Yvonne," my brother's ex-girlfriend and the mother of his son, "Leo," also helped out in the "kids room." As it was the day before Easter, she also made Easter baskets for all of my dad's grandkids. I was overwhelmed by her generosity and thoughtfullness. With all the stress of the funeral, and not to mention the fact that I was staying with my Jewish in-laws, I had all but forgotten Easter. Yvonne, you have my everlasting gratitude for making sure the Easter bunny didn't forget my kids this year. You will always be family to me.

I made a point of spending some time with Leo, and he told me he felt a great sadness that he never got to know his grandmother (my mother died when Yvonne was pregnant), and he didn't get to spend as much time with his grandfather as he would have liked. I let him know that if he had any questions, or just wanted to talk, I am only a phone call away. My brother is missing out on one great kid. And the resemblance is nothing short of uncanny. When I first saw him, I felt like it was 1990, at my maternal grandmother's funeral, and the boy in front of me was my little brother.

When Ellen arrived, I attempted to tell her how the service was going to be conducted. I was doing it in a slightly unorthodox way; I was going to open the floor to anyone who wanted to speak, and then give the eulogy (it is usually done the other way around). This was my attempt to contain any damage that might occur as a result of someone speaking in a hostile or unkind way. Again, I hated this necessity, but the realist in me knew it had to be done.

Ellen didn't want to hear it. When I asked her if she wanted to speak, she said, "Of course I do!" in such a way as if to say that it should go without saying and I was an idiot for even questioning her. She was in the company of an older gentleman she introduced to me as a "friend of Dad's." The man immediately corrected her and told me he "didn't really know" my father. No one in the room knew who this guy was, and Ellen felt no need to explain. She snapped at me several times when I attempted to talk to her, and I tried to keep my cool. I did, however, snap back when she was monopolizing my father's casket and little Leo wanted to see his Papaw. To her credit, she instantly moved so Leo could have his moment to say goodbye. A number of people noted that she did not seem altogether sober. She looked tired to me, but what do I know. I had not layed eyes on her in six years.

One of the saving graces of this period of time was my dear friend Sonya. Without her, I don't think I could have made it through this ordeal. She and her boyfriend, along with one of her sons who is a friend to my son, came to the viewing and funeral and did all they could to help out. After the wake, they took my son Phoenix with them for the evening, as there was a birthday party for a teen boy in the family and they'd kindly extended an invitation. He was 16 at the time, and whatever helped him get his mind off this tragedy, even for a short time, would be good for him in my opinion. Phoenix spent a great deal of time with Sonya's family while we were in Ohio, as he is close to both of her sons. When I introduced her to my godmother Nadia, I told her, "She is my Nadia," referring to the close, sister-like friendship my mother and Nadia shared. And I meant it.

Ellen and the Old Man sat down in the seats in front of Sonya, her boyfriend, her son and my son. Ellen had never met Sonya and did not know she was my friend. Ellen then proceeded to make nasty comments and a number of jokes at my expense, mostly about my wheelchair. Many people at the viewing heard her remarks. Although it was hurtful that she was making fun of my disability during our father's funeral, the truth is she was making herself look bad, not me. In fact, her behavior throughout the funeral disabused many family members of the illusion my father had fed them concerning my sister. They were, finally, catching a glimpse of the real Ellen.

I officiated the services, and did the best I could. One of the employees at Martin's told me I'd done a better job than some of the ministers who've done it for a living for decades. It was nice of him to say.

The two Elvis songs Dad requested were played: "Amazing Grace" and "Peace In the Valley." The latter was also played at my mother's funeral, by her request. In the end, the only things my parents had in common were four kids and a love for the King.

When the flag ceremony came, it was presented to my son, my father's oldest grandchild. Ellen took off in a huff, nearly knocking my son to the ground. She later said she was "running to the bathroom, feeling sick." I do not believe her. She didn't look sick. She looked pissed.

Throughout the eulogy (which I will post here at a later date), Ellen rolled her eyes repeatedly and even looked to Leah with a "can you believe this shit, do something to stop it" look on her face. She did not take part in the processional with Leah and me.

After the eulogy, my father's sisters came up and said a few final words. Annie said, "We've always been the seven of us, now it's just six." I replied, "I'm sorry, everyone, but I have to correct my aunt. There will always be seven of you. Only now, one is looking over the others."

The funeral was over, and as the room emptied out, my sisters and I took once last moment to be with him. It was then I finally cried. I wish my brother could have been there with us. Oh, Kirk. Let this be the catalyst of change in your life. I can only hope, and pray, that it is.

When last I saw Ellen that day, it was in the hallway of the funeral home. I was given a large bag which contained the guest book, extra tracts and thank-you notes. Ellen saw this and became furious. "So what do I get? Nothing?" She then stormed off and left with the Old Man. She did not come to the wake, which was held at Annie's home. As far as I know, to this day, she has not contributed one dime towards the funeral expenses.

The aunts took the flowers from the service and went to the cemetary where many of my family members are buried, all in the same area. The flowers were placed on my mother's grave, my grandparents, my great-grandparents and my older sister, who died at birth. I took two daisies myself for my usual last-day-in-Dayton tradition: I visit my mother's grave and my friend Micah's grave on my way out of town. I laid one daisy down for each.

Towards the end of the wake, I was coronered by my father's sisters. They wanted to know about my MS. They acknowledged that this wasn't exactly the best time for the subject, but they had no idea when they'd see me next and a number of relatives were concerned. Dad refused to talk about it to them, and after seeing me visibly sick and with both a wheelchair and with a cane, they had some questions and really needed the answers.

For many years, I have been deeply hurt about how my father behaved concerning my disease. When it first happened, I asked him to tell the other members of the family so I would not have to talk about it over and over and over again (my family is very, very large). But the next time I visited Ohio, I found he had told no one. I was upset, and when I asked my father why he did not tell anyone, he just shrugged his shoulders. When my disease went progressive in 2003, his response was, "Well, you knew there was a chance this was going to happen, no use crying about it." I was shocked and wounded by his cavalier attitude. I felt he simply didn't care. When we would talk on the phone, he spent most of the time venting about his own health problems. He never asked me about mine, and if I volunteered information, he would divert the conversation back to him and his health issues. I felt frustrated, and disrespected. It angered me that he didn't seem to care. It stung that he wanted me to care about his issues, which were largely self-inflicted (had he followed his diet, taken his meds regularly, and quit drinking and smoking, most of his health problems would be under control). I had done nothing to precipitate my disease. I was bitter, and I felt unloved. I felt he considered his issues to be far more important than my own. It was a large stumbling block in our relationship.

After talking to my aunts, I realized I may have completely misunderstood him. It wasn't that he didn't care; rather, he was in complete denial. It never occured to me that this was a man who had already buried one child, and perhaps he couldn't bear the idea that his oldest surviving kid was seriously ill. Apparently, when people would ask him for details concerning my health, my father would tell them that doctors are "wrong all the time" and would not discuss it. I completely underestimated him. I thought he didn't care, when it's quite possible he cared so much he simply couldn't face it. Oh, Daddy. I am so sorry. I wish I'd known. Or at the very least, given you the benefit of the doubt.

As a result of my father's refusal to discuss the subject, many of my relatives were completely shocked to see me in the scooter at the funeral, and to see me so visibly and clearly sick. I saw the looks on many of their faces. It was also clear that the aunts had been charged with finding out the truth and dispensing that knowledge to the rest of the clan.

I was upfront with them, and answered all of their questions. As regular readers of my blog know, I am very comfortable discussing my secondary-progressive multiple sclerosis and MS-related trigeminal neuralgia. I am realistic about the odds and what may or may not happen in the future. The days when I tried to fool myself or got weepy talking about it are long in the past. So I told them the truth, and also told them that I consider myself, in many ways, to be very fortunate and blessed. I could have 20+ years left. I'll see my kids grow up, and God willing, I'll be at their weddings and hold my grandchildren. So many people out there are sick and would give anything to have 2 years, much less 20 years! I've also gotten so used to discussing MS--both in person and on the net--that it is almost a speech by now: first I talk about the different kinds of MS, then I explain my kind and what the odds are that it will go primary progressive, I explain how my siblings are at a slightly higher risk of getting it but it isn't genetic and they have little to worry about. I tell them about how there is no cure, but lots of different treatment options. I talk about the symptoms and the meds and what my day-to-day life is like. And much like a speech, when you given it as many times as I have, you've got it down flat. They seemed much more at ease after we'd talked. I wish I'd done it years ago.

I was the last person to leave the wake. My husband and I spent a great deal of time talking with Annie and her husband, Lenny. It was bittersweet.

While my father was alive, I often felt cut off from the rest of the family. Many people wanted to distance themselves from my dad, and I don't begrudge them that perogrative. I'd have done the same thing myself; did, in fact, do the same when I moved to Oregon. It was understandable, but as a child and even as an adult, it felt unfair. We were the babies that got thrown out with the bathwater.

I have been to many, many family functions, including other funerals. This one was different. For the first time, people extended to me their phone numbers. Their email addresses. A desire to stay in touch. They no longer had to fear my father. The bathwater was gone, and the baby could finally stay.

A few days later, I once again met Annie at Martin's. We filled out papers for the Army to send Dad's little gravemarker. Annie and I agreed to have it laid down next to my grandfather's Army marker, at my grandmother's feet. It seemed appropriate. I was then given two large bags with small, green boxes inside. My father's ashes.

I made arrangements to meet both my sisters at Leah's house (also giving me the opportunity to play with Leah's new baby). I chose to keep Kirk's box, in the hopes that someday he straightens his life out and asks for it. If that never happens, the box will pass on to Leo.

While at Leah's, my aunt "Helen" called and asked if we three girls would come over and help clean out Dad's house. Most of the work was already done, but there was still stuff to do. We agreed, and went to the house.

I was shocked. The house was filthy. All my life, my father was a neat freak, borderlining on OCD. He showered twice a day, and insisted the house was spotless. We weren't even allowed to open Christmas presents until the breakfast dishes were done and the kitchen and dining room were spotless. But apparently, since my stepmonster's death, my father had just given up. He didn't care anymore. The alcohol took over and he didn't have the strength or the desire to stand in its way anymore.

Since my father's death, a number of people were purpoted to be "taking care" of my dad. There was Mitchell, his best friend amd roommate. There was "Amy," the mystery woman who answered the phone so rudely the day Dad died (and who completely disappeared after his death). There was my aunt Helen, who lived across the street from my father, and finally, there was my sister Ellen. But by the looks of the house, it didn't seem that much of anyone was taking care of Dad.

I was forbidden from helping clean, so I just sat in armchair and talked to the others as they worked. Ellen cleaned out the fridge and cupboards, taking the food for herself. I did go through some of Dad's papers from his desk, a chore the other family members considered appropriate for me to do "in my condition." Amongst these papers were a number of prescriptions, written and never filled. And it was then that I'd heard about his will. I never saw this paper, but supposedly he'd left everything to Amanda, except for the sum of one dollar to be paid to each of his four kids. In the end, I didn't even get the dollar. He had nothing.

It took me a great deal of time to work up the courage to go into the bedroom where my Dad died. The room had mostly been cleared out. There was no furniture. I was prepared for that. What I wasn't prepared for was the large blood stain on the carpet. When Dad fell out of bed, he busted his nose and lip. I didn't know the blood was there. I stood staring, in shock, before fleeing the room. I'm not sure I'm better off having gone in there, or not. I'm not sure I'll ever know.

I took a few things from the house for myself and/or my kids. For my daughter, I took a pretty basket Dad kept his hair brush and comb in. For my other daugther, I took a bird house. Dad had a number of bird houses. I took the smallest one, the only one with chimes. I plan to hang it in her room. For Phoenix, I took Dad's coat. For myself, I took his big plaid jacket he always wore, a bright green 1970's-era wine goblet and a handful of photographs.

It was hard to be there, and I was glad when my friend Emma arrived to take me back to my in-laws' place and hang out a little there. My in-laws adore Emma. After the stress of the day, it was nice to unwind a bit.

The next day, we left Ohio for home. On my way out, I laid the daisies on Mom's and Micah's graves. Micah is buried in Woodland Cemetary. There has been so much contruction and new burials there since last we visited, I couldn't find his grave and had to go to the office for a map.

And then we were off. This time, we stayed at a Ramada in Denver. It was a fantastic hotel, with the best free breakfast I've ever seen. It was basically a buffet restaurant. My husband especially liked the made-to-order omelets.

I was relieved to get back to our home in Portland. Our cat, Woody, was angry with us and it took several days to placate him. I had my husband put Dad's things, including the ashes, in the hall closet. I know I need to do the thank-you notes for those who sent flowers or donated to the funeral costs, but I haven't been able to bring myself to look at any of those things yet. I need more time. When the death certificate arrived in the mail, I put it in the bag, too. I know I am going to have to face that bag eventually, but for now, it simply lies there, waiting.

I don't plan to keep Dad's ashes in the little green cardboard box forever. I will take my time, and find just the right box or urn. I will know it when I see it.

The past months have been rough. I am trying to adjust to the fact that my father, who had seemed so invinceable that I had often joked that only a silver bullet would kill him, was gone. Gone, so suddenly, with no chance to say good-bye, to say all that so desperately needed saying.

We had a rough time with one another, my father and me. At times it seemed we couldn't be more different. I didn't approve of the way he lived his life, and he didn't approve of the way I lived mine. We had arguments that would last hours, and we had heart-to-hearts that never lasted long enough. I think of all his kids, I was the one that was the hardest for him to relate to, to figure out. I was also the one who refused to let him control my life, and the one who had no hesitation about telling him when he was wrong. I was my own woman, and although this vexed him quite clearly, I also think it caused him to respect me, albeit grudgingly. In some ways, we were very much alike, despite all those differences that so impacted our ability to connect. In the last few years, we came to realize that we didn't like to fight with each other, that we didn't want to be at odds, and the only way to make that happen was a sad one. We got along better when we didn't speak to each other all that often.

When he and my stepmonster reconciled, I didn't speak to him for several months, even after her death (although I did send him a sympathy card). But in the months leading up to his death, we had begun to change that, speaking on the phone once or twice a month. He told me he had a box of photos and things to send to me, but I never got it (I am now told Helen has it, and I am hoping I can get her to ship it to me...if it still or ever existed at all). He was planning to come visit me in the fall, and just weeks before his death had told Mitchell to cancel all this travel plans, as he wasn't feeling well and was unsure he could make it.

That last big fight we had, I will never forget. I was angry at him for drinking so much. I had heard rumors he was participating in "pharming parties," which are parties where people swap prescription medicines. Exasperated, I snapped, "Do you want that little girl [my niece] to find you dead someday?"

And that's exactly what happened.

I miss him. We spent so much of our lives in contention with one another. And there is no denying that he made my childhood a living hell. But I still miss him.

No matter what else, he was my father. I loved him, and I'll never let my kids forget him.

Rest in peace, Daddy.

Happy Birthday, Phoenix!

2010-05-06T05:30:00.000-07:00

Today is my son Phoenix's 17th birthday.

Happy birthday, kid. I love you.

The Email, and My Reply

2010-04-28T20:54:00.000-07:00

I received an email a few days ago, which I tweeted about and talked about on Facebook. I hadn't intended to reply to it, but today, I reconsidered.

The email came from someone using the name of a character in a very old movie and a statue of Jesus as an avatar. There are no friends (other than Tom, of course), and the address is something like "tryingtofindproofofalie" or something along that line. WARNING: I have not clicked on any of the links, including the YouTube ones, and don't reccomend anyone else do so, either.

Here is the email, sent to me on Myspace:

To: Zen Angel

Joh 8:44
"You are of [your] father the devil, and you want to do the desires of your father. He was a murderer from the beginning, and does not stand in the truth, because there is no truth in him. Whenever he speaks a lie, he speaks from his own [nature]; for he is a liar, and the father of lies.
Joh 8:55
and you have not come to know Him, but I know Him; and if I say that I do not know Him, I shall be a liar like you, but I do know Him, and keep His word.
Rev 21:8
"But for the cowardly and unbelieving and abominable and murderers and immoral persons and sorcerers and idolaters and all liars, their part [will be] in the lake that burns with fire and brimstone, which is the second death."
Mat 3:2
"Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand."
Act 2:38
And Peter [said] to them, "Repent, and let each of you be baptized in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins; and you shall receive the gift of the Holy Spirit.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EwFy0D1dbzU

And here was my reply:

I am sorry for any hurt that has come to your life as a result of my father. But taking it out on me isn't going to make you feel any better. I know he hurt a lot of people, but he was still my dad and I loved him. If you open your heart and mind a little past your own hurt, you would surely realize that my childhood could not have been an easy one, and there are people out there who he has hurt perhaps far more than he hurt you.

My father is gone now. Now is the time to remember not the Bible verses about evil, but the ones about forgiveness. Trust me on this, you won't be able to move on until you first forgive. And if you don't forgive, all the Bible verses in the world are meaningless for you. Your heart will still be clouded with hurt and hate...the kind of hurt and hate that leads a person to write unkind emails to the disabled daughter of a recently-dead man.

I hope you get the help you need, and that someday, you can write to me with your real name and not a profile you created to lash out from a deep pain. You might be surprised. But even if I never hear from you again, I hope you someday find peace.

May God bless you and yours.

I meant every word of it. I hope whoever this was really does find some peace, and gets some help. Am I angry? I was, at first. No need to lie. But honestly? I expected comments, I expected backlash, from the moment I knew my father was gone. My whole life, I've had to hear nasty things about my dad, and people telling me (often in great detail), how much they hated him and wished him ill. I'd have to be a blind fool not to realize that he had his enemies and he'd done people wrong. I only had to look at my own mother to know that.

But none of that really matters anymore. He's gone. He was my dad, and I loved him very much. My kids loved him. I have siblings and their kids, who are in pain and in mourning, too. I understand the anger and hurt that could lead someone to send me such an email. What I hope from them, and from anyone else considering it, is for them to try to understand the hurt I am feeling, too.

No one deserved to be hurt by him, or anyone. But by taking it out on me...are you really any better?

RIP, Lisa

2010-04-28T20:02:00.000-07:00

I wasn't going to blog about this right now, but after my last post, I received a lot of textx and emails with one simple question, requesting one rather important detail I left out...which sister?

On April 17th, my sister Lisa passed away. She had severe cerebral palsy. She never walked, never talked, and was blind from birth. Doctors said she'd die before the age of six. She was 33.

Lisa was a bright and shining star in what was otherwise a cruel and unfair universe. I don't think any of my siblings--and this includes the myriad of half and stepsiblings--would call our childhoods anything other than a nightmare. It's something that never really leaves you, and while you're living it, it taints and stains everything and everyone you're associated with.

Everyone, except Lisa.

Lisa was beautiful and sweet. She loved my father and her mother deeply, as well as her twin brother. Our family dog, Bear, appointed himself her protector and especially in his last years, rarely left her side. She couldn't speak, but had her own way of communicating that those of us close to her understood. She was, in many ways, like a baby: she had a cry for hungry, a smile and a laugh for happy, and so on. As a teenager, she attended the special ed classes at Centerville High School and an after-school program through United Cerebral Palsy. She loved school, and would get so excited while waiting for the bus to come.

As she got older, her health deteriorated. She began having seizures. My father and stepmother eventually had to hire home healthcare workers to help. I have nothing but gratitude for Martha and Shiva, who cared for Lisa so long and so well.

After the death of my stepmother, she was placed into a nursing home. It is where she lived, these last few years. She needed 24-hour care. It was beyond the capabilities of my stepbrothers. I have been estranged from them for years, but I know they must have agonized over the decision. In the end, love of Lisa was the only thing we all had in common.

I will miss her laugh. I will miss how much she loved strawberry sundaes, never guessing we often hid her much-loathed medication inside. I will miss her.

I take great comfort in the knowledge that she is back with her mother and my father, and now, she can run and dance and tell them all the things she never could before.

She is now an angel. But then again, she always was.

When It Rains...

2010-04-28T17:54:00.000-07:00

My dad died March 26th.

My sister died April 17th.

I'll write about both...when I can.

Right now, my heart is too heavy...

Putting the Rumors to Rest

2010-04-20T05:40:00.000-07:00

I haven't lived in Ohio in nearly 14 years...but there are still rumors flying around about me. I know there isn't much to do in Dayton, but honestly, people. Get a hobby.

Having to go back for my father's funeral, I heard a whole lot of them. Some of them seem to be quite persistant. So, I'm putting the matter to rest.

If you've heard any of these rumors...well, here's the truth:

1) IAN.
I never dated him. We were just friends. I have not laid eyes on him since I was pregnant with my 13-year-old. If he was in Portland a few years ago, I was not aware of it and I did not speak with him or see him.

2) MY MARRAIGE.
Contrary to a rather popular rumor, my marriage is very much intact. We have never been separated, nor have we ever sought a divorce. We've been married for almost 13 years, and we lived together for years before that. My husband has never moved out, and we never had a "break" during which I dated someone else. I know the stories going around are far more steamy and interesting than the truth, but what can I say? I'm a married mom of three. And quite happy to be so, thank you very much.

3) MY ILLNESS.
I have secondary-progressive multiple sclerosis and MS-related trigemial neuralgia. It's not a walk in the park by any means, but depsite what you may have heard, I am most certainly not on my deathbed. Most days I can walk with a cane, others I use my scooter. For anyone who is actually interested in my fight against MS and what my life with it is like, I invite them to read my blog, The Zen Pretzel Trick, at zenpretzeltrick.blogspot.com. I also routinely give "MS Updates" on my Twitter account @ZenAngelSinger. You can also learn about MS in general by looking up the local National MS Society chapter in your area. I am very open about my fight with MS, and I am happy to answer questions.

4) MY FATHER'S DEATH.
My father passed away last month. I have heard of a rumor that he was shot or that foul play was involved. Again, the rumors are far more interesting than the truth. The truth is, my father was an alcoholic and a diabetic, and those two don't go very well together. I am not saying my father was never shot; those who know our family well are quite aware that my father had been shot at least 3 times over the years. Which leads me to the next rumor: that my father had bullet fragments that "exploded" while he was being cremated, or that he couldn't be cremated because he had said bullet fragments. Yes, my father had bullet fragments in his body. The funeral home and crematorium were very much aware of this and we were assured that there would be no problem, and there wasn't. He was cremated, and nothing exploded or had to be removed from his body in order to accomplish that.

This is a particularly difficult time for me and my family, and these ridiculous rumors only add to the pain and loss we are all experiencing. I know damn near everyone likes to gossip every now and again, but please, let this one be. I have kids, as do my siblings, who are trying to come to terms with the sudden and unexpected death of their grandfather and they do not deserve to hear this garbage. Let my father rest in peace, and let his family mourn him without having to answer such odious and inappropriate rumors.

Thank you.

---Angel

An Announcement

2010-03-27T21:46:00.000-07:00

My father was found dead in his home this morning.

I am devastated.

I don't know if I won't post for 3 weeks or post every 3 hours for the next few days.

I lost my mom in '98.

I am 35 years old...

...So why do I feel orphaned?

MTV: Big, BIG FAIL!

2010-03-26T22:24:00.000-07:00

MTV's series, "True Life," is a series of mini-documentaries showcasing the lives of ordinary people as they deal with the extraordinary in their lives. Last year, I watched the episode on teens & young adults with Tourette's Syndrome; my husband and daughter both have the disease. I have since seen a few other episodes, and in general, the producers approach difficult subject matter in a sensitive annd meaningful way. It is a welcome departure from a network that has otherwise subjected us to such goodies as "Jersey Shore" and the un-real "Real World." I admired and applauded them for the effort.

But now? I have to simply scratch my head in wonderment at the singularly boneheaded move they've made. It's a brain fart of such tremendous proportions, I have to wonder who exactly dropped the ball here and why nobody at the network noticed it. It is a FAIL of damn near epic proportions.

They produced a show about the lives of deaf children and their families. This is good.

They didn't caption it. This is bad.

Let that sink in for a moment: they created a program highlighting the joys and struggles of the world of young people who are hearing impaired. These same young people, and others like them, will not be able to view said program, because MTV failed to use closed captioning.

MTV? What the hell?

It is ridiculous that this, of all programs, is NOT captioned! It almost smacks of exploiting the participants. If nothing else, it's delibrately excluding them from a project they took part in, believing that MTV cared about deaf persons enough to devote an entire episode of this otherwise great series to their lives. They cared enough to film them, but not enough to make sure they themselves can enjoy the finished project. It's hard to fathom.

I am hard of hearing. I am mostly deaf in one ear (I use a hearing aid), and partially deaf in the other. I rely on captions, as do the many millions like me who are hard of hearing or deaf. I would like to see this episode. But unless they fix their mistake and caption the thing, I'll be forced to pass.

I urge everyone to enlighten MTV about their insensitive and mind-numbingly ignorant mistake. On Twitter, they are @MTV.

MTV: this was a big, big FAIL on your part. Do the right thing, and caption the program so that everyone can enjoy it...

...especially those who agreed to take part in it.

Thanks to Marlee Matlin, who brought this issue to my attention via Twitter. I urge everyone to watch her new Internet series about a deaf family. I assure you, it's captioned!

Death of a Lost Boy

2010-03-10T18:21:00.000-08:00

RIP Corey Haim. My infamous hatred for Feldman didn't extend to you, the Corey my little sister had a crush on. All those teen mag posters on the walls of "her side" of the room we shared. The smiling face of a lost boy.

A Warning to My Readers & Friends

2010-01-03T02:28:00.000-08:00

This is a long post, but a very important one. If you don't want to read it all, please skip ahead to the part of the post in red font:
that is the warning itself. PLEASE READ IT.

This is a subject I have very purposefully avoided talking about on this blog. Part of me felt that it would detract from my main function here, which is to bluntly and frankly disclose a life with multiple sclerosis. Another part of me felt that the best policy was to remain silent, to not "feed the fire" as it were.

And then, last night, I was watching a re-run of "Law & Order: SVU" when Detective Olivia Benson (played by the lovely Mariska Hargitay) said something that struck close to my heart. I don't have the exact quote, but the gist was this: stalking is almost never prosecuted unless it escalates to violence. And millions of people are being stalked in America today.

It's time for me to stop worrying about "feeding the fire," and stop using the excuse that this is an MS blog. It's more than that; it's a testimony of MY life. And part of my life is this reality:

For almost seventeen years, I've been a victim of stalking.

He's an old boyfriend, someone I dated when I was quite young. I'll call him "Adam."

I dated Adam years and years ago. Towards the end of that relationship, I began to notice some changes in Adam's behavior. Changes that raised serious red flags for me, because I had seen it all before: my older brother is schizophrenic. I remember very well, the slow and painful descent into mental illness my brother endured. And now, Adam was going through it, too.

I don't want to get into too many details. It was all so long ago, and I am quite private about much of it. What I will say is that by the time it was all over, I had been abused in numerous ways and even had my life threatened more than once. The laws in those days were unhelpful or nonexistent. I had police officers ask me what I had done to "provoke" Adam. And when he began to follow me everywhere I went, when he began to call over and over again, there was nothing they could or would do about it.

So my husband, kids and I moved 2500 miles away. It took him a year to find me. My life since has been an endless round of court appearances, restraining orders, stalking orders, detailing phone calls and filing away police business cards. It should be said that the police in Portland have been just wonderful to me, so helpful and kind. But as Adam is a transient, and purposefully puts nothing in his name (and often goes by an alias), prosecuting him has been difficult. Even serving him with a restraining order is an almost impossible task. He is arrested frequently in other states, but often let go before anyone knows he's wanted elsewhere. It is frustrating, for me and for the good detectives who have worked my case over the years.

Now here comes the warning...

My stalker has shown up again. He emailed my son, sent me a message through Facebook, and has attempted to contact several of my friends and relatives. "Adam's" account is now gone. This does not, of course, keep him from creating dummy accounts or enlisting help to continue to harass me and my family.

Adam is very charming, and very manipulative. He is a master at making you believe the two of you are great friends, and then spinning a sob story to get you to talk to me on his behalf.

If anyone contacts you, wanting info about me, PLEASE let me know so I can inform the police. If it's electronically, copy & paste it and email it to me. Do not engage him or respond to him; it is not worth it. Do not believe his stories. They are engineered to take advantage of well-meaning people with big hearts. You should also know that it is a violation of the restraining and stalking orders for him to contact me through third persons. It's against the law for you to do so; again, he is not worth it. Despite what he says, he is not interested in my forgiveness. He just wants to have contact with me, to continue to harass me and my family.

My friends and family have to have private accounts on social networks because of him. The sacrificies we have all had to make, because of him, are too numerous to count.

I considered taking down this blog, and then decided against it. I have given up too much already, for him. I think about the people who have contacted me because of this blog, who are going through the initial stages of MS and just want some support or guidance. I think about how freeing it is, to be able to share here, to vent sometimes. He's taken enough from me. I have drawn the line. I hope I don't regret it.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. I refuse to let this aspect of my life become the focal point, and I hope it's the last time I have to post about it. As always, prayers and good-wishes are welcomed.

My In-Laws Are Visiting...For 11 LONG Days

2009-12-05T20:52:00.000-08:00

In-laws: your punishment for enjoying sex with their offspring.

Why Don't You Celebrate Thanksgiving? An Essay

2009-11-28T01:29:00.000-08:00

I post this here on the ZPT every year.

Have a wonderful day---whether you celebrate Thanksgiving or not.

A disclaimer: read the warning first.

If you don't, I'm not responsible if you get offended.

Hell, I'm not responsible if you get offended either way.....

BEFORE YOU READ THIS, A WARNING:
Do not read this if you will be offended by a different point of view on the Thanksgiving holiday.

I am not here to preach to anyone and have no desire to ruin anyone's concept

of the holiday (and the quotes at the end are intended to be humorous, nothing more).

I am posting this only because I am personally of the belief that knowledge hidden is knowledge wasted.

Thanks in advance.
*****************************

WHY DON'T YOU CELEBRATE THANKSGIVING?

Over the last few days, I have been asked this a dozen times or more. It happens every year. My reply that I am a Native American only seems to confuse some of

the questioners. "Well, it's your holiday, too," I hear quite often. My answer:

it is not my holiday.

And here is why.

The traditional Thanksgiving story tells that the Pilgrims, after a long and hard winter, celebrated with a feast and invited their Indian friends. A nice story,

to be sure. But not the whole story. That story is a mixture of both truth and myth. What follows, is our truth (just a note: there is another version of a Thanksgiving which

has nothing to do with Pilgrims. Click here for the story of the Pequot Tribe massacre and the feasting that the Mass. Bay Colony declared to celebrate it).

First of all, one must understand that the Pilgrims were a splinter group of the Puritans, an extremist religious sect. They viewed themselves as the "Chosen Elect" from Revelations. They saw themselves as fighting a Holy war against Satan, and anyone who disagreed with them was their enemy. This inculded their "friends," the Natives. In fact, in the 1623 Thanksgiving sermon, they gave thanks to God for the smallpox that had nearly wiped out all of the Wampanoag Indians. They were especially thankful that the men and children had died, or the "seeds" of their nation. Not a particularly nice way to treat peoples who helped them survive that first winter in the "New" World. For without the help of the Natives, the Pilgrims would have died. Insofar as the Pilgrims were concerned, they had "repaid" that kindness with the feast, and owed the Natives nothing more. The

Natives were still their Holy enemies, to be treated as such. In fact, the Pilgrims believed that they only had to be kind to the Natives because they were, at that time, powerful; and only needed to continue being kind until the boatloads of settlers shifted the balance of power in the Pilgrims' favor. Anyone with even a rudimentary understanding of American history realizes that that is exactly what happened.

Which leads one to a question with an ironic answer: "Why did the Natives help the Pilgrims?" Because, in their religion, one must give hospitality to any who came to them with open hands, and their religion stressed charity to the helpless. In fact, it was the Natives who brought the vast majority of the food to that first Thanksgiving feast! The Pilgrims weren't "sharing their bounty." It was the other way around.

By the time the children of that first Thanksgiving reached adulthood, the Pilgrims and their reinforcements began to systmatically commit genocide against the Native peoples in a war known as King Phillip's War. Many Natives were also captured and sold into slavery for the profit of the Pilgrims whom they had saved from starvation only years before. So successful was this slave trade, in fact, that the settlers began raiding Africa to bring slaves to the "New" World.

To add insult to injury, children in schools have for generations been prompted to "re-enact" that first feast by donning gross misrepresentations of Native ceremonial clothing and speaking in broken English in order to pretend be the "Indians" who are "thankful" to be invited to the feast! These "costumes" and broken English stereotypes are highly offensive to Native Americans, and many schools now are discontinuing such programs as a result, or altering them into a more tolerant program.

Many Natives celebrate a "Day Of Mourning" on Thanksgiving Day, to mourn our ancestors who were killed for their generosity (I am not one who does this, although I respect those who do).

So, to wrap it up: in our version of the first Thanksgiving, we helped the Pilgrims survive that first horrible winter in the "New World." We even brought a great deal of food to a feast to celebrate. Once the feast was over, we discovered that our "friends" saw us as demons to be eradicated from the land or sold into

slavery for their profit. Shiploads upon shiploads of the "white man" came to make good on the promise to commit genocide against us. Our religious beliefs prompted us to help them; theirs promted them to kill us. The sad irony of the myth that the Pilgrims "escaped" England because of religious persecution does not escape us (That story is not exactly true, either. Click here for a more accurate history of the Pilgrims.).

So I cannot, in good conscience, celebrate a holiday that in my mind is a lie. I cannot celebrate the decimation of the Native American. I cannot celebrate people who, if they had had their way, would rather I not exist at all.

To be fair, Thanksgiving has evolved into something far beyond what the

Pilgrims celebrated. Now, it means a gathering of the family, and a chance to count one's blessings. I respect those who celebrate for those reasons, and wish them a happy holiday.

I wish our side of the story was taught in schools, rather than perpetuate the myths. I wish that Thanksgiving could be a time when Americans remember and honor the Native peoples who helped them survive and made this country possible. Perhaps someday, it will.
************************

I'd like to wrap up this posting with a quote from the movie, "Addams Family Values":

"Wait, we can not break bread with you. You have taken the land which is rightfully ours. Years

from now my people will be forced to live in mobile homes on reservations. Your people will wear cardigans, and drink highballs. We will sell our bracelets by the road sides, and you will play

golf, and eat hot hors d'ourves. My people will have pain and degradation. Your people will have stick shifts. The gods of my tribe have spoken.

They said do not trust the pilgrims, especially Sarah Miller. And for all of these reasons I have decided to scalp you and burn your village to the ground."

And one from the television show, "King of the Hill":

Dale: "Do your people even celebrate Thanksgiving?"

John Red Corn: "We did...once."

And finally, one from a Wampanoag Tribal member in Massachusetts, from a speech given in 1970 at a ceremony marking the 350th anniversary of the Pilgrim's arrival:

"Today is a time of celebrating for you -- a time of looking back to the first days of white people in America. But it is not a time of celebrating for me. It is with a heavy heart that I look back upon what happened to my People. When the Pilgrims arrived, we, the Wampanoags, welcomed them with open arms, little knowing that it was the beginning of the end. That before 50 years were to pass, the Wampanoag would no longer be a tribe. That we and other Indians living near the settlers would be killed by their guns or dead from diseases that we caught from them. Let us always remember, the Indian is and was just as human as the white people. Although our way of life is almost gone, we, the Wampanoags, still walk the lands of Massachusetts. What has happened cannot be changed. But today we work toward a better America, a more Indian America where people

and nature once again are important."

Have a blessed day.

New Beginning

2009-10-14T21:11:00.000-07:00

My husband was fired today. Without warning or notice, and as far as we can tell, without cause. In six months, I will be uninsured.

We should be panicking. Crying. Scared witless.

We aren't.

It may sound strange, but we feel like this is not an ending, but a beginning. God is working in our lives, and we feel it quite strongly.

Prayers, as always, are greatly appreciated.

Zen Angel on Twitter!

2009-10-06T03:02:00.000-07:00

Yes, ZPT fans...I'm also on Twitter now. Hit me up @ZenAngelSinger!

Shocking! Nerve Pain, MS and Me

2009-09-30T21:31:00.000-07:00

Last night, I found myself in a familiar place: Shock Treatment. Gimme Gimme Shock Treatment? A great song, to be sure...but not a great facet of the MonSter.

"Shock Treatment" is how I refer to a common and very aggrivating symptom of multiple sclerosis: nerve pain. Mine is always centered on the right side of my body. This is not unusual; many (if not most) people with MS have a "problem side," where the vast majority of their symptoms reside. Mine has, from the beginning, been my right side. My trigeminal neuralgia is on the right side of my face. My leg spasms are almost always in my right leg; that's also the leg that has lost a great deal of nerve sensation, a sort of mini-paralysis. I use a cane because of my right leg. When I have optic neuritis, it's my right eye I can't see out of. When I get kidney stones, they are invariably coming from the right kidney. See a pattern?

Oddly enough, when I was 12 it was discovered that I am nearly deaf in one ear. You guessed it! My right one.

So it's no surprise that when I suffer from Shock Treatment, it's my right leg, arm, hand, foot and the right side of my ribs & lower back that gets the honors.

Shock Treatment feels pretty much the way it sounds: sharp, unexpected electrical shocks. They generally last only a second or so apiece, but they tend to occur in clusters, shocking me over & over & over. Sometimes, the shocks are mild and little more than annoying. At other times, they are so bad my body jerks uncontrollably and I cry out.

The worst nerve pain, of course, is the bane of my existance: trigeminal neuralgia. It is the great-grandaddy of all Shocks. Relentless, debilitating pain in the face. There is a reason why it is considered the worst chronic pain condition known to man. It is the heavyweight champion, more than willing to defend its title against all comers.

Back to last night...Jonathan and I were spending some much-needed time together. May through September is the busy season for his work, and it's not uncommon for him to work 14-16 hour days, 6-7 days a week, during these months. To make matters worse, the house we rented was, without any warning to us whatsoever, foreclosed. Through the grace of God we found a new home almost immediately, only three blocks away. While it was great to find this place (which is just amazing) so quickly and so nearby, moving is naturally stressful and time-consuming. Thanks to the still-too-warm temperatures the past month, I have not been of any great help moving. As a result of all this...my husband and I haven't spent a lot of time with one another. Now that the move is practically done, the busy season is winding down and the weather is cooling off, we're trying to make up for lost time.

The MonSter, however, does not respect romantic inclinations. Shortly after we put the girls to bed, Shock Treatment began to rear its ugly head. The Shocks began just above my right ankle, a tender area for this particular activity. As the night wore on, the Shocks became more unpleasant, more frequent and worse: they were migrating North for winter. By the time my upper arm was being bombarded, I began to worry about what might lie ahead: another painful bout of trigeminal neuralgia.

Now I was in a pickle. It was late. Did I eat and take a pain pill in hopes of warding off the TN? That tactic has no gaurentee of success. It also runs the risk of the nausea becoming so bad, I end up vomitting and causing the TN on my own. There was even the very distinct possibility that the act of eating in and of itself would make the TN appear. What to do, what to do.

I waited another hour. Still Shocks, but no TN. They had climbed back down to my upper leg & hip, and seemed very content to be there. I decided not to take a pill.

If my life was a game show, that would be the moment when the door I chose opened up to reveal a donkey. Or a goose. Or anything, except the prize I was hoping for.

The Shocks did in fact reach my face, a few hours later. And they did so out of the blue, and at full force. I choked down some food, which naturally made the pain worse, and took a pill.

Now comes The Waiting. As in, Waiting For the Pill To Kick In Oh Please Let It Kick In Soon. I spend a lot of my life Waiting.

The pill kicked in. And it wasn't enough. I take another. More Waiting, please. Boy, do I love to get seconds.

An hour later, and the pain had not subsided. If I take another pill, I will most definately be sick. And I'm in so much pain, if I get sick, I will end up in the hospital.

So I Wait some more.

By 5 AM, I was so exhausted I fell into a fitful sleep. Five hours later, I was wide awake. The Shocks were back, and so was the TN. It was very much as if they too had taken a short respite, and now that they were refreshed, they could attack me with renewed vigor and purpose.

I ate. I took a pill. I started The Waiting all over again.

Rinse and repeat. This is how I spent all of yesterday. And it's how I am spending the night. As I write this, it is 2:35 AM. The Shocks, for the moment, are gone. Perhaps they watched the TN torture me today and scurried off, knowing their better when they see it. Bow to your sensei, Shock Treatment.

And so I Wait. Will I be able to break the pain, or will I have to go to the ER? Will I be able to hold on until the doctor's office opens? Can I avoid throwing up, and what should I/can I eat to accomplish that goal? And if I do eat, how much worse will that make it? Why is it that I must eat to take pills to kill the pain, but if I eat to take pills to kill the pain the act of eating will make the pain worse?

And the most pressing question: will I ruin my husband's birthday today?

New Horizons

2009-09-26T17:07:00.000-07:00

I'm attempting to blog via my new BlackBerry. If this pans out, I'll be able to blog more often. It can be hard for me to update when I can't physically sit at my computer. Fingers crossed!

A Difficult Week

2009-07-28T03:05:00.000-07:00

Temperatures are in the triple-digits here in Portland, which is not good news for people with heat-reactive MS, like me. It only compounds what was already a difficult time for me: my mother's 55th birthday was Friday, and the 11th anniversary of her death was Sunday.

Stay out of the heat, y'all....

Tin God Syndrome: The Hit-and-Run Doctor

2009-07-13T20:20:00.000-07:00

If you haven't read the post below...I have had two run-ins with Tin Gods in the past few months. The one below, the Doomsday Doctor, is a thankfully rare beast.

This one, the Hit-and-Run Doctor, is not.

It is possible that Hit-and-Run Doctors are the most common of all forms of Tin God Syndrome. It is very rare that a person with a chronic health issue doesn't have a run-in with at least one, and usually far more than that. Of all the Tin God stories I hear, H&R Docs are the most common.

My story begins about a month ago. Summer started early in Portland this year, and temperatures were at near-record highs. Not good news for those of us, like myself, who suffer from heat-reactive disorders. All you can do is embrace the central air and cope with the symptoms with liberal doses of medication & good-old fashioned North Carolina sweet tea (of which I am an expert).

I've had MS now for well over a decade. My most hated symptom is not pain. It's not the loss of mobility. It's nausea. I absolutely loathe being nauseated. And while I cope with mobility issues rather stoicly, and I have a high threshold for pain which goes a long way towards dealing with that unpleasant aspect of MS...I am a giant crybaby about nausea. I am the least likely person on earth to become bullimic: the idea that anyone FORCES themselves to vomit is just beyond my ability to comprehend.*

It's just my bad luck that every summer, the Nausea Fairy comes to visit me in force. I have tried damn near every medication on the market. Phenergan worked well for me for years, but it's now to the point that in order to take enough of it to be effective, it turns me into a complete zombie. I almost enjoyed watching Rock of Love on it once. It's that bad.** One of the medications I tried last year was Reglan. I used it for about three days, and it was ineffective. I was switched to Zofran, which works very well (and the pills are super-tiny, making them very easy to swallow when you're feeling sick to your tummy---I'd like to shake the hand of the scientist who realized that). I put the remainder of the Reglan away in a box, and promptly forgot about it.

Fast-forward to last month: I was suffering severe pain and terrible nausea. And wouldn't you know it: I ran out of Zofran, and the pharmacy was closed. Desperate, I checked the medicine box and found the long-forgotten Reglan. I called the doctor on call (I had begun taking one different med since the last time I was on Reglan, and I wanted to be sure it wasn't counterindicated). I got the go-ahead, and took the pill. Within 20 minutes, I was nausea-free.

Since the Zofran is rather expensive, and the Reglan was working, I continued to take it for the next week. The only side-effect were some vivid and disturbing nightmares, but I can deal with nightmares. Nausea, not so much.

Then one day, I woke up and just felt WRONG. I couldn't immediately put my finger on it: but I knew something was up. As the day progressed, so did the feeling. But now, it was accompanied by some startling symptoms: terrible anxiety; confusion; tremors in my hands; a sensation of being freezing cold (during a very hot summer afternoon); a loss of appetite; and a tightening in my chest, face & jaw that was causing my TN pain to go into overdrive. I called the doctor, and waited for a call back.

While I waited...all hell broke loose.

I began to sweat, while still feeling freezing cold. My heart was racing and pounding, the anxiety went from mild to overwhelming, and it was coupled with a debilitating sense of paranoia. I couldn't cope. I began to have a panic attack...which is not like me in the least. Most people who know me would describe me as a calm person, and at that moment, I was the least calm person in the known universe. I felt like I was going crazy. I didn't feel like me at all.

The doctor called back, and told me that this sounded like a "known and not uncommon" (WTH?) bad reaction to Reglan, and I needed to go to the ER right away. By the time my husband raced home from work to take me, I was rolled up in a ball in a corner of the bed under three blankets, shaking and crying uncontrollably, startled out of my wits by the slightest movement or noise (confusing the hell out of the cat), trying desperately not to scream because I knew, with what little sanity I had left, that if I started screaming I would not be able to stop.

When I got to the hospital, I was almost immediately taken back to triage, where another startling symptom came to light: my blood pressure was sky-high. I have never had high blood pressure in my life, having dealt with the opposite for much of my life. I was then overcome by the need to not go back into the waiting room with all the people in it. I begged the triage nurse not to send me back out there. I cried, I pleaded. I had no rational reason for it; I was far beyond being rational at that point. I just knew I did not have it in me to face that room full of people. I just couldn't do it. The startled nurse called a doctor in, a very kind woman who took me by the hand and told me, "I know you think you're going crazy, but you're not." She gave me 2 Benadryl (the first and only time I've ever been given meds in the triage room) and told me that they'd take me back to a private room right away, and I'd be ok.

If only she'd remained my treating physician!

I was left alone for about 20 minutes, to see if the Benadryl would work. It didn't. A nurse came in, got that information, and went to get the doctor.

By the time H&R arrived, my husband Jonathan was there with me and I was once again crying uncontrollably. I was also feeling very sick to my stomach. My husband helped me to explain what was going on. As soon as he heard "pain," his demeanor completely changed. I'm accustomed to this, but usually the change is skepticism, annoyance, or rarely, pity. But this time, it was more like...fear. Reticence. Maybe even cowardice. I thought perhaps it was the paranoia, but my husband noticed it as well. I didn't much care; as long as he made this nightmare stop, he could be as fraidy-cat as he wanted to be. Besides, I didn't want any pain meds at that point. I just wanted not to go insane.

Over the next few hours, I got an EEG (I have a very minor inherited heart condition) and had some blood taken (which didn't go well; I have very bad veins, and they couldn't get much blood from me before the only vein they could locate collapsed). Before the nurse left, I told her the Benadryl was not working. I was worried that if these symptoms continued for much longer, I would have a serious attack of the trigeminal neuralgia as a result of this tight-jaw business. I asked to see my doctor.

The doctor did not arrive, another nurse did...with a cup. Oh, great. Another drug test! And I wasn't even in there asking for pain meds. I just wanted to be able to stop crying and hiding under the sheets!

I took the test. And asked to see my doctor right away.

Time went by, and the tightening in my chest & jaw became markedly worse. This did not help either my TN or my panic. When next the nurse came to check on me, my husband told her I was in pain and needed help. The Benadryl had not worked. I was getting worse, and the anxiety was overwhelming. The nurse wrote on a dry erase board that my "top concerns" were anxiety, nausea and pain. I asked to see the doctor. Again.

Finally, in comes the doctor. He sees the board and looks like he's going to have a panic attack himself! He seems to be barely able to speak. We talked to him, he murmured. I couldn't understand him; it was like trying to decipher the lyrics of an early R.E.M. song. It's the end of the what as you know it? Well, I don't feel fine!

I told him I felt I needed something for this anxiety, for the nausea, and yes, I now needed something for the dreaded "p" word. He asked me if I had any of my pain medication with me. No, I had left home in a terrible state, and for the first time since I was 14, without a pocketbook. He quite visibly paled. You would have thought I was asking him to remove a thorn from the paw of that tiger who mauled Seigfried. It was then that I put two-and-two together: this was a Hit & Run Doc! Oh, joy. I'm losing my mind, and I have the bastard child of the Cowardly Lion and Speed Racer for a treating physician.

The only semi-effective way of dealing with H&R Docs is to corner them: insist they make a decision, right there and then, that they deal with your symptoms (if you let them go "look something up," or "discuss this with a colleage," you'll probably never see them again). I told him I needed this disaster to be over: NOW. I had done nothing to precipitate this. My pain was not a matter of my having eaten nachos or stood outside in the wind or put on blush. I took a medication that one doctor prescribed, and another ok'd me to take. The reaction was a KNOWN AND NOT UNCOMMON one (I'm still trying to get over that morsel of information). I passed your little drug test, so what exactly is the issue here, H&R???

The problem with backing H&R Docs into that corner is that those doctors with the more advanced form of H&R will always respond in the exact same way: they will lie. To your face. With the guile of the junkie they not-so-secretly fear you are.

This one had it bad. And so he lied, and told me he'd send a nurse in right away with some medication for me. He confirmed that my "top concerns" were anxiety, pain and nausea. He asked me what I "usually take" for a bad TN attack, and what the dosage was. He even wrote it down, the deceitful thing. And off he went!

The nurse came back with something called Cogentin: a medication to end the bad reaction. I asked her if this would address pain or nausea. No. Of course not. I sighed, took the meds, and asked to see H&R, knowing full well the likelyhood of seeing that guy again was about the same as my finding Hoffa buried under the petunias in my backyard.

Time moves on, and I wasn't feeling much better. I told this to the nurse, and asked (again) to see the doctor. Instead, she returned with another dose of the Cogentin. I was not in the least surprised. Tellingly, neither was the nurse. Twenty minutes after that...the panic was gone. I stopped crying. I felt more like myself again! But the damage was done---I was in a full-blown TN attack. When the nurse returned (no H&R! What a shock!), she told me she was "having difficulty locating" H&R. "Anxiety" was removed from the dry-erase board. "Pain and nausea" were all that remained.

By this time, Jonathan had become exasperated, and went home to retrieve my pain meds. I took two Oxycodone, and waited for H&R to reappear. I was very worried about the nausea getting worse, as I had no medications for that save the Reglan, and I sure as hell wasn't about to take THAT stuff again!

We waited. And waited. And waited. The pain subsided. The nausea, thankfully, did not get worse. I got dressed. I just wanted to go home.

And then, some unpleasant news. That tiny little amount of blood they took from me? It clotted. They would have to try again. I refused. I had been stuck now, repeatedly, in both hands. They found one vein, and that obviously was inadequete and in any event, couldn't be used again. I was already bruised, badly, from it. I was gaurenteed site reactions. I was exhausted, I was embarassed by how I had behaved in the triage while under the effects of that bad reaction and I just
wanted to go home. I had had enough.

The nurse argued with me, but it was no use. I wasn't going to budge. I wasn't always that way. Once, I let an ER stick me eleven times, quite literally from my hands to my feet, trying to find blood. They didn't get a drop. I was in agony from site reactions for so long, I went to my doctor to see if there was a cream or home remedy or something I could try to give me some relief. She chewed me out instead. "If they don't find anything in three sticks, they aren't going to find anything," she told me. "Tell them NO. You have the right to do it; exercise it." So I did.

The nurse was seriously unhappy with me. "I wonder if H&R will show up now!" I asked Jonathan.

He did. But not to admonish me over the blood work: I was being discharged. I had underestimated the level of H&R Tin God Syndrome this guy had. It was so bad in him, that even the hint of an argumentative patient was enough to terrify. I had to go.

He never asked me if my pain or my nausea were any better, or worse. Not once.

I don't know which was more stressful: the bad reaction to Reglan, or being subjected to yet another unfortunate "victim" of Tin God Syndrome while having it.

UPDATE: I was given three days of the Cogentin, but it was inadequete. My doctor upped the dosage and I took them for another week. I am, for the most part, fine now. I do have a lasting, low-level anxiety that I can't seem to shake. Two days ago, I went to the clinic and got a prescription for an SSRI to combat it...via yet another new Tin God! I am attracting them like MAGNETS these days. The feast, after the famine. I will share that story soon...

*Please don't send me hate email or comments on this. I am not making light, nor am I showing intolerance of, eating disorders. My aunt has suffered through an eating disorder for decades, and I have seen firsthand the devastation it causes not only to her but to her family as well. My heart goes out to anyone battling an eating disorder, and to their loved ones.
**I am, however, making light of Rock of Love. My heart goes out to anyone who is forced to watch it, and their loved ones. And to the poor soul who does Bret Michael's hair extensions. We're down with
your struggle, buddy.

Tin God Syndrome: The Doomsday Doctor

2009-07-09T22:43:00.000-07:00

It has been a long time indeed since I have run into another physician with the dreaded Tin God Syndrome. I attribute this extraordinary good luck to 2 things: the steady and reliable care of Dr. Fetus (my PCP), and the fact that the Methadone has all but kept me out of the ER for TN pain for almost 3 years. As I have learned all too well, nothing brings on the symptoms of Tin God Syndrome in a physician quite like the chronic pain patient. It's like a person with allergies: they are just fine until they get stung by a bee, and then things go horribly wrong.

However, in the last few months I have been in the ER twice, for 2 completely different reasons & ran into 2 completely different Tin Gods: the one you'll read about here now (the Doomsday Doctor), and the one you'll read about above tomorrow (The Hit-and-Run Doc).

TIN GOD SYNDROME:

THE DOOMSDAY DOCTOR

Several months ago, I woke up to stabbing pain in my lower right quadrant. I sighed deeply: not another kidney stone or ovarian cyst! I called the clinic, but no one was available to see me. I was told to go to the ER. I chose to go the one closest to my home. I had never been to this particular hospital before, but I figured, how bad could it be? This was a pretty easy case. Even a second-year

med student could handle it.

I had no idea I was about to run into one of the most traumatic of all Tin Gods: the Doomsday Doctor.

The motives of Doomsdays are difficult to ascertain: what makes a doctor want to take his superior knowledge of every single possible disastrous thing that can happen to the human body and use it to absolutely scare the ever-loving crap out of his patients? Were they not hugged enough as a kid? Are they unhappy that there aren't more emergency-room horror flicks? Are they just one of those people who immediately go worse-case-scenario and like to have company when they do? Or did they get into medicine simply for the chance to be the doctor who gets to tell someone they have some extremely rare and possibly untreatable disease...and they are sorely disappointed that the chance has yet to present itself?

The world may never know.

You can imagine the chaos Doomsdays ensue when they listen to your symptoms, nod wisely, lean in closer...and begin to freakin' terrify you with his honest, earnest, learned opinion that your planter's warts are actually very rare tumors and you may lose a least three fingers, if not the hand! Have a headache? He will muse aloud about aneurysms and how sad it is that your age group is statistically more likely to die while having them repaired. Got a sore throat? He will start writing down the phone number of his golf buddy, the specialist in cancers of the larynx, before you even have the chance to pop a cough drop. Doomsdays are incapable of keeping their apocalyptic thoughts to themselves: they must share them with you. Damn it, they are pretty sure they are even ethically BOUND to share them with you! And share them they will....in graphic detail. Whether you want them to or not.

I went into the ER expecting to have to take a urine test, get some blood work, have an ultrasound done, get a prescription and go home. I've been through it far more times than I'd ever care to count since I got MS. Most of the time, it's a pretty simple and straightforward matter, and rarely takes a whole lot of time. I know the drill, and know it well.

This was not going to be one of those simple, straightforward times.

I was sent back into a room fairly quickly, and the doctor came in almost right away (which in itself should have sent off warning signals). Like most Doomsdays, he seemed perfectly normal during this first interview. He nodded a lot, gave me a long and unnecessary speech about the common nature of urinary symptoms in multiple sclerosis (yeah, I noticed that about a decade or so ago, thanks) and told me he'd order some tests, then retrieved a cup from a cabinet for me to tinkle in. As I said, he seemed perfectly normal, lulling me into a false sense of security that this was, in fact, a doctor uninfected with any form of Tin God Syndrome. The only thing I noticed that was a bit off was that he not only didn't have my chart with him, he didn't have ANYTHING with him. No papers, no clipboard. I've never seen a doctor do that before, but hey, maybe he just has a really great memory?

He left, and I took the beforementioned urine test. Even my untrained eye could see the blood in the urine. The nurse also noticed it right away, and gave me a look of sympathy. She took it away, and about fifteen minutes later, came back and told me there was in fact blood, as well as signs of dehydration. It was time for the blood work, with the added bother of getting an IV put in for some fluids. Again, this is a drill I am quite familiar with. A half hour or so later, a woman came in with the ultrasound machine. So far, so good.

And then...I was completely ignored for over four hours. No nurse came to check on me. There was no sign of the doctor. Maybe my chart was lost (which would explain why the doc didn't have it), and now they've forgotten me? The bag of fluid was almost empty. I had been in a good amount of pain---not to mention a considerable amount of nausea---for a damn long time. I felt woozy, sick to my stomach and tired of feeling like I was urinating flames. And to make matters worse, I'd been put in a room with no television, and I'd left home without a book (which is a rookie mistake, and I should know better). Then to rub salt in the wound, I could just barely hear the TV in the room next to me...and they were watching a Washington pow wow! Unfair, unfair.

Another hour came and went. An orderly came in at one point, looking for someone, and I practically begged him to find my nurse. I had attempted to do so myself, but was unsuccessful. Every time I pushed the 'call nurse' button, a woman told me she'd 'find my nurse,' and apparently the search party was still out. I wasn't sure if it was a bad thing to be hooked up to a bone-dry IV, but it was pretty clear that if my nurse didn't make an appearance soon, I was gonna find out.
FINALLY, my nurse arrived, apologizing that they had been very busy and short-handed. She put yet another bag on the IV (how long did they plan to keep me here?) and also came with injectables: pain & nausea. I was shocked. I hadn't asked for anything for pain, only for the nausea. This was a first for me! I've never been given pain meds without asking for them; without begging for them 90% of the time. I wanted to be grateful...but something seemed wrong. The feeling was much stronger when I found out I was being given Morphine...and a pretty hefty amount of it to boot. I asked the nurse why; after all, I had not asked for pain meds. No one had asked me what level my pain was on either the 1-5 or 1-10 scale. So why was I being given so much Morphine? Why was I being given another bag of fluid? She told me the doctor would be in to see me soon, and rushed out.

I was, at this point, feeling very uneasy. This was all very weird. Very wrong.

I was then left alone for YET ANOTHER HOUR! I was no longer in pain, no longer felt like I was urinating fire and no longer wanted to leggo my Eggo. What I was, was scared. What was going on? Why would no one tell me?

I began to panic. I called my husband...who had begun to get pissed off. Why was a routine, MS-patient urinary problem taking almost seven hours to resolve? Why were my questions ignored? He was on his way.

While on the phone with him, the doctor came back. He had a grave look on his face. It was not unlike the look the Well-Accessoried Doctor gave me when she told me my MS had gone progressive. I felt a pit of fear in my stomach. And some curiosity, as once again...there was no chart, no papers, nada.

He asked me to sit down, and then he took a seat as well. He looked at the ground for a minute or two, sighed heavily, and then looked me in the eye. Here's how the conversation went:

DR.: "I'm afraid the tests didn't show anything."
ME: "What do you mean?"
DR.: "No kidney stones, gall stones, ovarian cysts or UTI."
ME: "I don't have a gall bladder."
DR.: (startled) "Excuse me?"
ME: "My gall bladder was removed in 1997."
DR.: "Well. That explains the lack of gall stones."

He said this with complete seriousness. I just stared at him.

ME: "Why did I have blood in my urine?"
DR.: "You didn't."
ME: (confused) "I saw it. The nurse then TOLD me I had blood in my urine."
DR.: Well, I'm afraid the tests didn't show anything.
ME: "So what's wrong?"
DR.: "Well, I think you should go and see your doctor right away."
ME: (startled) "Why?"
DR.: (sighing) "We don't have the ability to test for...certain things, here. Not at the moment. This is why I must STRONGLY URGE you to see your doctor right away."
ME: "How soon is right away?"
DR.: "I'm afraid you really need to be seen as soon as possible."
ME: "What do I tell Dr. Fetus? I need to tell him what to test for. I can't just go in there and tell him I needed to be seen right away for some unknown, random test."
DR.: (looks at the ground again for another minute or two) "I'm sorry, but there is some indication of the possibility of a large mass on your cervix."

I stared at him in some shock. It was one of those moments, when time seems to stop. I doubt the very large amount of Morphine in my bloodstream helped with that much.

ME: "A large mass?"
DR.: "It's important you understand, we do not have the ability to perform certain tests at this hospital, at the moment. You need to see Dr. Fetus."
ME: "Are you saying I might have cancer?"
DR.: "That's not what I'm saying at all. We would need more tests, and for that, you'll have to go to Dr. Fetus."
ME: "What tests do I have to have done?"
DR.: "That will be between you and Dr. Fetus."

Doomsday then stands up, dusts off some imaginary specks of dirt from his lab coat, looks at the ground for another few moments, and then looks back up at me.

DR.: "I wish you the best of luck, ma'am."

He said that with extraordinary gravity, the same way someone does when they let you know your dog has just been hit by a car. He then turns to walk away.

ME: "Wait a minute, wait a minute. You're scaring me. My mom died of breast cancer when she was just 44, and my grandmother died of uterine cancer at 46. Both of them fought cancer for years before they died. You need to tell me: is there a chance this mass is cancer?"
DR.: "I can't tell you that. Although I can say, with your particular family history, it is absolutely essential you see your regular doctor right away. Do you understand, Mrs. Zen? Do you understand?"
ME: "Yes, I understand. What I don't understand is this: if I don't have a UTI or kidney stone, or ovarian cyst, what is causing my symptoms? Why am I in so much pain and having so much nausea, and urinary symptoms? Could this mass cause all that?"
DR.: "Well, that's not likely but not impossible. However, with the blood in your urine, it is possible that you've got a UTI and you are in the early stages, and therefore, it isn't showing up in the tests just yet."
ME: "Wait a minute, I thought you said I didn't have blood in my urine?"
DR.: "The nurse found some blood, very small trace amounts, not enough to indicate a UTI or kidney stone. A very negligable amount."

He starts to walk to the door, thinks twice, and comes to sit down in front of me again and takes my hand.

DR.: "I need you to understand that you need to follow up with your regular doctor immediately, within the next three days at the very most. You are in need of more specialized testing and care than we are qualified to provide you in the ER. Do you understand, Mrs. Zen?"
ME: (scared almost to the point of tears) "Yes, I understand."
DR.: "Excellent! I wish you the best of luck, Mrs. Zen. The nurse will be in in a few moments to remove the IV and give you your discharge instructions. Have a good day."

Doomsday then very abruptly leaves the room.

A few minutes later, my husband Jonathan arrives. As I tell him the story, I burst into tears and start shaking all over. Jonathan is wary. He doesn't trust this Dr. Doomsday. I don't know what to believe, and the Morphine for sure isn't helping there.

Twenty minutes go by, and my husband is now super-pissed. He tracks down my nurse and tells her that Doomsday told us to see our regular doctor right away, and we aren't going to be able to do that if we don't get out of that hospital NOW.

The fire he lit under her must have burned, burned, burned...because she showed up with a quickness. And with her: my discharge papers and yet ANOTHER shot of Morphine! She gives it to me, telling me that Doomsday ordered it, and telling me this in a tone of voice that conveys that this order was not an option, and if I'm smart...I'll take the drugs and be quiet about it. Jonathan is shocked at the amount: it is again another healthy dosage.

My IV out, and papers in hand (with the ominous-sounding diagnosis of "needs further investigation"), we leave the hospital. I have been there, at that point, for damn near eight hours.

We drive, at my husband's insistence, straight to Dr. Fetus' office. We go into the clinic, and I sit down (the Morphine has kicked in and I am feeling less than steady on my feet) and Jonathan goes to tell the receptionist what has occured. I see the look of surprise on her face, and in less than five minutes, we are shown back to a room.

Dr. Fetus is not in...I am seeing another of the clinic's doctors, Dr. Waitawhile; so named because he is quite firmly of the wait-and-see-maybe-it-will-resolve-itself school of thought.

We tell him what happened at the ER, and show him the papers. He looks at us in ever-increasing amounts of ill-concealed shock as the tale unfolds. He is especially confused as to what "tests" Doomsday thought the clinic could provide that the hospital could not, and why he wouldn't tell me what those tests were. I didn't know, because despite my repeatedly asking Doomsday, I never did get an answer.

Dr. Waitawhile went right into action. He ordered another urine test, and gave me a pelvic exam. He then went off to request the chart from Doomsday. I'm not even sure there IS one, as I never saw it the whole eight hours I was there.

We were waiting a good twenty minutes before Dr. Waitawhile returned, with a puzzled look on his face. "This is the weirdest case I think I have ever been involved in," he told me. Apparently, it was proving very difficult to get the records. Usually, it was just a matter of requesting them, then getting a fax. But he was being given the run-around, and he didn't understand why. When he finally DID get something, all he got was the results of the blood and urine tests. Nothing from the ultrasound, no doctor's notes, nothing. He then talked to both the nurse and Doomsday...and got completely different stories! The nurse said there was blood in my urine. The doctor said there wasn't. Doomsday also refused to either confirm or deny that he told me about any "mass."

I sat in utter shock. What on Earth was going on here?

On the plus side: the urine test came back with no blood. When I told Dr. Waitawhile that I had seen the blood in the original urine test with my own two eyes, he told me it was possible there had been small trace amounts of blood in the urine at that time, but that it wasn't detectable in the sample I had provided in the clinic. That suggests no UTI, but doesn't rule out stones (which could have made me have blood earlier but none now) or ovarian cysts. He then went to check on another patient, and we waited.

I was so nervous, it felt like hours before Dr. Waitawhile returned. The puzzled look was gone from his face. In its place, was irritation.

He told me that he had, after several calls and a great deal of aggrivation, received the full records. Or at least, he assumed they were the full records: there were very little nurse or doctor's notes, and it looked as if several pages were not transmitted to him. He called it "bizarre."

The verdict was in: there was no mass on my cervix. In fact, Dr. Waitawhile told me, with the sort of ultrasound that was ordered (and performed), it would be impossible to detect a mass on my cervix. For that, I would need the same exact test Dr. Waitawhile administered: a pelvic exam. Apparently, the cervix reacts in a certain way, when touched, if there is a mass. Mine didn't. He was also quite angry that I had been told that the ER could not perform "the kind of test" I needed to determine that: what ER couldn't give pelvic exams? No ER he had ever heard of. I was in agreeance on that; I've had pelvics in ERs before. I've never heard of an ER that couldn't or wouldn't perform that service. What kind of hospital was this that I had spent my day in?

And to top it all off, something other than a cervical mass DID appear on that ultrasound, despite Doomsday's insistence that the tests had shown "nothing": three ovarian cysts. These were probably the case of my pain and other symptoms. And the now-you-see-it-now-you-don't bloody urine indicated that there might be a kidney stone that wasn't showing up on the scan. I have a tilted uterus (TMI, huh?) that does often interfere with ultrasounds, a problem that was very bothersome during my pregnancies. Dr. Waitawhile gave me a prescription for nausea meds and pain relief, with the instruction (of course!) to "wait it out" and if I started having any more blood in my urine or more severe pain, to come back to see him, see Dr. Fetus...or go to any other ER in town.

In the end, it did turn out that I had a kidney stone as well as the three ovarian cysts. And those doctor's notes and other missing pages? They never did materialize.

I made a complaint with the hospital, and with the med board. This guy was the worst sort of cruel, comparable only to my experience with Caligula. No doctor should scare patients like this. I still don't understand exactly what happened, and I don't think I will ever get just why this guy chose to do what he did to me.

I do know, I won't ever forget it.

A Reminder This 4th of July

2009-07-04T19:03:00.000-07:00

Remembering Micah Bennett

2009-06-26T19:48:00.000-07:00

Rest in peace, my friend.

You are gone, but you shall never be forgotten.

Sure, Let the Kids Play with Nooses! What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

2009-06-07T00:59:00.001-07:00

In Canberra, Australia, a school demonstration nearly ended in a tragedy.

Apparently, a group of English students were staging a mock hanging to be photographed as part of a class project...under the direct supervision of their teacher. One student fell from the table with the noose looped around his neck. According to the school's attornerys, both teachers and students raced to the rescue and successfully cut the rope from around the boy's neck after he fell. Some local newspapers are reporting that the student turned blue before the noose was finally removed. He was then examined by paramedics and permitted to go home with his mother.

The local authorities have begun an investigation.

"It beggars belief that such an incident could take place," Queensland state Education Minister Geoff Wilson told local radio on Wednesday.

Source: yahoo news

A Reminder To All Moms Out There

2009-06-05T00:04:00.000-07:00

You may have tangible wealth untold;
Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be --
I had a mother who read to me.

---"The Reading Mother" by Strickland Gillilan

Propery Manager Angst

2009-05-25T03:33:00.000-07:00

I am having some serious problems with the property managers in charge of the house we rent. At this point, I think they might be trying to force us out. We've been here 2 years, and our lease runs up in October.

Last summer, 2 things happened: the first was the garbage service began to refuse to take our trash. They also refused to discuss why with us (in our state, trash service has to go through the landlord and they will only talk to the account holder). The second happened on the heels of the first: a plumbing issue. At first, it was just clogged sinks. Then it graduated to sewage seeping through our bathtub and utility room sink.

On both issues, I called them & called them and never spoke to an actual human being, just left all these messages. No one called me back. Then on a Friday last August, the sewage problem got worse. The tub was almost overflowing with it. The smell was unreal. More calls, even to their so-called "emergency" line....no one called me back. Then finally, the toilet began spewing sewage. I had no choice but to take the kids to a hotel for the weekend.

On Monday morning, I called and left more messages, even giving the phone number for the hotel. Nothing. So I simply called over and over and over again, until an actual human answered. I ended up speaking to several people over the course of the morning...NONE of them were even aware that they managed a house on my street! They kept asking for the address, and one even said, "Are you sure you have the right property management company?" Well, you people cash the checks, so yeah, I'm sure. Then they began trying to find some way to pass the buck....first by trying to get us to say it was our fault somehow, then by insisting it was the city's problem and we should call THEM. So I did. The city comes out, and the verdict: there is a serious sludge line, built up over a large number of years, probably as a result of someone pouring oil down the drain. I was in the room when they told the PMs this, and heard the guy arguing with them as they were clearly trying to find a way to blame it on us ("No, I'm sure it's not just hair...no, we're talking years and years this line built up.") The guy from the city did a "minor blow-out" and told both us and the PMs that this was only a "band-aid" on the problem and would not actually fix it. The PMs assured me they would get in touch with me soon to address the problem.

I spoke with them in September, then in October. Each time, I was told they were "working on it." In December, I was mailed a maintainence form and told to send that in. I did, and wrote in the garbage problem on there was well. No response. In January, I called and was basically ignored. In Feb., I sent a letter....it was ignored. All this time, we can't use our clothes washer or dishwasher because of the pipes. We're spending money on laundry and the dump. I spent a lot of time this year sick, so we weren't as on top of it as maybe we should have been...but how many times are you supposed to ask for something to be fixed? We just became resigned to the fact that they were not going to fix these problems, and figured we'd move when the lease was up.

Then two months ago, they started sending letters saying we owed them money. First it was $200, then $400. Never in any of the letters does it say what the money is owed for...just that we owe them money. I was stunned. You ignore us for months, and then expect us to fork over even more money for no reason whatsoever?

So I sent them another letter. In this one, I told them I had no intention of staying past October and couldn't understand why they were asking for more money when our issues remain unresolved.

THIS TIME, they respond. They leave 2 nasty voice mails, the second one they actually had the nerve to complain that THEY CAN'T GET AHOLD OF ME AND I DON'T RETURN MESSAGES!!!!

I call them back, and it was not a pleasant conversation. The PM I spoke to actually told me that if they don't respond to me within a week, it is my "responsibility" to simply keep calling them over and over until they do! It was, in effect, MY fault that the issues hadn't been resolved! Are you kidding me?

They wanted to send a plumber over that day, but my youngest still had measles, so I scheduled it for the following week. This really seemed to piss the woman off. Then I asked what the money we supposedly owed them was for. She said "late charges." Late charges? From when? She was vague, but said there had been "several" and that according to our lease, it was $100 a pop. I told her I was under the impression (having once been a PM myself), that the law requires you to send a specific form within 5 days to claim a late charge. She said, "No, that's only if we evict you." I asked her what proof she had that we paid late, ever, as all my cancelled checks are dated on the first and cashed by them about a week later. She said she would "send me proof." Then she transferred me to someone to take care of the garbage problem. She did...but the company now will only pick up half the garbage they did before. They gave us this tiny little can that just isn't going to do it for 5 people. The plumber came, and did the exact same "band-aid" job the city did...which means the plumbing will work for a few months at most and it will start up all over again.

Last week, I got three letters from them. The first had nothing in it but a Xerox of two envelopes from my house with postmarks on them. One is from January, the other is from a year ago! The second now was a letter that said we owed them over $500! The third was a letter that said they were coming into the house on Tuesday (tomorrow) to "inspect," and would be coming in whether we were at
home or not.

That final one really pissed me off, at first. And then I realized something: they could not have picked a better date. My daughter's caseworker from the county disability office will be here to do her yearly inspection on the exact same day! So if they try to make up some nonsense to get us out, well, good luck...the government was here inspecting as well! I also won't be alone that day: my friend's apartment is being fumigated, so she & her daughter & pet will be here all day. Tons of witnesses as to the condition of the house. I also plan to take photographs. I hate to have to go to these lengths, but I no longer trust these people. This feels like retaliation for insisting the problems get fixed. Maybe they are looking for something to charge me for, to "cover the cost" of the plumbing bill. I don't know. I just know, I don't like this.

I am really irritated with these people. I think they are coming here to try to find some reason to get rid of us, which is ridiculous. We've always paid our rent, and have never been a problem. We ask them to fix a pre-existing problem, and suddenly, we owe them $500 and they want to "inspect"!

Give me a break.

In the Last 48 Hours....

2009-05-20T00:16:00.000-07:00

....two of my closest friends lost their jobs.

They are both single moms.

This economy SUCKS.

Nutbag Parents Give New Meaning to "Take Your Kids To Work Day"

2009-04-26T00:02:00.000-07:00

Last week was "Take Your Daughters To Work Day." My husband took our middle child to his office. She helped him file. They had lunch together. She got to see how Daddy makes a living.

These nutbags had the same idea.

BAD idea.

Erika Santana, 23, was accused on Wednesday of driving a getaway minivan with her 2 young kids (ages 4 years and 5 months) inside, fleeing with them after the baby's father, 22-year-old Hugo Lantigua, and his friend, 19-year-old Pedro Camillo, burglarized two homes in Queens, New York.

Santana, Lantigua and Camillo face charges including burglary, criminal possession of a weapon and endangering the welfare of a child. The could serve up to 25 years in prison if convicted.

"It is unthinkable that a mother and father would put their children in harm's way while allegedly committing these crimes. It is even more unimaginable that they would allegedly do so with a loaded handgun in their vehicle," Queens District Attorney Richard Brown said.

Nutbag Kills 2 Over Lice

2009-04-19T00:49:00.000-07:00

Apparently, for some people, lice is much more serious than just having an itchy head and needing to shell out a few bucks for lice shampoo.

For some people, it's worth killing over.

In Kazan, a Russian town 430 miles east of Moscow, a 26-year-old karate expert has been charged with beating to death a 61-year-old woman and her son. He apparently burst into their home, which was the room next to his in a hostel, and used karate moves to beat them to death. The husband of the dead woman was also beaten with the karate moves, but the 58-year-old survived his injuries.

The reason? According to state investigator Eduard Abdulllin: "The family were poor and drank a lot. He blamed them for infections his wife and the entire corridor with lice."

The suspect, who studied karate for seven years, faces life in prison if convicted.

***************************
Mr. Miyagi would be very disappointed.

Bronchitis SUCKS!

2009-03-26T23:40:00.000-07:00

That cold that is going around for everyone turned into bronchitis for me. I'm mostly over it, but the cough is still lingering. I'll be glad when it's gone completely.

I've got stuff going on in my real life that is taking a lot of my time, and keeping me off-line. I'm trying to rectify that; it's becoming more and more clear to me that I need the outlet. Sitting around, wallowing, is not doing me any good. Not that I am against the occassional pity party; quite the contrary. I think they are good for you, provided you don't get carried away, you don't do it in front of anyone who might be traumatized by it and you keep them to an absolute minimum. I'm doing great with the middle one. It's the other two I am getting concerned about. It's my pity party, I can cry if I want to....but what about when I don't want to cry, but I'm doing it anyway? What then?

Beats the hell outta me...

You're a Good Man, Sean Penn

2009-02-23T01:36:00.000-08:00

"…For those who saw the signs of hatred as our cars drove in tonight, I think that it is a good time for those who voted for the ban against gay marriage to sit and reflect, and anticipate their great shame, and the shame in their grandchildren’s eyes if they continue that way of support. We’ve got to have equal rights for everyone."

---excerpt from Sean Penn's Oscar acceptance speech.

Bravo, Mr. Penn. Harvey would have been so proud.

That's It, I Quit: Oxycodone Shortage Update

2009-02-22T02:13:00.000-08:00

I got a few emails about my Oxycodone Shortage post, wondering if I ever got meds, and what the hell was going on. So here's my update, hopefully with a little less emotion and cursing than the other post contained (though I make no promises on either):

I see my physician, Dr. Fetus (for those of you unfamiliar, I refer to him as Dr. Fetus because he looks way too young to be a doctor...it's like having your disease managed by Doogie Howser), every three months. At that time, he gives me three seperate hard copies of my Oxycodone prescriptions for the next three months. He does so, because the previous method of getting the pills was, to say the least, ineffective.

Prior to this every-three-months plan, the idea was this: at least three days prior to the date I needed the refill (not counting weekends, during which I am by pain management contract unable to ask for pain meds refills), I was to call the Prescription Coordinator (hereafter referred to as "The Rx Dick") and request the refill. The Rx Dick then prints up the Rx on the computer and sends it to Dr. Fetus to be signed. When that's done, he calls me and I come to the office to pick it up.

Sounds simple, doesn't it? Sounds like it should be a cakewalk, huh? Not so.

The problem is, the Rx Dick doesn't just do prescriptions. He's also the clinic's full-time radiologist. If you're thinking, WTF? You're not alone. Because of this strange arrangement, the Rx Dick is never available to take phone calls. You have to leave a voicemail. Now, that in and of itself is not a problem. In fact, I can definately see the advantages: you don't have to actually talk to someone, you can leave all the info on the message and expect it to be handled forthrightly. Well, that would work....if the Rx Dick ever CHECKED his messages. Instead, nine times out of ten his voicemail would be full. And not just for a few hours...often, for a few DAYS.

The receptionists, although usually very helpful, are not of much help in this situation. Their protocol is to refer ALL Rx calls to the Rx Dick. They cannot take messages for him. Unless it is urgent, they won't page him or try to track him down for you. And even if they ARE willing to track him down, most of the time he's busy in his other position as X-Ray Dick and can't help you anyway. So, all they can do is send you to the voicemail, and hope for your sake that he'll check it sometime this week.

Even when he HAS checked his voicemail and sent the Rx to be signed (what they call "pending"), it often goes unsigned for several days....because Dr. Fetus is only in the office a few days a week, and no one seems to know in advance (or won't tell patients) when exactly those days and hours will be. And even when it's been several days, and a patient languishes, waiting for meds, no other doctor will sign a pain med refill for another clinic doc.

To make matters worse...the Rx Dick NEVER calls to let you know the status of your prescription. Even if you call several times and beg him to return your call, you will be ignored. A good 75% of the time, he won't call you to tell you your Rx is ready to be picked up, either. You have to call the front desk and ask the very helpful receptionists to check the drawer and see if an Rx is waiting for you. Often, you have to do this a number of times before anything with your name on it appears in that drawer.

As a result of all this, I have had numerous occassions when I've gone without meds for days, even a week or more. I've ended up in the hospital, for want of meds that I've duly called in, in advance, and still do not possess.

About a year ago, I brought this frustration up to Dr. Fetus, who was genuinely surprised. He had no idea I was having this amount of trouble. So we came up with the every-three-months solution.

And it was working quite well....until this week

On Sunday, my husband went to fill my prescriptions. The pharmacy told him they had no Oxycodone. At first, my husband was skeptical. We've had trouble in the past with pharmacists who are bitchy about filling these particular meds. So he went to another pharmacy. This one also had no meds. This pharmacist told Jonathan that the entire town was Oxycodone-free, due to a problem with "the precurser to the medication." His advice was for us to go back to our doctor's office and get an Rx for Percocet. Jonathan was confused, as the precurser for Percocet is the same for Oxycodone: they are both opiates, synthesized from the poppy flower. If the precursor for one is in trouble, neither would be available. So he tried yet another pharmacy. This one also had no pills, but told him the problem was much larger than the last pharmacist had led us to believe: the shortage was not local, but nationwide. Nowhere in America could Oxycodone be found.

He came home, empty-handed.

We immediately got on the 'net...and became even more confused. One article said that the shortage was due to the FDA's guidelines about how many pills could be made. Those guidelines, the article said, fell well short of demand. Another article quoted the FDA---and two doctors---as claiming there was no shortage. Finally, we went straight to the horse's mouth: the FDA's website. Lo and behold: there's an Oxycodone shortage, and they have little to no idea as to when it will end.

I refused to panic. Yes, I was out of meds...but with a nationwide crisis, surely it would be no big deal to switch out this prescription for another.

I am, apparently, quite naive.

On Monday morning, I began making phone calls. In the year since I stopped communicating with the Rx Dick, his ways haven't changed a bit. The voicemail was full. I call six times, each time speaking to a receptionist who sent me dutifully to the Rx Dick. The receptionists, trying ever so hard to be helpful, asked me to be patient; they were aware there was a shortage and "many patients" were in need of a new prescription. I understood that; but this one of the "many" had no hope of getting a new prescription if I couldn't leave a message! Finally, one suggests that I try after lunch. "Sometimes, the Rx Dick will check his messages after the lunch hour," she said. How helpful! I'll do just that.

So I did...and got the answering service. The office closed at 1PM that day for "the holiday." Not one of the six times that I called that morning did any of the oh-so-helpful receptionists tell me that the office was closing early...for President's Day.

I didn't sleep that night, struggling with pain and having nothing stronger than Ibuprofen and some extraordinarily nasty-tasting morphine cough syrup left over from my last bought with walking pneumonia. My mantra that night: I'll call them in the morning, I'll call them in the morning.

And so I did. This time, I was able to leave a message with the Rx Dick. Concerned that nothing would get done that day as I so desperately needed, I also asked to speak with my doctor's medical assistant. I got her voicemail as well, and left yet another message. I called and left messages several times that day.

No one ever called me back.

Another sleepless night. My mantra that night: I WILL speak to someone tomorrow, I WILL speak to someone tomorrow.

Wednesday came, and I began calling first thing in the morning. More voice mails, nothing in the drawer, call after call. Finally, just moments before the office closed, one of the oh-so-helpful receptionists had news for me: my prescription was "pending." Was my doctor in that day, to sign it? NO. I would have to call back tomorrow. Could I talk to the Rx Dick? No again...he left work early. There's a prescription crisis going on, affecting "many patients," and the guy responsible for helping those many skipped out early? Huh?

Another sleepless night for me. My mantra that night: This will be the LAST NIGHT I go through this, this will be the LAST NIGHT I go through this.

The office opened Thursday morning, and the phone calls began. At first, the Rx Dick's voicemail was full again. But I perservered. I was able to get through and leave messages, and again left messages with the medical assistant. I marked them all as "urgent." And still, no one called. Once, the no-longer-quite-so-helpful receptionist chided me. "You need to call three days before a prescription is due to be filled, you know." Yes, I am aware...are you aware I've been calling since Monday??? "You need to call back tomorrow," I was told, in a not-so-nice tone. I wondered what mantra I would be repeating that night...

Jonathan called as he got off work late that afternoon, to speak to a wife trying desperately to ward off panic. I was feeling ignored, invisible. I couldn't understand why this was so very difficult. In need of support, I had gone to the obvious place: my MS support group. They were all astonished. Several of them had a completely opposite experience: their doctors had called THEM to get them new meds, before they themselves were even aware there was a shortage. I was now not only frustrated and angry, I was resentful. Would it have been so hard, so unthinkable, for someone at the office to extend to me the same courtesy? Why was I having to beg for help?

I was feeling upset, at the end of my rope. Jonathan, on the other hand, was livid. He went straight from the office to the clinic, intent on getting some answers. He waited patiently in line, and then approached a might-be-helpful-who-knows-stranger-things-have-happened receptionist. At first, she was argumentative. She was put out, as she had "just talked" to me. She insisted the computer showed I had only started calling on Tuesday, not Monday. A straw man, as far as my dear husband was concerned. She then told him that the prescription was pending, and I should call tomorrow. He was not pleased. He asked to see my doctor, and told her he was quite willing to sit in the waiting room until the end of the business day in order to do so. That's when he found out that although Dr. Fetus had been there that day...he was already gone. And to make matters worse, even though both he and I had been told repeatedly to call tomorrow BY THIS SAME RECEPTIONIST, he would not be there that day, either!

Jonathan was flabbergasted. He knew that chances were, I'd spend all day tomorrow calling, too...but with my doctor gone, no one would do a thing. And then I'd be stuck for the entire weekend. This meant I'd be without meds, for a week. The chances I'd make it through that weekend without hospitalization were slim to none.

He related this to her, but she responded by repeating that this was really the job of the Rx Dick, and we should call tomorrow. He asked for her name, so he could know exactly who was bestowing upon him "the wisdom of the ages." She was not amused.

Jonathan then turned on the charm, asking who exactly was in charge. This is where things get...surreal. This is the moment when we find out exactly how this modern, high-traffic doctor's office is run.

Apparently, every day the office has a "preceptor," who acts as a sort of "boss" for the doctors for the day. This changes day by day, and the receptionists don't know who will be the preceptor until the day before. OK, fine, who is the preceptor right now? There isn't one; SHE LEFT EARLY (does ANYONE there actually work a full shift?). So who is in charge? The receptionist has no idea. There are a number of residents working with patients, and one attending. So if we call tomorrow, who is the preceptor? She checks her computer. Dr. Already, she says. My husband looks up at the board. You mean the same Dr. Already who is here right now? Yes, but she's not the preceptor today. She can't act as today's preceptor; she isn't preceptor until tomorrow. And although she is the only attending there at the moment, and therefore technically in charge, she has a "full patient load" and could not possibly deal with this now. And besides, doctors don't like to sign pain meds for another doctor's patient. Jonathan reminds her that I've been taking these pills for YEARS, and my pain management contract is on file in their computer. Again, the receptionist tells him that Dr. Already is not the person to deal with this.

Who SHOULD be dealing with it? My husband wants to know. "Well, I suppose that would be the Prescription Coordinator, but she's not here." She? We were under the impression that the Rx Dick was the Prescription Coordinator...and he is no she, as far as we know. "Oh, no, he's only the ASSISTANT Prescription Coordinator. 'Inga the Invisible' is the Prescription Coordinator." Now, I have been going to this office for years, and dealing with the Rx Dick for what feels like eons. Everyone has always referred to him as the Prescription Coordinator. I have never heard of, nor have I ever seen, Inga the Invisible. But what the hell, we'll talk to her. "She's not here." Let me guess...she left early? "Well, she only works sort of part-time." Great. When will she be in next? "I don't know." Helpful, very helpful.

My husband then says to the receptionist, "My wife has a chronic illness. She NEEDS these medications. She needs them NOW, not tomorrow. And it sounds to me like the chances of her getting through to anyone tomorrow are about the same as they were for her getting through TODAY, and that leaves her with an entire weekend to suffer without the medications that she, under the pain management contract she signed with this office, is entitled to. This situation is not something that is within her control. I understand that Dr. Already has a full patient load today...but there are only three people in this waiting room. I am more than willing to wait until everyone has been seen, and then can talk to her. But I absolutely need to talk to someone today, not tomorrow."

The receptionist again pleads the full patient load and tries to get us to come back tomorrow. My husband then asks her if she knows what it is like to watch someone you love be in pain.

She leaves. A few minutes later, she returns. She asks Jonathan to give her the prescription for Oxycodone, and in return gives him a prescription for Percocet, signed by Dr. Already.

I guess she does know what it's like to watch someone you love be in pain.

I, at the moment, am not in pain. But thanks to several days of battling pain, I have a terrific case of insomnia...so I am still not sleeping.

My mantra now? That's it, I quit, that's it, I quit.

I am actively looking for another doctor. I like Dr. Fetus well enough, but I can't take this prescription nonsense anymore. I cannot understand why this was such a debacle, why a simple piece of paper signed by a physician was so difficult to achieve. They clearly knew there was an Oxycodone shortage, but no plans were in place to cope with the "many patients" who would be affected by it. It was left to doctors and prescription coordinators who chose not to deal with the problem, but take off early to play golf or do whatever it is doctors and prescription coordinators do when they skip out on the people who need them.

This was a crisis...but instead of helping me, I was treated repeatedly as if it were my fault, and as if I were being bothersome or downright rude by expecting my doctor's office to be able to handle this in a timely manner. And the fact that so many other doctor's offices in town were not only able to handle it in a timely manner, but did so in a way that showed actual CONCERN AND CARING for their patients just proves to me that it can be done. And it SHOULD have been done.

But it just wasn't.

So I'm out of there. I'm considering a DO. My friends who have them seem so much more satisfied with their doctors than do the ones with MDs. So I got a list of doctors covered by my insurance, and I'm looking up websites and trying to create a short list of DOs to check out. Hopefully, by next week's end at the latest, I will be sitting in a new doctor's office...preferably one who has ACTUALLY helpful receptionists as well someone in charge and people who finish a shift, especially when there is a nationwide prescription crisis.

I don't think it's too much to ask.

Venting: Oxycodone Shortage!

2009-02-16T22:09:00.000-08:00

There is a nationwide oxycodone shortage. NO ONE has any. To make matters worse, everyone is telling a different story. One pharmacy blamed the FDA and their "guidelines" as to how much of the med can be made. Another blamed a recall. One told my dh that there was a "problem with a precursor" to the drug. News articles are also confusing. Most blame the FDA, but some seem to doubt there's even a shortage at all. The FDA itself denied it until a few days ago. Their website now acknowledges the shortage, but no one seems to know when it will end.

I knew none of this, until this weekend. I tried to get my RX filled. No dice. One pharmacist told me point blank to get an RX for something else...no one knows when this will end.

Hey, great idea! At least it's something. So I start calling my doctor this morning. He isn't in. I am told to speak to the prescription coordinator (a useless person, as I know from long experience with him). His voice mail is full. I call again and again. The voice mail remains full, and the receptionists are at a loss as to how to help me.

I decide to try again after lunch, as sometimes the Prescription Dick will clear his messages then.

Not once of the half-dozen times that I spoke to a receptionist, did any of them tell me that THE MOTHER FUCKING OFFICE WAS CLOSING AT 1PM FOR THE HOLIDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WTF? It's President's Day, people. Since when did doctor's offices close for THAT? These assholes were open all day New Year's, but President's Day? Nope, gotta take off for THAT!

I'm going down there in the morning and I am not leaving without a prescription for SOMETHING. If they give me a hassle about my pain management contract and no substitutions and whatnot, I will kindly point out that I would take the meds IF ANYONE HAD THE FUCKING THINGS.

It's either that, or admit me, because I can't do this another night. The later it gets, the worse it gets. I am scared shitless right about now, and all I have is some nasty morphine cough syrup left over from the last time I had pneumonia.

I hate the FDA today. How hard could it be to unclench and let them make some more pills??????

NDN Newz: Killer Back to Work

2009-02-13T23:34:00.000-08:00

Former Capitol Hill staffer Carlos Fierro is back at work in D.C., just months after killing a Pueblo man.

Fierro is charged in the drunk driving death of William Tenorio, 46, a member of the San Felipe Pueblo. Police say he was driving drunk when he hit and killed Tenorio in New Mexico on November 26, 2008. Fierro, who has at least one previous DUI conviction, fled the scene after the accident.

Tenorio's family was shocked to learn that not only was Fierro released from electronic monitoring, but had been permitted to leave the state and continue his work in Washington, D.C.

"They're shocked and concerned ... that they weren't aware of it," Stephanie Poston, a family spokesperson, told the paper. "They want to be engaged in the whole process."

Apparently, you can get drunk, kill a Native, and go right back to work. And the family? Who needs to inform them? That's what newspapers are for, right?

For shame.

Nutbag Judges: Jailing Kids For $$$

2009-02-13T00:22:00.000-08:00

In Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, the juvenile court system was once a model of efficency: efficent corruption, that is. An accused minor would be brought in, often without a lawyer (violating the 1967 Supreme Court ruling gaurenteeing minors the right to counsel), and given a "speedy trial" lasting only minutes. Following the McTrial, these youths were sentenced to detention centers for even the most minor of offenses and often against the recommendations of probation officers assigned to the cases. Many had never been arrested before.

It was fast. It was uniform. And it was making the judges stinking rich.

Two of those nutbag judges, Luzerne County Judges Mark Ciavarella and Michael Conahan, were charged on Januuary 26 with taking $2.6 million dollars in payoffs between 2003 and 2006 to send teens to one of two privately run youth detention centers run by PA Child Care LLC and its sister company, Western PA Child Care LLC. Shortly after charges were brought to bear, both men were removed from the bench by the Pennsylvania Supreme Court. They pleaded guilty to fraud today in federal court, earning them sentences of more than seven years in jail.

Although Ciavarella, age 58, denies he recieved kickbacks for sentencing minors to the two detention centers in question, he penned a letter in which he admitted he "disgraced his judgeship." The judge, who presided over Luzerne County’s juvenile court for 12 years, also wrote: “My actions have destroyed everything I worked to accomplish and I have only myself to blame.”

Conahan, age 56, has thus far refused to comment on the case.

As of yet, no one associated with the youth detention centers have been charged. The investigation is on-going. Mark Sheppard, attorney for Robert J. Powell (who co-owned PA Child Care and Western PA Child Care until June), insists his client was a victim of extortion. “Bob Powell never solicited a nickel from these judges and really was a victim of their demands,” he said. “These judges made it very plain to Mr. Powell that he was going to be required to pay certain monies.”

In addition to removing the robes of the judges, the high court has launched an investigation to determine whether any of the cases involve warrant the action. Hundreds or perhaps even thousands of juvenile offenders' records could potentially be expunged.

“I’ve never encountered, and I don’t think that we will in our lifetimes, a case where literally thousands of kids’ lives were just tossed aside in order for a couple of judges to make some money,” said Marsha Levick, an attorney with the Philadelphia-based Juvenile Law Center, which is representing hundreds of youths sentenced in Wilkes-Barre.

Detention centers are not uncommon in Pennsylvania. Counties contract with the privately-run centers, alloting them either a fixed overall fee or a certain amount per youth, per day. In Luzerne County, Conahan is accused of shutting down the county-run juvenile prison in 2002. He then assisted the two private companies in securing tens of millions of dollars in contracts, a percentage of which was dependent on the number of juvenile offenders residing in the centers. PA Child Care, for example, was awared a 20-year contract worth an estimated $58 million (this contract was later canceled by the county as exorbitant).

Ciaverella has been under fire from area youth advocacy groups for several years. The groups accused Ciavarella of violating the constitutional rights of children. The judge sent a quarter of his juvenile defendants to detention centers from 2002 to 2006, compared with a statewide rate of one in 10.

They thought he was cruel. They thought he was harsh.

Now, they know why.

I'm Up...I'm Up...I'm Up Again

2009-02-12T02:52:00.001-08:00

Yep...insomnia. Hello old friend. Back again so soon? You sure know how to overstay your welcome!

NDN NEWZ: Vets' Pay Raise an "Oops!"

2009-01-30T22:42:00.000-08:00

They were Alaskan Natives, many as young as 16 years old. By summer, they travelled by kayak; in the winter, by dog sled. They were an important line of defense against the Japanese during World War II. They served their country in the wilds of the Alaskan islands and mainland with no glory...and no pay. They were called the Alaska Territorial Gaurd. And although they weren't paid during the war and still receive little recognition, seven months ago the Pentagon made a move to right that wrong: they finally gave the gaurdsmen active duty credit for their service, which came with an increase in their military retirement pay.

Or so they thought...until they checked the mail last week.

"I regret to inform you of the correction of a recent error that affects your current military retirement pay," begins the letter sent last week by Brig. Gen. Reuben D. Jones, the Army adjutant general.

It seems the Defense Department misinterpreted a section of federal law that says members of the territorial guard who were honorably discharged should be "considered active duty for the purposes of all laws administered by the Secretary." The problem being that the secretary, in this case, was not the secretary of Defense, as officials originally thought, but the secretary of Veterans Affairs. According to Lt. Col. Richard McNorton of the Army's human resources command, after the retirement pay was increased, "a subsequent legal review determined that service in the [Alaska Territorial Guard] ATG may only be counted" for veterans benefits and not "for the purpose of calculating military retirement pay." In light of this oversight, Col. McNorton says Defense Department officials are working with Congress to enact legislation to address this issue and that the Army is "anxious to get this resolved."

Put into blunt terms: oops!

Paul Kiunya, aged 78, is one of the gaurdsmen whose pay increase has now been unceremoniously taken away. Like many of the surviving gaurdsmen, he lives in a remote area with high unemployment and rampant poverty. Kiunya, who also served 22 years in the National Guard and was once a BIA employee, says this means he will lose about $380 a month. It's $380 he can't afford to lose.

"Sometimes in a month, I'm completely broke," said Kiunya. "Sometimes my light bill comes up to almost $500; it's always over $400 a month...it seems like the government is putting the former ATG in the garbage can."

He's not the only one outraged by the "mistake." Senator Lisa Murkowski (R-Alaska) addressed the Senate last week: "What kind of a government, what kind of a Cruella, could cut retirement benefits to a group of Eskimos in their eighties, in the dead of an Alaskan winter, and say: 'Sorry, there is nothing we can do'...It's time for some soul-searching at the Pentagon."

The Alaskan delegation to Congress sent President Obama a letter on Friday, asking for his help. The letter said the "Eskimo Scouts," as the guardsmen were then known, "shot down Japanese air balloons, rescued downed airmen, protected the Lend-Lease route from America to Russia, and engaged in combat with the enemy." (Although what, if any, combat is unclear: Murkowski's office claims the gaurdsmen tracked but didn't find Japanese troops on St. Lawrence Island in the Bering Sea.)

And now, in their senior years, with many of these unsung heroes living well below the poverty line...the money the Army has seen fit to pay them, they now want to take away.

"It is a tragedy because most of the people I am talking about, most of these gentlemen, are Eskimos -- among the first people of the United States, members of a class of people to whom the United States government has broken its promises time and time again," Sen. Murkowski said.

Congress, Pentagon, President Obama: don't break this promise. Not this time. These men served their country, seeking to protect it from a foreign power in wartime: a foreign power that had already attacked the U.S. and it was believed it could and would do so again. They were warriors in the great traditions of their ancestors, and they were soldiers in the great tradition of the United States Army.

They deserve their active duty pay. They earned it.

Don't turn your backs on them now. Keep the promise.

Nutbags On the Web: Woman Sells "Gothic Kittens"

2009-01-29T00:08:00.000-08:00

ALLENTOWN, Pennsylvania - Dog groomer Holly Crawford, 34, was charged Tuesday by humane officers for marketing "gothic kittens" over the Internet. Her home was raided Dec. 17 after the authorities received a tip from the group People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals that she was marketing the animals---who came complete with ear, neck and tail piercings---online for hundreds of dollars. Crawford (who has stated that she sees no difference between piercing a cat and piercing a human) has said she will plead not guilty.

"When I did it, it wasn't with any cruel intentions," said Crawford. "They were definitely loved, well-fed, no fleas, clipped nails. And they were happy." Crawford also stated that she used sterile needles and surgical soap to pierce the animals, and she checked the kittens several times a day to make sure they were healing properly.

Daphna Nachminovitch, a vice president for People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, called the piercings "barbaric." "There's no excuse for inflicting such pain on an animal that's the size of your palm," she said.

Crawford, who sports her own body piercings, said she decided on a whim to pierce the ears and neck of a stray kitten she took in last fall and named Snarley Monster. She said she docked the cat's tail because it was badly damaged and that the animal was not intended for sale.

Morrison charged Crawford and William Blansett, 37, each with three misdemeanor counts of animal cruelty, three summary counts of cruelty and three counts of conspiracy. Crawford said Blansett helped take calls about the kittens but that he had nothing to do with the piercings.

Crawford said her dog-grooming business, Pawside Parlor, has plummeted since the raid and that she has received dozens of nasty phone calls. "My name's ruined, my reputation's ruined, my business is ruined," she said.

"Burnt Bridge" Letter

2008-11-24T01:17:00.000-08:00

I've written here before about my MS support group, and how occassionally we'll have "topic" meetings. That means the group has chosen a not-necessarily-MS-related topic for us to discuss. Long-time readers of my blog might remember my "Hurtful Things" post, which was inspired by one of those "topic" meetings.

This post is inspired by last week's meeting, which I have found myself thinking about off and on ever since. The topic was "Burnt Bridge Letters." We all know what a burnt bridge is. Now, most of us, when we've burned a bridge, try to repair it at some point, or at least stop it from burning further and destroying other bridges we'd like to keep intact. This almost always requires an explanation and an apology. It's an absolute necessity in your various 12-step programs. But sometimes, for one reason or another, it just isn't possible. Sometimes, the person has died. Sometimes, you've simply lost touch and have no way to contact the person. And every now and again, it would just simply hurt that person further to have any contact with them at all, even to apologize.

Thus, the concept of the "Burnt Bridge Letter." It's a letter you write to that person, with your explanation and apology. The purpose is to help you forgive yourself, even if you can't get forgiveness from the person you wronged. And now, with blogs....you can post your letter and who knows? Maybe it will be read by the right person after all.

In the meeting, we were asked to think of someone in our lives since our diagnosis whom we might have offended, hurt or betrayed, or someone with whom you had a misunderstanding that, for one reason or another, was never cleared up. We were asked to especially consider people we may have hurt, intentionally or otherwise, as a result of our illness. We've all done it: had a bad day health-wise, and taken it out on the wrong person or behaved in a manner we'd normally never even consider much less carry out. We've done a similar topic before, with the goal being to apologize to people in our lives this has happened to (in my case, I apologized to my best friend Fizz for not telling him about my diagnosis for quite some time, due to my not-so-stellar reaction...and being the fantastic person he is, he'd already forgiven me for it long ago and more than understood. Love ya, Fizz). But in this case, the clinch was that the person had to be someone we CAN'T apologize to.

I've thought long and hard about this one. We all have regrets in life; people we've done wrong or situations that got waaaaaaay out of our control. We've all burned bridges and burned 'em good. But in my life, most of my bridge burning happened before I got diagnosed, not after. And those bridges I have burned after getting the big DX, I've either tried to apologize for already or I burned them intentionally and don't see that I much to apologize for (and we've all done that as well). I know some people in my life are going to expect my Burnt Bridge Letter to concern the email I sent to my former stepmonster just prior to her death. Sorry, but no. I'm a firm believer in the sincere apology: if you'd do the same thing all over again in the same circumstances, you're not sorry. The only thing I'd really be sorry for is bad timing, not the actual email itself...and I can't control the kind of bad timing that was. Not to mention the fact that we were also asked to try, if possible, to think of a burned bridge that not only happened after getting MS, but was actually somehow related to the MS. And when I began to think about that instruction, the topic of my letter came to me with astonishing clarity.

The people I'm writing this to were not friends of mine. They weren't family. I did not know them well. But I acted in a way that I am ashamed of. To make matters worse, the whole thing could have been avoided...if only I'd been honest and even TRIED to explain. But I chickened out instead. There's really no other way to describe it. And I have always regretted it.

So without further ado, here is my Burnt Bridge Letter....

Dear "Tim" and "Dave":

I don't know if you'll remember me or not. Years and years ago, I worked as a Break Manager at the airport. My job was to walk around the airport and give the bartenders their breaks, and tend their bar in their absence. Then in the afternoons, it was my responsibility to run the bar in the Japanese restaurant for several hours. You were my managers.

There were two incidents, on two separate days (that I am positive you thought nothing of), but are important to my explanation. The first was when I was doing a small repair on a beer freezer, fell and dislocated my thumb. The two of you were quite nice to me when it happened and while I was healing from it. The second happened only days after my thumb healed. I was in one of the bars with two of the employees. I went to get nacho cheese from the warmer for a customer, when I inexplicably spilled nacho cheese everywhere. Instead of helping clean it up, I hightailed it out of there and left the big mess for the employees to deal with. I know they complained to you. I know they were angry. The very next day, I turned in my notice. I gave the reason: my daughter's special needs now required me to stay at home with her. This was only partially true. And the timing of the note---the day after the nacho incident---was not a coincidence. I'm sure you never put the two together. But they are very much connected, as is the earlier thumb accident.

Less than a week before my scheduled last day, I was once again working with the two employees I'd stuck with the cheese mess. Neither was happy to be working with me and they weren't terribly friendly. We were super-busy, and I did notice a time or two that they were watching me very closely, but I didn't think much of it. There didn't seem to be much point in taking them to task when I was leaving the job soon and wasn't scheduled to work with them again, ever, anyway.

My next stop from there was the Japanese restaurant. It was quite busy there as well (if memory serves, all the planes were delayed due to weather, creating quite a crowd of less-than-happy people wanting to drink the irritation away). When we finally got a break, I noticed the two of you walking into the restaurant. It surprised me, because this restaurant was in BFE and the two of you rarely made the long trek down there. I went from surprised to stunned when you told me to take my till out and go into the back room with you.

When we got there, Tim counted my till while Dave told me something that made my jaw drop: I'd been accused of stealing. What's more, the accusers claimed they'd witnessed it! I was in total shock. I'd never stolen from the job. Frankly, only a fool would steal from that job: there were cameras and security everywhere. Just a few weeks before, a junior manager had been fired when he was caught on tape smoking in the back rooms. We all knew about it.

When the counting was done, the verdict was in: my till was ten cents over. You both seemed really confused...and really angry. I thought I would get an apology for being accused of being a theif, but instead I got fired. Fired, just days before my last day, with a till that was not only NOT short but was a dime over.

I knew I was still in trouble...because I had, in fact, done something that was against the rules. It was one of those moments in life where you can make all the difference, if you just choose to do the right thing and speak up. I didn't, and I can't tell you how much I have regretted it.

You see, my accusers (you naturally didn't say who'd made the accusation, but it was pretty clear to me who the finger-pointers were) had seen me doing something unusual. It looked to them like I was stealing. And fool that I was, I not only didn't know they'd seen it, it never occured to me that what I was doing would appear, to a third party, to look like stealing.

In the till were five slots for bills: one for ones, fives, tens, twenties and one for traveller's checks. I was in the habit, though, of putting traveller's checks under the till in the envelope for large bills, because the paper was often too big for the slot and would rip or become cumbersome. I had, however, found another use for the extra slot. A use that didn't look so good when I'd been accused of wrongdoing. You see, ALL the money I'd taken in that day at the Japanese restaurant was in that one slot. Some of it was folded over in half. I should have realized how it appeared, but it really never occured to me that anyone was paying that much attention to the contents of my till in the few seconds it would be open during a transaction! I also thought I'd done a pretty good job of "acting normal" and concealing what I was doing. Clearly, I was wrong on both counts.

It was absolutely against the rules to handle money like that. I broke the rules, and I'm sorry. I really didn't think I'd get fired for it. And the odd thing? Had I told you WHY I'd done it, you not only wouldn't have fired me....chances are, legally, you couldn't.

In the back room, you asked me why I'd put all the money like that in the extra slot. I couldn't look you in the eye, and couldn't respond. I was so humiliated and ashamed. I kept trying to find the words, and I couldn't. I don't cry easily or often, but I was choked up back there in that back room. So you told me to take the till to your office and wait for you there. Instead, I put the till on your desk and snuck out the stairwell. I never came back.

I am well aware that my cowardly actions just made me look even more guilty. I wish I had that moment to do all over again. I wish I could have just looked you both in the eye and told you the truth. But I just couldn't. Not then.

You see, some time before I came to work for you, I began having strange symptoms. My doctors said it was postpartum depression. They prescribed antidepressants. The symptoms got worse. Tests, tests and more tests followed. None of the symptoms were, at that point, anything that interferred with my job. Even when I first came to work at the airport, this was the case. But as time went on, I began to have real difficulties. I felt exhausted all the time. I suffered horrible spasms in my legs and pain in my face that was becoming increasingly difficult to hide. I became so sensitive to heat that I would use any excuse to be near the freezer. That's why I was out there the day I fell. It wasn't just any fall, though. What you never knew is that my leg went totally numb under me, and I laid on the floor for probably ten or fifteen minutes before I got up and sought help. I told Tim I had fallen just a few seconds before, because I was so embarassed. The truth was, I had to wait until the feeling had come back into my leg. I could not get up off the floor, and I was so scared. Not only was I terrified by that horrible moment of helplessness, I was also very worried that someone would find me, ask questions...and find out my secret.

You see, just shortly before this, all those test results were back: multiple sclerosis.

Can you understand the shock of that moment? I don't know if you'll recall, but I had just lost my mother to cancer just months before, and now this. I didn't know much about MS at the time. I thought about being confined to a wheelchair, frail, unable to care for myself. Life as I knew it, as I'd always known it, was over. When you get a diagnosis like that, you go through the same stages that you endure when a loved one dies (and I was still struggling with those following my mother's death). My denial had been quite vivid up until the fall in the freezer; afterwards, I short of vacillated between denial and depression. I was just having such a hard time accepting it. And without my mother there, I felt so alone. Who among us doesn't long for our mother when we're sick or injured? And I now had an owie that wasn't ever going to go away. It was easily the most difficult months of my life.

And like many people who go through this, I needed time before I could tell people. By the time my hand and arm went numb and caused the nacho cheese mess, I still hadn't told even my own father or best friend. I was so afraid of what my family and friends would think, how they would react, when they knew. I was certainly not ready to tell my employers and co-workers! So when the cheese incident happened, I realized I couldn't keep this up. I either had to tell my bosses about my illness (and yes, I was afraid I'd be fired or worse, given pity-work for the poor invalid) or I'd have to resign. The decision ended up being made for me when my daughter's health worsened. So I turned in my notice and hoped there'd be no more problems in that time and I could end my employment with my dignity intact.

I had learned, over time, certain "shortcuts" to get through the workday; but even with those, I was barely getting by. What started out as helpful little tricks to hide my condition and help me do my job very quickly became crutches without which I couldn't do the job at all. I learned the shortest routes---with the least amount of walking---to get from restaurant to restaurant. I pretended to take smoke breaks so no one would know how often I was going to the restroom to urinate or get sick. I sucked on ice cubes, did dishes in cold water and wore "cooling scarves" to keep my temperature down. I found jobs that required me to sit down, and offered to help do paperwork for other employees (everyone hated the alcohol-inventory sheets) in exchange for them doing jobs I was finding difficult, such as turning chairs upside-down on the tables.

But there was one problem that worried more than the others. My hand-eye coordination was slipping, to say the least. Apparently, when business was jumping and I was required to handle money at a fast pace...I was having difficulty putting the right bills in the right slots. I was also sometimes confusing one dollar bills for ten dollar bills. My till had never been significantly over or under, but I was constantly worried that eventually I would make a big mistake. So, I developed a system. A shortcut. A trick.

You've got it: I put all the money in the extra slot.

You see, removing bills (for making change) was nowhere near as difficult for me as putting the money away, which entailed lifting up the little metal prongs, putting bills in the right slot, and then removing bills to make change...quickly. It was the "quickly" part that was the real problem; when business was slow, I didn't need to use this particular trick. But when it was busy, I just got overwhelmed. So I would put all the money in the extra slot. And to further ensure I wouldn't make a mistake, I folded all the ten dollar bills in half, to differentiate them from one dollar bills. At the end of the shift, when the restaurant was closed, I would sort the money and put the bills in the right slot. I'd been doing it for some time, and since adopting the practice, I hadn't had any accidents with wrong change. I also hadn't snapped my fingertips in the metal prongs anymore---something I had been doing so often that my husband commented on my swollen, rosy-red nail beds.

I know it was wrong, and against the rules. And I know---now---how bad it looked to the two employees who noticed it. I can absolutely see how it looked suspicious to the two of you as well. But I also know that you were good managers, and fair people. If I'd just waited in the office like you asked me to, and came clean...maybe I'm wrong, but I've never stopped believing that if I'd only had the courage to explain, you would've not only understood but been supportive. Not to say that you would have let me continue breaking that rule, but surely something could've been worked out. Maybe the till could have been modified to not snap and to open easier. Maybe someone else could've been in charge of the money while I did bar-back instead. A demotion, sure, but one I could have lived with. Surely some compromise could have been reached. But I made sure that couldn't happen, by running away from the problem instead of facing it.

I'm a different person today. I'm not only not ashamed of my disease, I blog about it! Everyone in my life knows, and I'm not embarassed for them to know. I also know quite a bit more about the law and disabilites than I did back then. I was so afraid I'd be fired, or I'd be given some really bad, demoralizing job that existed solely for the barely competent to perform. I knew there were laws in place to protect the disabled, but I couldn't even bring myself to admit I WAS disabled! I couldn't even say the word out loud. If I thought it, I cried.

If I had the chance to do it all over again...well, I'd never let it get to that point at all. I would've asked for a confidential meeting, informed you of my diagnosis, and asked to brainstorm ways that I could continue to work without compromising the rules or other employees. I would have been prepared to discuss the facts of MS, as opposed to the common misperceptions (which I myself, sadly, was buying into wholesale at the time). I would've educated myself about my rights, and I would have gone into the situation confident that something could be worked out.

Barring that...I wish I could have just waited in that office and waited for the question again, "Why was all the money in that slot?" I wish I would sat up straight in the chair and say, "I'm so sorry for breaking the rule, and for not being honest and upfront about my condition. I've been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, and I'm having some hand-eye coordination issues. I never stole, and I'd be more than happy to take a polygraph if you wish it. If you like, I can get some information from my doctor about my condition so we can find a way for me to finish out my last few days here without my being in violation of company policy. Or if you still prefer I'd leave now, I understand. Again, I am so sorry I didn't tell you and I'm sorry I broke the rules. This has been a very difficult time for me, and frankly, I wasn't sure what the response would be. Thank you for understanding."

I wish I'd said it then...so I'm saying it now.

I know this is probably making a mountain out of a molehill, as far as you're concerned. It's been a pretty long letter, after all, over what is basically a disabled woman hiding her disability from her employers. I doubt either of you has ever wasted a moment wondering why I'd done what I'd done, why I'd run rather than explain myself, since the day I'd done it. Maybe it's ego or guilt, I don't know, but there's always been a part of me that has this nagging doubt...this feeling that maybe you did wonder. Maybe you did care why. And because of my denial, my cowardice, you will never know.

It had such a simple explanation, all my "quirks" and incidents those last few months. I could've explained it all, put that final piece in the puzzle. Instead, I made myself look even worse by refusing to do so. By hiding my head in the sand. I never even gave you a chance. By assuming the response would be negative, would be pity or scorn or anger or disgust...I never gave you the chance to be kind, caring or compassionate. You didn't ever do anything to me to deserve that.

Please forgive for me for it.

Yours,

Angel

Another Update

2008-08-22T21:05:00.000-07:00

I know I haven't been blogging with any regularity lately, but I'm hoping that will soon change with the end of summer. To wit, here is another update...

On July 26, it was the tenth anniversary of my mother's death. It was difficult for me. It's very hard for me to believe that it's been ten whole years. She would have been 64 now. It's hard for me to imagine her in her 50's. I miss her more than words can express.

The summer has been hard on me health-wise. The weather has been very flip-floppy: horribly hot for several days, then rainy and cool. This is actually worse than just hot all the time, because my body goes through a sort of "backlash" when the weather changes so much and I end up sicker as a result. It's been a boring summer, full of bed rest and nonsense. I'll be glad when fall is upon us.

I've had a few emails asking me about how my father is doing. Well, he's doing as well as can be expected. He had his gallbladder out a few weeks ago, so here's hoping that will help with the pain levels he's experiencing. Otherwise, he's much the same: very sick.

A big piece of news this summer: my in-laws bought us a car. This was completely unexpected, and very much appreciated. I'm loving the XM radio more than I thought I would. It's our first non-Oldsmobile car in years and years.

I get my first mammogram when the summer is over. It makes me nervous. My mother was so young when she came down with breast cancer, that it just makes me...well, nervous. I know it needs to be done and I will be doing it...I just hope they offer me a Valium or two.

This is where I wrap it up for today. I hope to blog some more on Sunday, addressing something I saw on "Judge Judy" that has my blood boiling. I feel another rant coming on...

Until then,

Angel

In Defense of History's Lesser-Knowns

2008-07-13T16:20:00.000-07:00

I'm a big fan of documentaries, and channels like the History Channel. However, recent offerings have made me want to scream, "Enough with Hitler and ancient Rome already!" Some alien culture, getting only our documentary channels, would think nothing of note happened on our planet between Caligula and WWII. And worse, that no ONE of note lived between Caligula and WWII.

In that spirit, I offer up a suggestion: enough of Alexander the Great. Julius Caesar? Been there, done that. And no more Nazis, please. Instead, let us begin to truly educate the populace by celebrating history's "lesser-knowns." Villians who have been forgotten, eccentrics whose delights are long past, heroes no one knows, but should. We all know who Marco Polo was. But how many of us know the details of China's pirate queen? We're familiar with the Freemasons. Bring on the Disumbrationists!

And of course, I would never dream of offering up this suggestion without a list of my own and candidates at the ready. And so here, in no particular order, are...

***HISTORY'S 100 LESSER-KNOWNS, WHOSE DAY NEEDS TO COME!***

1) IKKYU SOJUN: THE MAD MONK. A Zen master and poet in 15th-century Japan, who believed that enlightenment and pleasure were one...which is why he often sought both in taverns and brothels.

2) FLORENCE FOSTER JENKINS: THE WORST OPERA SINGER IN HISTORY. Which was evident to everyone but her. I've been searching for her RCA/Victor recording, "A Florence Foster Jenkins Recital," for years in vain, so I cannot attest to the extent of her bad singing from a first-hand viewpoint, alas.

3)BELLE GUNNESS: AMERICA'S FIRST FEMALE SERIAL KILLER. I'm a fan of history (obviously). Some years ago, when the Charleze Theron film "Monster" was released, I was regularly irked by society's pitifully short memory. Time and time again, I heard the film's subject, murderess Aileen Wuornos, being referred to as "America's first female serial killer." Irked, because it's not true. Not even close. For that title, you'd have to go back to 1906, and look into the life of a mother of three who killed numerous men (a popular song about her sang, "Some say Belle killed only ten, and some say 42. It was hard to tell exactly, but there were quite a few"). And unlike Wuornos, Belle Gunness escaped...and was never brought to justice. An intriguing subject...and frankly, I'd just like to see the historical record set straight once and far all.

4) FRANCES GRIFFITHS & ELSIE WRIGHT: NAUGHTY SPRITES. The story of the Cottingly fairy photographs is one of my favorites. They fooled a nation for decades into believing they played with fairies and other otherwordly creatures. You might be surprised which famous author they fooled, too.

5) DR. JAMES BARRY, BILLY TIPTON & FRANK THOMPSON: MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE. Three cases of men...who were actually women.

6) FATTY ARBUCKLE: THE TRAGIC CLOWN. There is great debate over just what happened on that fateful night at the famous comic's hotel party...but at the end of the evening, one woman would be dead, one career would be forever ruined and one sad urban legend was born. His trial was the OJ Simpson case of his day. We've got scandal, controversy, celebrity involvement...so why no docu's on him?

7) DR. JOHN HARVEY KELLOGG. The man who created your morning's corn flakes was much more than just a savvy businessman...he was a radical proponent of healthy living and the occassional corn flake enema.

8) CLEVELAND TURNER: THE FLOWER MAN. Turner's home in Houston is a technicolor monument to one man's creativity and ability to recycle.

9) H.L. MENCKEN: THE TUB HEARD ROUND THE WORLD. The interesting story of a writer who changed US history...but certainly didn't mean to. As a result, many people still believe that President Fillmore was best noted for installing a bathtub in the White House.

10) CHARLES PONZI: THE MAN BEHIND THE SCHEME. Still in use today, the phrase "Ponzi scheme" brings to mind pyramid scams and dubious business practices. Yet few know just who the Ponzi in those Ponzi schemes really was.

11) CHING SHIH: CHINA'S PIRATE QUEEN. Forget "Pirates of the Carribean." The real story of this woman who ruled the seas is far better than anything Hollywood could dream up.

12) WILBUR GLENN VOLIVA, AKA ELIJAH THE RESTORER: THE LEADER OF A NEW ZION. A faith-healer in the 1890's, he ruled the city of New Zion, Illinois with an iron and eratic fist, outlawing pork, whisky and humming.

13) ELAINE YOUNG: THE PRICE OF VANITY. The story of a Beverly Hills real estate agent who ended up deformed and in horrible pain...as a result of bad plastic surgery.

14) NICO MOLENAAR: THANK YOU FOR SMOKING. Dutch artist who created beautiful mosaics...from the bands of cigars alone.

15) ANNA HELD: QUEEN OF ZIEGFELD'S FOLLIES. The oft-overlooked actress with the hourglass figure so many men admired and so many women envied.

16) GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH: THE KING OF BRITISH HISTORY. If you think the controversy over Marco Polo is a fierce one, take Geoffrey on Monmouth, author of one of the most successful books of the 13th century and the source of the Arthuriana craze that I myself suffer gladly. He has been the subject of heated debate almost as soon as the ink dried on the page...and still is, today.

17) LENNY BRUCE: CURSING FOR YOUR FIRST AMENDMENT RIGHTS. Comedian, author, and defendant.

18) EDGAR ALLAN POE: QUOTH THE POET... It's sad that he's known mostly for "The Raven." His life was quite interesting.

19) TOM KEATING: FAKING IT. Created fakes of everyone from Rembrandt to Renoir prior to his death in 1984.

20) CHARLES ATLAS: NO MORE 97-POUND WEAKLING. We all know the comic-strip story of Mac, the scrawny boy who got sand kicked in has face, but thanks to Charles Atlas, became "a real man after all." The real story behind Atlas is much more compelling.

21) GLENN GOULD: CANADA'S PIANO GENIUS. Highly talented and extraordinarily eccentric...and so much the hypochrondriac, he would not have a telephone call with a sick friend.

22) ELIZABETH TAHJIAN: SOMETIMES YOU FEEL LIKE A NUT. Curator of the Nut Museum in Old Lyme, Connecticut...and believer that man is not only nuts, but they evolved from them as well.

23) LYLE ALZADO: DIABOLICAL DIANABOL. Before Jose Conseco made headlines with his baseball steroids tell-all "Juiced," there was the All-American football player with a secret, Lyle Alzado, dead at 43 from cancer caused by "the juice."

24) PAUL JORDAN SMITH & THE DISUMBRATIONIST SCHOOL OF PAINTING. Irked at the fact that cubism and other modern schools of art had made his wife's more classical works unfavorable, he grabbed a paintbrush and embarked on a mission to show the world that art critics just aren't as smart as they claim to be.

25) JOSHUA NORTON: THE EMPEROR OF SAN FRANCISCO. A weathly and eccentric man who declared himself Emperor of the United States...and the city of San Francisco agreed.

26) MAX FACTOR: THE BRAINS BEHIND THE BEAUTY. He did much more than make make-up...he made Hollywood. His story deserves to be told.

27) PRINCESS CARABOO: THE LADY AND THE LIAR. I've always been a fan of this particular tale, an oddly enduring hoax involving a runaway maiden and a false identity. This was once a very popular item, but has fallen out of vogue for quite some time.

28) LE PETOMANE: BOMBS AWAY. This man's claim to fame? He was, until his death in the 1940's, "the world's most famous farter." As part of his successful stage act, he would make his winds sound like thunderstorms or canon fire.

29) PROHIBITION ROSE: A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME WOULDN'T GET YOU HALF AS DRUNK. Portland's bootlegging queen and a denizen of our famous Shanghai tunnels. Little is known about her, and what is known, has certainly left me with a desire to know more.

30) SIR THOMAS MALORY: THE FIRST BESTSELLING AUTHOR. Writer of "Le Morte D'Arthur," which is still considered one of the best and most important works of literary fiction, is a mystery in many ways. I'd love to see an in-depth investigation into who this man was.

31) WILMA MANKILLER: FIRST FEMALE CHEIF OF THE WESTERN CHEROKEE. I don't agree with all of her politics, but she isn't a woman who should be ignored.

32) MARK HOFFMAN: FORGER, LIAR, MURDERER. Man who forged several shocking "early Mormon" documents...and killed to cover it up.

33) WILFRED LUNN: CREATOR OF LUNACY. Inventor of such items as the Fat Child and Reluctant Obese Pensioner Exerciser and the ice cream cone that licks you back.

34) LEONARD AUTIER: THE BIG MAN BEHIND BIG HAIR. He did the hair of royalty and wrote the first hair how-to manual in the 1770's. His creations were so big, they were often dangerous.

35) ZIGMUND JAN ADAMSKI: AN EERY DISAPPEARANCE. This story has a lot of strange coincidences, unexplainable facets and an enduring mystery yet to be solved in the death of this Polish-born coal miner who many believe had a close encounter...of the third kind, at the very least.

36) THE COUNT DE SAINT GERMAINE: IMMORTAL BELOVED? My husband's favorite historical mystery...who was this man, and just how long DID he live, anyway?

37) THOMAS CHATTERTON: THE "MARVELLOUS BOY." A poet who wrote fakes, then his own works...before committing suicide in 1770. After his death, his work was finally recognized as truly wonderful, prompting William Wordsworth to call him "the marvellous boy."

38) JAMES A. HARDEN-HICKEY: SELF-PROCLAIMED SOVEREIGN OF TRINIDAD. An adventurer, wanderer and author of the highly-controversial "Euthanasia: The Aesthetics of Suicide," a collection of favorable comments on offing oneself.

39) JERRY ORBACH: STAR OF STAGE & SCREEN. I'm a firm believer that this man doesn't get the credit he so richly deserved.

40) KASPAR HAUSER: THE "APPEARING MAN." Found wandering in Germany in the early 1800s, we know little to nothing about him...and sadly, he knew little or nothing about himself, either...and his murder prevented his sad mystery from being solved.

41) EUGENE ARAM: INNOCENT OR GUILTY? I do so love a good crime story...and it doesn't get much better than this. I recommend the poem "The Dream of Eugene Aram" by Thomas Hood for anyone wanting to get to know this shady character a bit better...but a documentary would be even better!

42) AMADEO MODIGLIANI: IT'S A LONG WAY TO LIVORNO. Artist who was so hated in his hometown in Italy during the early 20th century that he fled for Paris. Unable to win over the art world with his sculpturs, he came back to Livorno and, according to legend, dumped many of them in the local canal. By 1984, he was recognized as a genius...and got his revenge, in a strange way, on the town that scorned him.

43) JOSEPH PALMER: IT'S HARD TO BE HAIRY. A man whose 1873 epitaph sums it up: "Persecuted for wearing the beard." If you're a man with whiskers today, or just aspire to them, you owe a lot to this man and his refusal to shave, no matter what.

44) WILLIAM HENRY IRELAND: THE BARD, HE'S NOT. A man who forged Shakespearian documents--and eventually, an entire play--to please his Bard-loving father.

45) THE GREEN CHILDREN OF WOOLPIT: A CLEVER HOAX OR VISITORS FROM THE UNKNOWN? Two children suddenly appear in a mysterious manner in the UK in the 12th century. They spoke no language anyone knew, seemed completely unfamiliar with common foods of Europe...and their skin was a very definite shade of green.

46) LOUIS T. HARDIN: THE MOONDOG. A blind composer-conductor and famous street musician.

47) THE SEVEN SUTHERLAND SISTERS: IT'S A FAMILY A-HAIR. Seven sisters, over 36 feet of hair. How those locks built and empire, and then watched it come tumbling down.

48) RICHARD PRYOR: MAN OF THE PEOPLE. His life was, in so many ways, very tragic. He didn't let it break him. He made fun of it instead.

49) NICOLE BARBE CLICQUOT: THE WIDOW'S GOOD WORKS. Known better in French as "Veuve Clicquot." After the death of her husband, she grieved. Then she invented better champagne, pink champagne and the mushroom cork...because as Mae West once said, "There comes a time in every woman's life when the only thing that helps is a glass of champagne."

50) FRITZ KREISLER: WHAT'S A VIOLINIST TO DO? A renowned violinist, Kreisler bemoaned the lack of old masterpieces for him to perform...so he created some himself.

51) WILLIAM LYON MACKENZIE KING: PRIME MINISTER OF THE LIVING AND THE DEAD. Canada's PM for over two decades, he was a famous recluse whose secret world of seances and dogs sent by his dead mother was made known only after his own retreat into the grave.

52) JAKOB FUGGER: THE POWER BEHIND THE THRONES. The most powerful man of the 16th century you've never heard of.

53) MADAME C.J. WALKER: WONDERFUL HAIR, WONDERFUL YOU. At a time when Jim Crowe laws were a fact of life and working women were rare indeed, this African-American entrepreneur created her own door-to-door hair products line...and made millions. She trained other African-American women to be her salespeople, and as a result, took countless families out of poverty and used her status to fight against discrimination and the terrible scourge of lynching. I don't know why she has been largely forgotten. She deserves to be remembered.

54) JAMU VERHEYLEWEGEN: UNDERWATER PAINTER. Literally...he creates his works while submerged under water with the help of lead weights and scuba gear.

55) SEBASTIAN OF PORTUGAL: THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING? Handsome, headstrong, beloved...King Sebastian was all three. But he disappeared in 1578 after an ill-advised attempt to renew the Crusades. And almost three centuries later...some still wait for his return.

56) JOHN JAMES AUDUBAN: STRICTLY FOR THE BIRDS. Most people know him only for the society that bears his name today...but he was a richly fascinating character.

57) HARVEY MILK: NO MORE CLOSET. The inspiring life and tragic death of gay politician Harvey Milk is not one that should ever be forgotten.

58) KING FAROUK: EGYPT'S KLEPTOMANIACAL BOY KING. The last king of Egypt took his throne at age 16, was overthrown in 1952...and in the interim, managed to steal from everyone from Churchill to a dead emir.

59) FRANK ZAPPA: BRINGING EXPERIMENTAL ROCK TO THE MASSES. Did you know he once appeared on a talk show to play music...on a bicycle?

60) CHARLES FREDERICK WORTH: MAKING FASHION FASHIONABLE. Arguably the world's first "fashion designer."

61) GEORGE PSALMANAZAR: THE PHONY FORMOSAN. In the 18th century, he convinced a continent that he was a "Formosan native," and to prove it, he wrote a book...complete with alphabet and religion...all of it, a figment of his imagination.

62) LEONARD CASLEY: ONLY ROYAL RULER IN AUSTRALIA. An interesting man who took a feud with the government over wheat quotas to an extreme...by declaring his land the Hutt River country and himself its king.

63) MAD JACK MYTTON: DAREDEVIL. He once set himself aflame to cure hiccups and was known to take any bet, no matter how foolhardy. Sort of an 18th-century Steve-O.

64) DONNA OLIMPIA MAIDALCHINI: ROME'S GREEDIEST WOMAN. We have so many documentaries on ancient Rome...and yet this infamous villian, a woman who stole, bartered and manipulated her way into unspeakable riches by her unrelenting control of Pope Innocent X, has been swept under the rug. More's the pity.

65) SIR GERALD HUGH TYRWHITT-WILSON: FOURTEENTH BARON BERNERS. Artistic and eccentric...among his creations, the tune "Funeral March for a Wealthy Aunt" Today, the doves of his former home, Faringdon House, are still dyed pink, yellow and mauve in his honor.

66) LILY LANGTRY: THE FAIREST FLOWER OF THE STAGE. Women wanted to be her, men wanted to be with her, everyone wanted to see her perform.

67) CHAMPAGNE CHARLIE AND THE GREAT VANCE: STARDOM FOR SALE. In the late 1800's, these two "champagne swells" created popular music that was adored by fans...and invented the product placement.

68) DOROTHY PARKER: QUEEN OF THE ROUND TABLE. The only female member of the famous Algonquin Round Table and a founder of The New Yorker.

69) BENJAMIN LAY: A MAN AHEAD OF HIS TIME. Born a Quaker in Philadelphia in 1732, he lobbied against slavery with a zealous nature that landed him in the stocks and prison on more than one occasion. One example: when outraged that a neighbor purchased a young slave-girl away from her family, he decided to let said neighbor know how that child must feel...by briefly kidnapping their 6-year-old son.

70) JOHN CHAPMAN: AKA JOHNNY APPLESEED. We all know he went about America planting apple trees near and far...but not for the reasons most people think!

71) DIVINE: THE BIGGEST DRAG QUEEN OF THEM ALL. How can you not love Divine?

72) JOHN FARINGTON: FATHER OF THE YEAR. To entertain his young autistic child, he created a menagerie of animals and famous persons in the family's backyard that remains today.

73) DAVID WILBUR: THE STARMAN. Known as "the astronomer" by his Rhode Island neighbors, he predicted the weather with startling accuracy...when he could be persuaded to speak to other human beings at all. The strange symbols and writing he left behind puzzle people to this day.

74) MARY PICKFORD: AMERICA'S SWEETHEART. From her humble stage beginnings in childhood to becoming one of the founders of United Artists, Mary did it all, and did most of it in curls.

75) HETTY GREEN: THE WITCH OF WALL STREET. Probably history's greatest miser; while she was the wealthiest woman on Earth, she never bathed or washed more than the hem of the black dress she wore every day. Her family history has to be read to be believed.

76) DAVID SUTCH: SCREAMING LOONY. A musician in the UK, he performed as Screaming Lord Sutch, a character that began each show by rising out of a coffin. He then turned his eye to politics, heading the Monster Raving Loony party...that actually managed to get a member elected to public office.

77) KARP OSIPOVICH LYKOV: THE LAST OF THE OLD BELIEVERS. In Russia, the Old Believers were a group of people who blamed Peter the Great for every societal ill and rejected any modern change in Russia. Lykov withdrew from the world...but then the world came knocking at his hovel door.

78) THE LEATHER MAN OF CONNECTICUT RIVER: AN ENDURING MYSTERY. No one knows his name, why he dressed in leathers and wood, or why he walked, over and over, the same 34-day route through New York and Connecticut until his death in 1889.

79) ABBE ADOFE JULIEN: CARVING THE MARTYRS. On a cliff in Brittany, this holy man carved out numerous images of martyrs and heroes.

80) WILLIAM 'TOPAZ' MCGONAGALL: HISTORY'S WORST POET. Born in Scotland in the 1830's, this man took the high art of poetry, and subjected it to the worst twists of language ever conceived.

81) PLENNIE WINGO: TAKING ON THE WORLD, ONE BACKWARDS STEP AT A TIME. The Texas man who determined to walk the world...backwards.

82) JEFF MCKISSACK: ORANGE YOU GLAD. Creator of the Orange Show, Florida's only monument to the citrus fruit.

83) ANTOINE LAVOISIER: OFF WITH HIS BRILLANT HEAD. Believed by many to be the father of modern chemistry, he was a leading French scientist who lost his head...to the guillotine.

84) ULRICH VON LICHTENSTEIN: TAKING CHIVALRY TO HEART...AND PINKIE. A 13th-century knight whom historian Richard Zachs calls "the Inspector Clousseau of chivalrous knights." He won at least 307 jousts in his career. As for the pinkie...think Van Gogh, only with a finger instead of an ear.

85) SEQUOYAH: A MAN AND HIS LETTERS. Scholar and creator of the Cherokee syllabry.

86) GRACE KELLY: THE AMERICAN PRINCESS. The actress who became royal. What little girl didn't dream of THAT?

87) PETE GRAY: THE ONE-ARMED HERO. He played major league ball, had a comic book segment written about him and was a hero to WWII disabled vets.

88) BILL WILSON: MY NAME IS BILL W. Co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous...and a man many still call "friend."

89) CHANG AND ENG: THE ORIGINAL SIAMESE TWINS. Performers, farmers...and not always friends. But always family, and always...together.

90) JUDI CHAMBERLIN: A HELPING HAND. Mental-health activist extraordinaire, author and co-founder of the Mental Patients Liberation Front.

91) CHARLES SCHULTZ: FROM PENNIES TO PEANUTS. The creator of Charlie Brown, Snoopy and a host of other characters we grew up on and loved.

92) THE DOLL FAMILY: LIVING DOLLS. Four German siblings who made their fortune and fame as sideshow "midgets" in the 1920's-1950's. During their heyday, they sang, danced and rode horses with Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus.

93) JOHN SHIPPEN, JR.: THE MAN WITH THE SWING. An African-American golfer who nearly shut down a tournament...by playing in it.

94) NORMAN COLLINS: SAILOR JERRY. Probably the most famous tattoo artist of all time.

95) SOJOURNER TRUTH: SPEAKING OUT. Anti-slavery activist who somehow always gets pushed aside for Harriet Tubman. Not to take anything away from Tubman (who certainly deserves all the kudos and more), but it's time Truth came to light.

96) DUKE PAOA KAHANAMOKU: HAWAI'I'S ORIGINAL SURFER DUDE. Olympic swimmer and ambassador of surfing.

97) GENE RODDENBERRY: WHERE NO MAN WENT BEFORE. The creator of the "Star Trek" universe, and a man who gave us a vision of a future that was promising, optimistic...and amazingly applicable in today's world.

98) THOR HEYERDAHL: EXPLORER AND SCIENTIST. A unique man who was more than willing to put his money where his mouth was...even if it meant crossing the Pacific on a raft!

99) JOHNNY CASH: THE MAN IN BLACK. Because he deserved it.

100) CHARLES CURTIS: THE INDIAN IN THE OFFICE. Yes, we had a Native American Vice President. And he was a Repulican to boot. Why we don't teach this man's life in schools, I've no idea...but it's time he had a documentary, don't you think?

So there you go. Anyone you'd love to see honored?

The Transformation of the Mind

2008-07-11T23:35:00.000-07:00

There's something that has been on my mind for some time...middle age. Not the reality of it, which is inescapable unless you tragically expire before hitting those years, but the actuality of it. And what I mean by that is the process of middle age: the transformation from young adult to middle aged. That limbo state between youth and the golden years.

I see it as a transformation of the mind. We humans go through these from time to time. There is a time, for example, that you stop thinking with the mind of a child and go into that limbo state known as the teenage years. You're not really an adult yet, but you're not a child, either. You begin to think about the future in concrete ways, which differ greatly from the gossamer concept of the future that a child possesses. As a child, the future is this almost unreal concept, this time and place where you don't have to sit in the corner when you do something bad and you can decide where you want to live instead of being taken along by the adults in your life, the ones old enough to make these decisions that have so much bearing on your young existance. The idea of work is practically foreign; you think about "fun" jobs like being a firefighter or a cowboy or a teacher. Wouldn't that be nice, your child-mind says. You could be a dancer or a policeman and you'd never have to eat spinach again!

And then that first, crucial transformation into the teenage mind-state. You get your first job and realize that work is, in fact, WORK. The idea of money and bills becomes a reality. Those "fun" jobs of childhood begin to look like a lot less fun: firefighters and cops risk their lives, modern cowboys are hard to come by and teachers get paid next to nothing in our backwards, modern society. College becomes this obstacle to overcome before true adulthood can take place for so many of us. And how to pay for college is, for far too many teens, the real obstacle in their path. You begin to consider your options. Is trade or beauty school for me? How about the military? Am I creative enough as a writer/singer/dancer to make an actual living out of it or will I be condemned to live in my mom's basement as a result?

But far more important than the concept of your financial future, to my mind, is that other change that occurs in those adolescent years: the creation of your own personality, values and morals, seperate from your family, teachers, friends. I believe this transformation to be of the upmost importance, but you'd never know it from a look at how we as a society teach and speak to children. The emphasis is always on career and money. What do you want to be when you grow up? If you want to go to college, start on those prep classes now! And just how do you plan to support yourself, young man? I hope you're prepared to get rid of that hair, missy, if you want to make it in the corporate world!

And all the while, the teen struggles with issues that will affect their lives forever, but these struggles are overlooked or pooh-poohed by the adults around them. Or worse, made to seem completely unimportant. Ridiculous, isn't it? This is the transformation of the mind that is so very painful, because it's the first. And worse, you're not your own person yet. You still must live by the guidelines and mores of others. And too often, those others don't give a damn about your struggle. They tell you the most ludricuous things, like "these are the best years of your life!" I remember hearing that at 15 and thinking, "Oh, shit, I hope not." Who in their right mind would want to live those awful, painful, stressful years over again? Talk about torture.

But let's go back to those issues. Being a teen means questioning. Are my parents right? You wonder. Do they follow the right religion? Do they have the right political values? Do they feel the same way I do about sex, drugs, parenting, morality? And if it turns out I don't agree with them at all, how can we still respect each other and be a family? Does creating my own set of values means losing them?

It's a rough go. Everything you took for granted once, you can never do so again. Beyond remembering this for myself, I am now seeing my own 15-year-old go through it. My own set of cultural values insist that I not interfere with him. He must find his own way, as will his sisters after him. I can share my way, my views, my heart...but he must go where his Path will lead him. My job is to love him no matter which Path he takes.

My father, who has the same culture I do, did not even try at that task. His world is very black-and-white: his way, or the highway. I don't know why he chose to disregard his own upbringing, his ancestry, in this matter. I don't think I'll ever know. I'm not even sure HE knows, at this point. I do know that when I began that transformation from child to teen, it was made very clear to me that I went his way, or I could fuck right off. There was no doubting that certain Paths, should I take them, meant that he would disown me. His love was absolutely conditional. He could not love, for instance, a gay child. That would never happen. Acceptance meant, in his mind, that we accepted HIS way. He was under no obligation to accept ours, and had no inclination do so. This is reason number one on my list of why I live 2500 miles away.

My mother was cut from a different bolt of cloth alltogether. She always made it clear to us that her love was unconditional. When, during that teen transformation, I chose to look the way I do...my father was outraged. He forbade photos of me to be displayed in his home. I was not permitted to go to certain family events. I was unacceptable, and therefore, outside his ability to love or even tolerate. My mother, on the other hand, simply shrugged her shoulders and said, "If this is want you want, I want it for you." Ironic that I learned truly what the Cherokee belief of noninterference with another's Path, even your own child's, meant from my Irish mother. I don't think I could have survived that transformation without her, because as it happened, my Path took me as far from my father's as one could go. My values and beliefs are, in almost every instance, opposite from his own. It has made a relationship between us strained at best, nonexistant at worst. We're sort of in the middle at the moment. And that's probably where we'll always be.

And so, I am taking my cues from my mother in so many ways. I think about how accepting and supportive she was during my teen transformation. I miss her so very much, words fail me in an effort to articulate it. Especially as now, I am going through that second big transformation: middle age.

When the teen transformation happens, there are a lot of pitfalls along the way. Lots of big, big mistakes to be made and learned from. We as a society accept this...it's why teenagers are still considered children and their liability is limited as a result. We all went through it, and most of us survived it. So there's a certain level of societal empathy at work, and safety nets in place to help along the way when needed.

Now, the middle-age transformation has some pretty big pitfalls associated with it as well. The big difference is that you're on your own this time. No more safety nets. You're walking that tight-rope for real. And this time...more than just your life and your happiness could be at risk should you fall.

We all know what I'm talking about here: the dreaded mid-life crisis. This happens when the transformation is too much for some people to take. The idea that their youth could be over frightens the hell out of them. So they take grand measures, silly and transparent measures which will absolutely make them the butt of a million jokes, to stave off being old. Men buy tons of Rogaine and Viagra, hit the tanning beds, buy tight pants and a convertible. Women get breast implants, Botox, mini-skirts and the next tanning bed over. It fools no one. Yet, it doesn't stop them, either. And while we all laugh at the 40-year-old schmuck with the bad hairpiece and the brand-new Harley who's hanging out at the club...we all know that those middle-aged pitfalls carry with them, for some people, some serious falls that can ruin lives. They have affairs, they get divorced and split the kids up between them. They re-discover their old college buddies, Jack Daniels and Jim Beam, and end up looking up that ladder with 12 steps. Depression, drug addiction, gambling. And then, as if all that weren't enough, Bad Health shows up at the party. And why does it do that? Because partying and carrying on like an idiot is best left to people who still think turning 30 makes you old. Doing it at 40 can ruin your life, your spouses' life, your kids' lives. Not to mention ruining your liver.

And worse, they affect that transformation of the mind, that change in the way you think and the way you see the world. Bitterness comes to roost. You start thinking about that old song, "I knew the truth at 17, that love was meant for beauty queens." How devasting those lyrics, when your breasts have fallen victim to gravity and your first wrinkles have shown up just in time to watch your husband of 20 years take off with a 20-year-old who wasn't even born yet when you had your first date.

I have friends who have been divorced, once, twice, even three times. I see the pain, the emotional toll of it. And I remember how it feels to be a kid when your parents split up. I was unusual, in that I was relieved my parents were getting a divorce and I still count it as one of the best things that happened in my childhood. But I have siblings, and it wasn't a great thing for some of them. I'm not going to discount their experience just because I happened to go the other way on it.

That bitterness a few of my friends and family are feeling...I am not immune to it, just because I'm still married. It seems that a lot of people seem to think that if you don't have a mid-life crisis or you don't go through a divorce, you don't really have a transformation into middle age, as if there must be a catalyst beyond simply getting older. I disagree strongly with that.

And if a catalyst must needs occur...am I not going through my own? My MS is progressive now. I am losing my mobility, my independance. Pain and struggle are a daily occurance in my world. How can that not affect the way I see the future as it stands for me? How easy, to become bitter...as easy, perhaps, as those who have those more traditional catalysts of divorce and heartbreak.

We all go through these transformations...all of us except, of course, the terminally immature. You know who I'm talking about...the people who still act and behave the same way they did when they were in high school. It's all a big episode of "90210" for them. They are exhausting to deal with. In most cases, I choose not to do so.

But for the rest of us, that standing on the line between young and old happens even to the happiest of people, the most stable and most successful. It's how our soul develops, I believe. It's how we experience the human experience. Without these times of self-reflection and soul searching, of questioning and seeking, without those...we aren't really human at all.

In my culture, we believe that wisdom can only come from experience and age. We revere the Elder. I'm not saying that every person of elderly age is wise...I think we all know that isn't so. But our best shot of gaining that wisdom still comes from living life, and learning from the triumphs as well as the pitfalls.

So to my fellow compatriots, looking back on the life youth gave us and looking forward, with some anxiety and some anticipation, to what being older will give us still...I ask you to keep one thing in mind: we can survive it.

And besides, with all that Viagra...it's a lot easier to survive it than it used to be.

---Angel

Random Thoughts

2008-03-03T03:22:00.000-08:00

***"Fatigue" sounds like such a....benign word. It doesn't quite fit the mind-numbing, will-crushing exhaustion you get from MS, and which I am battling (not too successfully) now. It's also weird, to have days of fatigue, and then go through nights of insomnia. It's as if my body really wants to have a sleep disorder, but it just can't commit.

***For the first time since junior high, I can't get worked up over a presidental election. I don't know if it's the beforementioned fatigue, or it's just a growing cynicism (due, in part, to a president being "selected" rather than elected not too long ago), or what have you. I just can't get excited over any of the candidates. Maybe once the race is in full swing, with candidates nominated and vice-presidential hopefulls named, I'll get more in the spirit of things.

***My cat is lonely. That's the vet's verdict: the cat was used to being in a multicat household, and that's why he whines at night after we've all hit the hay and won't stop until someone gets up and pets him for a while. So, we've begun the process of getting an additional cat. Which, for us, means scoping out the Humane Society's website for a few weeks, making a list of feline contenders, and then heading out waaaaaaaaay across town to the shelter. We've never had more than one cat at a time. My mother always had multiple cats, and my godmother...well, let's say she has a lot of cats. And by "a lot," I mean somewhere around thirty or so. No, I'm not kidding. I have no desire to have a house full of cats like that, but I also would rather not have the cat mewing all night, waking the kids, either. The things I'll do for my cat's emotional wellbeing...

***I have a doctor's appointment next Tuesday, and I've made a decision. I am tired of every month, having these huge, ridiculous prescription calamities. Last month's was the worst. I am supposed to get my pain pills on the first of the month. I didn't get them until almost the FIFTEENTH. Which may be why I'm having sleep issues. Anyhoo, on to my decision: I'm asking for a referral to the pain clinic. I like Dr. Fetus, and under his care I've had a better track record with the pain than I have in nearly 12 years of MS. I was not in the hospital even one time for entire YEAR, thanks to him. And for me, that is damn close to a miracle. But the only way to continue to keep my pain under control is by taking my meds regularly and having meds for pain breakthroughs. That isn't happening, and it's getting worse all the time. I think it's time to cope with the specialists in the matter. I'm also interested in trying subdermal patches, which I have read a great deal about. The only ones who'll do that are the pain clinic. So hi ho, hi ho, it's off to the pain clinic I go...

***I recently discovered that Dr. Pepper, in conservative amounts, actually seems to help with my nausea. Who knew?

***Jonathan and I have become addicted to two new shows. One we expected to like (BBC's "The Restaurant"), and the other? It's weird. I never would've thought I'd like this particular show, but I not only like it, I'm text-messaging votes in every week. No, I'm not talking about "American Idol," (which, thanks to having an 11-year-old daughter, I already know far too much about...she's a fan of Amanda, who she never refers to by name, instead always calling her "the rock-and-roll nurse"). Nope, it's not "American Idol," but it does share something in common with it: Randy Jackson. Yes, we've been watching MTV's "Randy Jackson Presents: America's Best Dance Crew." And yes, I know how bizarre that sounds. We don't like hip-hop (I'd never even heard of L'il Mama, one of the judges, before the show's premiere). We've never seen any of the so-called "battle dance" movies, nor do we want to. And the last time I saw any breakdancing, I was at a community center dance in 1985, baby-sitting my sister and watching the high-school kids with their red-leather Michael Jackson jackets do the worm to "The Freaks Come Out At Night." I'm at a loss to explain why we enjoy this show. We just do. I'm rooting for Kaba Modern, while Jonathan is a Jabberwakeez fan. All I can say about this is, life is weird and unpredictable, and so am I....

***I saw the video yesterday for the Oscar-winning song, "Falling Softly," from the movie "Once." I haven't seen the movie, but I want to. The song is so haunting and lovely. I must get that soundtrack...

***And finally: I had to change the message on my voice-mail the other day. It now says, "Hi, we're not available to take your call. Please leave a message and we'll get back to you as soon as we can. And please keep in mind: this is voice mail. This is NOT an answering machine. We CANNOT hear you while you leave a message. Thank you." Now, you'd think that this went without saying. Sadly, no. I made the change because five times in one day, from five DIFFERENT people (including two who have been to my home and KNOW I don't have an answering machine), I got messages that began with, "Hello? Angel? Jonthan? Can you pick up the phone? HELLO!" Now, I do realize that many people still use answering machines. But COME ON. Isn't the assumption these days that you are speaking to voice mail?

I hope everyone (especially those out East) is keeping nice and warm. Adieu for now.

---Angel

My Conversation With a Political Fundraiser

2008-02-13T16:26:00.000-08:00

(ring, ring)
ME: Hello?
PF: Good morning. Is this Mrs. _______?
ME: Yes, may I ask who is calling?
PF: I am a volunteer with Barack Obama's campaign. Are you familiar with our candidate?
ME: Yes, I am.
PF: And you're registered in the state of Oregon as an independent voter, correct?
ME: Yes, but no fears...I've never voted for a Republican president.
(PF laughs)
(long pause)
PF: As I was saying, I'm with Barack Obama's campaign. Obamna is dedicated to election reform, and as such, does not accept donations from lobbies and so-called "special interest groups." As a result, he depends on contributions from private citizens to fund his campaign to be our nation's next President. How much would you be willing to donate to the election fund?
ME: It is possible that I might be willing to donate in the future...however, I have not decided upon a candidate to support at this time. I never make that determination until after the primaries are completed and a party winner is announced.
PF: Well, it is projected that Obama will win the Democratic primaries...
ME: I am well aware of that. This does not change the fact that he has NOT won them yet.
PF: Are you a supporter of Hillary Clinton?
(I sigh deeply)
ME: I just told you, I'm not a supporter of ANYONE yet.
(long pause)
PF: Barack Obama needs your support, and even if you have not decided upon him yet, could we still count on you for a financial donation at this time?
(longest pause yet)
ME: You didn't really think that would work, did you?
PF: Honestly? No. I didn't.
ME: Good. Have a nice day, ma'am.
PF: You, too.
(click)

Write Now: Childhood Books

2008-01-21T21:32:00.000-08:00

Today's Write Now once again comes from the book, "Normal Is Just a Setting on the Dryer" by Adair Lara.

No Books Will Ever Be as Good as the Ones You Loved as a Child

Hmmm. I disagree with this one. I disagree, because in my experience, a true love of books is a love that never lets you down, no matter how old you get. I hope to still be reading and discovering new favorites up to and including the day I die. And I would hate to think that none of those new favorites could ever, no matter how well-written and beloved by yours truly, be able to compete with "Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret."

What I WILL agree with is the idea that a book, once loved in your childhood, will always hold a little space in your heart. That said, here are some of my own childhood faves:

"The Phantom Tollbooth" by Norton Juster. This is a fantasy book about a small, bored young man who travels on a small car through a toy tollbooth to the Kingdom of Wisdom, where he sets off on an adventure to rescue the princesses Rhyme and Reason. This book is full of silly puns and wonderful imagery, not to mention bad guys called the Demons of Ignorance. A so-so animated movie version was made by Chuck Jones in 1969. I would love to see a non-animated movie based on this book with today's special effects. It would have to be better than The Golden Compass, no?

"On Your Toes, Susie!" by Lee Wyndham. I came down with a terrible bout of the mumps in elementary school. I was miserable and frankly, bored. My mother scoured the local secondhand bookstore and found this tome for me. It's the story of a ballerina named Susie, who finds her place as number one in her ballet class in serious jeopardy when a little French girl named Mimi arrives. Mutual jealousy and competitiveness keeps these girls as rivals until both end up with the mumps...and both end up being nursed by Susie's mom. Of course, they end up being friends in the end. It's not that great of a story, but because of the sentimental value involved (how long did it take my mom to find a book about a girl my age with the mumps?), it will always be a favorite.

"Stories From Japan" by Edward W. Dolch. I don't remember how I first got ahold of a copy of this book. It seems it was always there, in my home, when I was a child. But once I began reading it, I couldn't put it down. It's a collection of stories of various ages of antiquity. The watercolor pictures are lovely, and the stories are gorgeous. One of my favorites is the first one in the book: "The Willow Tree," a story about the spirit of a willow tree and how she becomes a wife and mother before dying when the tree is cut down for the emperor's bridge. I was so much in love with this story, that I planned to name my first daughter Willow. (This was, of course, before I got married and discovered that Willow Mymarriedlastname did not sound good together....at all.) As I grew older, this book was somehow lost. I spend several years looking for it before I finally won a copy from eBay. It is now a favorite of my son's, and I hope, someday, it will be a favorite of a grandchild's as well.

"Beautiful Girl" by Elisabeth Ogilvie. I wanted to hate this story about a beautiful girl who gets nothing but tsuris for her looks...but it's so charming, I just couldn't. Besides, any book that starts with a precautionary tale about using the word 'persnickety' to your parents can't be all bad.

The Trixie Belden books by Julie Campbell et all. Some girls loved Nancy Drew, but she wasn't for me. I was a Trixie gal. My favorite of the series is "The Mystery At Saratoga," although "The Red Trailor Mystery" is a close second. (If you happen to be a die-hard fan, there is a Trixie Belden convention this year...go to http://www.heartofdixie.biz/TrixieCamp08/Registration.htm for more details. I almost want to go myself...not only is it Trixie, but it's being held in the Smokey Mountains, near to my own hometown. Which is a little odd, when you think about it...as these books actually take place in rural New York. But hey, it's fiction, and poetic license is allowed...)

There are several other books that I remember fondly...but not enough to actually run out and buy it. One was a series of books, if I remember correctly, about a girl who wants to be a trick rider and loves horses. I loved these books and can even remember one picture from it quite clearly...but the title escapes me. It's possible that only one book was about the trick riding, while the others were about life on a dude ranch. Sadly, I can't remember enough about them to know for sure. There are three other books for which I remember the title, but seem unable to find anything else on them. The first is "Circle of Love," a book about a young German Jewish girl named Anna, a Polish soldier named Anton, and how their lives intersect repeatedly and how WWII continues to affect their lives long after they have moved to America. Another is "Carol's Story," a tale about a young girl who survives physical and sexual abuse, alcoholic parents and the foster-care system to become the wife of a minister. It is a moving story, and if I remember correctly, it is a true story as well. I went through some of the same things Carol did, and just knowing that you can move on with your life was a message I really needed to hear. The last book is called "Roxanne." I think, technically, it's a romance novel, which I usually don't like. But for me, the romance aspect takes a back seat to the historical fiction at play. Roxanne is a young girl from a midwestern town in the late 1800's/early 1900's. She runs away to the east coast (I want to say Baltimore, but I'm not certain), marries a glovemaker and moves to the South (Georgia, I think), and then ends up in the Klondike during the Gold Rush there (where she dances for money and is called "Klondike Roxie"). Eventually, she finds stability and true love in San Francisco...right after the Earthquake. It's a story that has stuck with me, and I'd love to find it again. If you know anything about these titles, leave a message for me on this post or email me at Pendragon525@aol.com. I'll be eternally grateful.

Well, thanks for sticking with me for my second Write Now. Adios for now.

Write Now!

2008-01-04T07:36:00.000-08:00

Lately, I haven't been keeping up with any of my blogs or writing in my novel. I am under a considerable amount of stress (marriage troubles, health problems, Dad's health is in the crapper, my best friend has a brain tumor and one of my closest friends has cancer), so it's not unexpected. But I do want to be able to write again, and break this lethargy.

I took a creative writing class in junior high, many, many years ago. The teacher would give us a proverb or quote or what have you, and we had to write about whatever came to mind after reading said proverb or quote or whatever. I hated doing it at the time, but now I am beginning to see the wisdom of it.

And so, I am going to start that writing exercise here on ZPT. My hope is that it will help break this writing slump I seem to be stuck in. You'll know the post is such an exercise, because I will title them "Write Now."

My first platitude is from the book Normal is Just a Setting on the Dryer by Adair Lara:

Bald Men Are Sexy

Bald men are sexy. Hmmm. I think it should read "SOME bald men are sexy." There's a big difference between Jason Alexander and Patrick Stewart. I think that in order for baldness to be sexy, the bald man has to be confident and he has to resist Bad Bald Guy Remedies. We all know what those are: the toupee. Hair plugs. The dreaded combover. The Caesar. Smelly lotions and creams. The silly tiny hat and bandana look (yes, Bret Michaels, I'm talking to you). Spray-on hair. These Bad Bald Guy Remedies actually make the men who use them LESS attractive. Which is a sad irony, as these men spend countless amounts of money to make themselves look good in spite of the baldness, when in reality, all they really needed to do was embrace their folically-challenged head and get some confidence and self-esteem. Just as the giant rhymes-with-Delores (Seinfeld reference) declared in South Park: Bigger, Longer and Uncut: "Chicks dig confidence." And we do.

So which bald men are, in fact, sexy? For me, the list has to begin with the super-yummy Christoper Meloni, of "Law & Order: SVU fame." Anyone else remember the episode in which he stripped down to his tiny blue underwear? (My, oh, my. If you missed it, well, thank goodness for YouTube for making that Bald Guy Sexy Moment available for Meloni fans to watch over and over and over again. Pour yourself a glass of your liquid refreshment of choice, turn down the lights and click here: Little Blue Briefs. Enjoy!) Meloni is bald and sexy because he presents himself with a great deal of confidence, courage and that little twinkle to the eye that says, "Try Meloni and you'll never go back." Women are suckers for that twinkle. I married the man who twinkled like that at me....Even Meloni's turn as the boil-covered Freakshow in Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle didn't dimish his sexiness. A less-than-confident bald guy would balk at taking on such a role. Meloni not only took the role, he obviously had a great time. You've got to respect a man who is willing to play ugly and have fun doing it. But it's his role on SVU as the tempermental Detective Stabler that really brings out the tiger in the bald man. It brings out another side as well: the family man who loves his kids. And there are few among us who can resist THAT!

Another Bald & Beautiful man is LL Cool J. Now, most of my close friends are probably saying: "What? Are you serious?" This is because I have often, and loudly, expressed my opinion about men who are too cut, particularly men who have six-packs. I know most women find big muscles and six-packs very appealing, but in general, I do not. Six-packs look to me like tumors under the skin. It is just not attractive to me in the least. I always think of the old television show "V," when the woman had the alien baby. Not my thing. Now, I don't mind a few muscles or a man who is a little toned. That can be quite nice. But when a man has worked out so much, the veins are sticking up and out of his arms and even worse, his neck....he's lost me as an admirer. I find it unnatural and repulsive.

But there is always one exception to every rule, and the exception to my "no muscle-bound alien guys" rule is LL Cool J. He's got the best example of bedroom eyes I've ever seen. When he kisses his fingertips and makes the peace sign, it's enough to make any woman melt. And that voice! I am a sucker for voices. Most women say they notice a man's eyes first, but for me, it's the voice. A sexy voice goes a long way in my lexicon. And LL Cool J definately has that sultry, girl-I'm-gonna-make-you-scream-like-a-banshee-on-Spanish-fly voice. If you need proof, check out the soundtrack for the movie Beavis and Butt-Head Do America for his cover of Chaka Khan's "Ain't Nobody": "I'm the best when it comes to making love all night...you can take it, girl." Makes you want to take him up on the offer, doesn't it? Even his name is sexy: LL Cool J stands for "Ladies Love Cool James." On anyone else, it would smack of hubris. On LL, it's just the honest truth.

Next on my list would have to be the before-mentioned Patrick Stewart. This is another case of a bald man with a lot of confidence and a sexy voice to boot. Ah, that accent. And speaking of Beavis and Butt-head, Stewart is a big fan and reportedly has one of the largest B&B memorabilia collections on record. You've got to love a man who is sexy and has a great sense of humor. Make it so, baby. Make it so.

Here are a few honorable mentions:

Now I certainly cannot leave out Montel Williams. The talk show host and I disagree on many MS-related issues, but there is no denying that Montell is one good-lookin' man. It's also nice to see a public figure with MS still working, still sexy. Gives us all hope. Someone who practically embodies the "bald is beautiful" ideal is Taye Diggs. Who didn't do a double-take the first time they saw him? Seal is also a hairless adonis, a fact that led to his current career of impregnating supermodel Heidi Klum ("nice work if you can get it," says my husband). Another sexy man with little hair but a great voice is the great actor Sean Connery. Like a fine wine, that man just improves with age. Another "Star Trek" bald hottie is Avery Brooks (also of "Spencer: For Hire" fame). I'll visit Deep Space Nine any day for a glimpse of him. Ed Kowalczyk of the band Live deserves a mention for his lack of hair but certainly no lack of sex appeal. And finally, tennis-playing hot-head Andre Agassi (insert tasteless but still funny tennis balls joke here).

Bald men are sexy. Yes, Ms. Lara....they certainly are.

Some links:

Ten Hot Bald Celebrities

Bald Men are Hot! article and poll results

Bald R Us website
This is a support site for bald men and the women who love them...the page I linked you to above includes a great post on all the fun things you can do with a bald head. This is a great website, definately worth checking out.

Why I've Been Gone

2007-11-23T15:58:00.000-08:00

I know I've been MIA for quite some time, but I have two pretty good excuses.

One, my husband had an accident with the car. Notice I don't say "car accident," which would imply the car was in some kind of motion at the time. No, instead, my husband heard a funny noise coming from the car when he turned it on in the driveway, and decided to pop the hood and check it out...while the motor was still running. Not the smartest move. Some belt or other (I know very little about the inner workings of cars and am quite happy that way) snapped, hit him in the head, and knocked him down flat. When he came to, he wobbled up and fell head-first into the car. So that was three head wounds: two on the forehead, one in the back. It was the one in the back that was serious. There was literally a pool of blood in my driveway. Ruth & Paul (God was looking out for me when I somehow managed to make these two my friends) rushed over, and we rushed to the ER. Long story short: bad concussion, seven staples, bed rest for about a week, massive painkillers. I can assure you, he's never going to open the hood of a running car ever again.

In a way, though, it had a positive effect. We got to walk in the other's shoes for a little while, and it was definately eye-opening and led to some really good conversations.

Reason number two: my kids got a head cold, and so did I. Their cold lasted about three days...mine turned into pneumonia. I'm still wrestling with it, but I am getting better. Luckily, Dr. Fetus came to the rescue with a huge bottle of that nasty cough syrup that worked so well when I had bronchitis last year. Necessary, naturally, because coughing aggrivates the trigeminal neuralgia. Fortunately, that hasn't been much of a problem until today, and I'm responding well to my meds. Bed rest is boring the ever-loving shit out of me...

Anyhoo, I hope to be around more in the coming weeks. For those who celebrated a holiday yesterday, I hope it was a good one.

Ciao,

Angel

Bad Blogger! Bad Blogger!

2007-09-11T20:47:00.000-07:00

Yes, I've been a bad little blogger, not updating in oh so long. What can I say, summer sucks.

And speaking of summer....why is it still OVER 90 DEGREES?!?!? It's freaking SEPTEMBER, people! Did I offend Mother Nature or something, that petty little bitch?

Health update: still having trouble with nausea. I had to go into the doctor's office again for a shot...only this time, just Phenergan and no pain meds. It worked like a charm! From now on, I am going to try just nausea meds first to see if that takes care of the problem without the need for opiates. My right leg is also a big issue lately, and the pain and spasms are much worse than they ever have been before. I am having a great deal of difficulty walking. My muscles have spasmed so very much, they are actually swollen in places, making my legs look lumpy and misshappen. Not a pretty sight.

I have, however, managed to get out and see three movies in the past few months. The first was "The Simpsons." This was Eden's first movie, and she behaved extremely well. She was completely mesmerized. At one point, she said to me, "That a big TV!" Otherwise, she was totally silent. Who knew? As for the movie itself, I enjoyed it. It is like a longer episode, with some liberties taken insofar as censoring goes. I would definately recommend it. Stay for the credits...you won't be disappointed.

The second film was "Hairspray." Now, I am a big John Waters fan. I loved the original, and while I have not yet seen the musical stage version, I do have the cast recording and enjoy it. My view? It was an enjoyable movie, but there were things that I definately didn't like about it.

The cons: first and foremost, John Travolta. Wow, is he one hideous woman. I never noticed that he had such beady little eyes before. I thought his attempt to play it "straight" rather than campy was ill-advised for this material, and I absolutely did not believe that "she" was in love with her husband, nor he with her, not for one moment. Zero chemistry between Travolta and Christopher Walken. This is unfortunate, as this movie seemed to be the "Edna Turnblad story" rather than the "Tracy Turnblad story," my biggest gripe about the film. And the moments when Travolta's well-padded ass was either shaking or being slapped was stomach-turningly bad. I was also disappointed by how little the Corny Collins show and cast mattered in this film, especially as compared to the original. Three big changes from either the film or stage version to this one were especially bothersome: one, the idea that Link was more concerned with his showbiz career than with civil rights; two, that Tracy ran from the police rather than standing firm and getting arrested for her beliefs; and three, the practically non-existant "nicest kids in town," the Corny Collins Council. I also found it incredible that Velma went from being a pushy stage mom in the original to a station manager in this version. I'm sorry, but this was the early 60's. How many women were station managers or show producers at that time? There aren't nearly enough NOW. That change is just unnecessary for me...Travolta could've done quite well as Divine did, playing both Edna and the station manager as needed. Now, I'm a fan of the late Divine and did mourn her loss in this film...so maybe I am judging Travolta harshly. Nah. Amanda Bynes did a lukewarm (at best) job of the "checkerboard chick," Penny, and Christopher Walken's dancing and singing was almost visibly painful at times. I also think Velma was better off with a husband, as in the original...I mean, come on...not only is she a single mother but she's a powerful tv executive...in the pre-Beatles sixties? Exactly how realistic is THAT? But the aspect I probably missed most was the camp of the original, the comedy of it mixed in with a serious message. This movie focused way too much on the marriage of Edna and Wilbur, and not enough by far on Tracy, the Corny Collins show and the issue of civil rights....and the DANCING!

The pros: I just LOVED seeing John Waters as the flasher in the opening scene, "Good Morning Baltimore." A great way to kick off the movie for those of us who are fans of the original. Queen Latifah did another great turn in this film, after having impressed me as Mama Morton in "Chicago" a few years back. And she had some big shoes to fill, as the original was the late, great Ruth Brown. I think she did Ruth proud. I was also impressed by Elijah Kelley, who did a fantastic job with Seaweed. And while Nikki Blonsky was no Marissa Janet Winokur, she more than held her own and did a good job of portraying Tracy's confidence in both her size and her beliefs. And kudos all around for Taylor Parks, the most adorable L'il Inez imaginable. I hope casting directors are paying attention, because this girl has potential. The sets on this film were terrific, probably outdoing the original in this aspect. You really got a feel for the early-60's Baltimore. The costume designers and make-up artists also did a great job. Here's hoping they are rewarded with a nomination when Oscar comes calling.

The third film I have seen recently is "Superbad." Now, this movie is probably not going to beckon to Oscar. But it is absolutely HILARIOUS. It definately has the feel of 80's-era teen films like "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" and "Fast Times At Ridgemont High." It's not arty or cerebral in any sense of the word, but it's so much fun that I am not surprised at the critics who are calling it a guilty pleasure. Don't feel guilty, guys. Just embrace your inner McLovin. This is another film you are going to want to stay in your seats for the credits, by the way, so don't be in a rush for the exit signs. My only gripe is that the ending felt a little contrived...sort of like you can almost hear the producers saying, "Crap, the original ending didn't test well...how quick can we slap on a feel-good, everything-is-great moment on the end of this?" But otherwise, this is a great film. I've even seen it twice (once on opening night, in a full house), as I rarely do with a movie. I might even see it a third time. ;-)

Anyhoo, that's about all that's going on for now. I am hoping this heat wave will break soon and I will be posting more in the near future, here and on "Bad Baby Names." TTFN.

Feeling Sorry...For Predators?

2007-08-04T18:57:00.000-07:00

A quote from an article in the 8/09/07 issue of "Rolling Stone" magazine, dealing with the "Dateline: To Catch a Predator" show:

"I searched for more than a hundred men busted by Perverted Justice (the group that aides the Dateline program) and found only eleven of them with listed numbers, all of whom were terrified---worried about being evicted from their homes, losing their jobs, even becoming targets of random violence...they were still worried about who was watching them...A divorced father of two started to weep: 'I love Dunkin' Donuts, but I won't go in anymore. I'm so scared of the first encounter with someone I know who has seen me on tv.'"

Am I the only one reading this and thinking, "Boo fucking hoo"?

Zero Tolerance Nonsense

2007-08-03T21:41:00.000-07:00

My comments follow the article...

School Graffiti Nets 4-Month Suspension

KATY, Texas - Writing "I love Alex" on a school gymnasium wall in baby-blue marker by a 12-year-old sixth-grader rated the same punishment as if she had made terrorist threats.

The Katy Independent School District rated the message, written by Shelby Sendelbach, as a Level 4 infraction - the same as for threats, drug possession and assault. Only murder, gun possession, sexual assault and arson are considered more severe. For her punishment, Shelby was assigned to an alternative school from Aug. 27 through Dec. 21, per state law.

Her parents have appealed and a hearing is set for this month. Lisa and Stu Sendelbach said they don't condone what Shelby did but think the punishment is overly harsh.

***************

Sometimes, I read something that makes me damned glad I homeschool my kids. This is one such article.

Coincidentally, a friend of mine is going through a similar ordeal, as her son is forced to go to court for putting a handprint on a school bus seat.

Come on, people! How many of us did these EXACT SAME THINGS as kids, and grew up just fine? What happened to making the kids scrape gum off the bottoms of seats as a punishment? Why are we going to these outrageous extremes?

A Letter To NBC

2007-07-26T21:16:00.000-07:00

To Whom It May Concern:

I and my family have been fans of your program, "Most Outrageous Moments," since the first episode. However, what we saw (or rather, heard) on Monday, July 25's broadcast may change that happy routine.

During a segue, the announcer made a comment about "cowboys and Injuns. Oh, wait, wrong kind of engine!"

The word "Injun" is blatantly racist and disgusting. That it was used on a prime-time program, viewed by millions of Americans, including children, is horrific.

As a Native American myself, I am appalled by the casual usage of this racial slur during your program. Why no one, in the process of editing, noticed this gaffe is beyond me.

Your recent addition of esteemed Native American actor Adam Beach on your popular program, "Law & Order: SVU," had led me and other Native Americans to believe that NBC is a station devoted to diversity and interested in the Native American market. Such a use of the racist term "injun" during a prime-time program seeks to undo the good NBC has done towards diversity on network television.

Sincerely,

Zen Angel,
Qualla Cherokee
Portland, Oregon

A Few Notes

2007-07-18T00:42:00.000-07:00

Well, a lot has happened the last few months. We moved (no more stairs, and I love the central air!), my in-laws came for a visit, lots of drama and trauma and all sorts of stuff I don't wanna get into for the time being.

Health-wise, I am hanging in there. Summer is always tough for me, and this summer has been no fun thus far. The Methadone is working out well for me. The latest challenge has been the heat-induced nausea. It causes this vicious cycle: I get sick, which causes my face to hurt, which means I have to take meds, which then make me get sick again. Twice now, I've had to go to the doctor to get a shot. I'm trying a new anti-nausea pill now, so I have hopes it will help break the cycle. I am not giving up on the Methadone; all in all, my pain is much improved this summer over last summer's. I'm still counting it as a success.

My legs are becoming more and more of an issue. I don't think I can put off getting a scooter much longer. It's quickly becoming a necessity. I'm not sure why I've been so stubborn about it, except that I hate to spend that much money on myself. I'm much better at shopping for others. The only things I'm willing to spend big money on for myself are tattoos, footwear, music and books. And always in moderation. I'm frugal, so sue me.

It's the legacy of having once been very poor: you are always worried about money, even if you do in fact realize that you don't have to be so worried anymore. I have three hold-outs from my early rez years: the frugality, the inability to drink tap water and always, always, always eating meat well-done. I have tried, over the years, to get over all three, but I did not meet with much success. Some things you learn early, it's damn near impossible to un-learn.

I love the new house. It's great having a ranch again...no more stairs! And my kitchen and bathroom are so HUGE compared to the old house. I truly believe I would be much sicker this summer, had we not moved to this house with its glorious central air-conditioning. Ah, what a fantastic invention. There are a few downsides: one, the neighbors here do not appear to be as friendly and neighborhood-oriented as the old house. We did have great neighbors there. There's a block party coming up, and I hope to get to know some of the new neighbors then. Two, we are on a major road now, and there is much more traffic than before. The last downside is only a temporary one: the front and back yards are a disaster. Overgrown with weeds and somebody's half-assed attempt to make a rock garden out of discarded chunks of cinder blocks. Anything that might have been growing and flourishing in the yards, the previous occupants literally ripped up and took with them. There are holes and stumps everywhere.

To divert for a moment: the previous occupants must have been some strange people. They took all the rose bushes and flowers, but left behind: three or four dozen paper Chinese Zodiac placemats, 10 identical ladels, 4 soup spoons, an entire drawer of plastic bags, four two-by-fours, two retainers (yes, I am serious: dental retainers, the kind you wear in junior high), about a dozen or so used Q-tips, three pizza pans, two bathtowels (left actually IN the oven), one broken lawnmower, a vanity mirror with SpongeBob stickers attached and seven POUNDS of mothballs. That last one required us to air out and burn scented candles to get rid of the smell in every single closet and cupboard. I don't know how they lived with the stench.

Now, they left all this stuff behind....and took the grate from the fireplace. I mean, literally ripped the bitch from the wall. You can see the holes where they did it. Why on Earth they had to take the grate and left the retainers, I have no idea.

Anyhoo, getting back to the yardwork. Jonathan has been out there on his days off, dutifully attempting to put the yard out of its misery. Jonathan has quite the green thumb, and is at least enjoying the hours of grunt work. Personally, I can't wait until next year...when the yard has completely transformed itself. I'm thinking of taking some "before and after" photos to share with my ZPT fans. Damn, am I old. I am actually excited about showing off lawn photos. Ay yee, I need a Cosmo....

Speaking of Cosmos, another plus to this house is that Jonathan and I have discovered a local watering hole that we really enjoy. It's been nice, being able to get out for a drink every now and again. I think we kind of forgot what it was like to go on dates there for a while. Not a good thing.

The kids are doing well. They love the new house, especially the huge back yard. Wren goes off to day camp in a few weeks, and as she's never done it before, she's pretty nervous. We're going to take Eden to her first movie soon: "The Simpsons." She's a fan of the show, so we're hoping she'll handle the movie-going experience well. She's a good one for new experiences: we went out for Chinese while the in-laws were here, and she tried a little of everything everyone was eating. As a result, I have a toddler who loves "posh icks" (pot stickers). Phoenix likes that the new house is close enough to a wall that he and his best friend can go and "hang out." Jeez, I have a kid old enough to "hang out at the mall." I AM old.

Well, that's enough of an update for now. I really only intended to write a short paragraph, and ended up with a novel, lol. I didn't realize how very much I missed blogging.

It's good to be back...

2007-07-09T01:45:00.000-07:00

My life is starting to get back to whatever the hell "normal" is, and I plan to begin blogging again within the week.

Thanks to everyone for being so supportive of my break.

---Angel

Please Read

2007-04-04T14:09:00.000-07:00

I'm taking a short blog break. My first instinct is to say something trite, like "real life is catching up to me and I need some time to deal with it."

The truth is, my real life is crumbling around me. My real life is in shambles. I'm not sure if taking time to cope with it is going to help, but I do know that I have to try.

As always, prayers and good thoughts are welcome. I will not stay away long, I promise that. I need this outlet too much to stay away forever.

As I keep repeating to everyone and even myself lately....I just need some time.

Thank you.

---Angel

NDN Newz: Pow Wow this Saturday, War Hero Dies

2007-03-16T21:28:00.000-07:00

This came in my email this week, and I wanted to share it:

The Nde Daa Exhibition Pow wow will take place this Saturday. Nde means the People and Daa means Spring. This will also be the one year anniversary of the taking of Eagle Feathers from native dancers. Please keep the People in prayer As the Federal agents are again supposed to be there to take Eagle Feathers and arrest Native Peoples.

Billy Walkabout, a Cherokee warrior whose actions in Vietnam made him among most decorated soldiers of the war, died March 7. He was 57. Walkabout received the Distinguished Service Cross, Purple Heart, five Silver Stars and five Bronze Stars. He was believed to be the most decorated Native American soldier of the Vietnam War, according to U.S. Department of Defense reports. Walkabout died of pneumonia and renal failure. He is survived by his wife, Juanita Medbury-Walkabout.

Nutbag Teacher Has Sex with Five Students

2007-03-16T21:23:00.000-07:00

Accused Teacher Refuses to Talk to Police

COLUMBIA, S.C. (March 1) - A middle-school teacher accused of having sex with at least five boys was fired and remained in jail Thursday after she refused to speak with police about the charges, authorities said.

Police began investigating Allenna Williams Ward, 23, after school officials in Clinton recovered a note containing inappropriate messages, police said.

Ward, who is married, had sexual encounters in the past three months with the 14- and 15-year-old boys at the school, at a motel, in a park and behind a restaurant, according to arrest warrants.

Some of the victims were students at Bell Street Middle School, where Ward taught, authorities said.

Clinton Public Safety Director John Thomas said it was a difficult time for the district. "Teachers are supposed to be role models as well as being those people who take care of and protect our children," Thomas said.

Ward, who was fired Wednesday, is charged with criminal sexual conduct with a minor and lewd acts on a minor, according to arrest warrants.

NDN Newz: Western Cherokee Oust Freedmen Descendents

2007-03-05T04:33:00.000-08:00

My comments, in red, follow the article:

Cherokees Pull Memberships of Freed Slaves

OKLAHOMA CITY (March 4) - The Cherokee Nation vote this weekend to revoke the citizenship of the descendants of people the Cherokee once owned as slaves was a blow to people who have relied on tribal benefits.

Cherokee Nation spokesman Mike Miller said that services currently being received by freedmen descendants will not immediately be suspended.

Charlene White, a descendant of freed Cherokee slaves who were adopted into the tribe in 1866 under a treaty with the U.S. government, wondered Sunday where she would now go for the glaucoma treatment she has received at a tribal hospital in Stilwell.

"I've got to go back to the doctor, but I don't know if I can go back to the clinic or if they're going to oust me right now," said White, 56, a disabled Tahlequah resident who lives on a fixed income.

In Saturday's special election, more than 76 percent of voters decided to amend the Cherokee Nation's constitution to remove the estimated 2,800 freedmen descendants from the tribal rolls, according to results posted Sunday on the tribe's Web site.

Marilyn Vann, president of the Descendants of Freedmen of the Five Civilized Tribes, said the election results undoubtedly will be challenged.

"We will pursue the legal remedies that are available to us to stop people from not only losing their voting rights, but to receiving medical care and other services to which they are entitled under law," Vann said Sunday.

"This is a fight for justice to stop these crimes against humanity."

Cherokee Nation spokesman Mike Miller said Sunday that election results will not be finalized until after a protest period that extends through March 12. Services currently being received by freedmen descendants will not immediately be suspended, he said.

"There isn't going to be some sort of sudden stop of a service that's ongoing," Miller said. "There will be some sort of transition period so that people understand what's going on."

In a statement late Saturday, Cherokee Nation Principal Chief Chad Smith said he was pleased with the turnout and election result. "Their voice is clear as to who should be citizens of the Cherokee Nation," Smith said. "No one else has the right to make that determination. It was a right of self-government, affirmed in 23 treaties with Great Britain and the United States and paid dearly with 4,000 lives on the Trail of Tears."

The petition drive for the ballot measure followed a March 2006 ruling by the Cherokee Nation Supreme Court that said an 1866 treaty assured freedmen descendants of tribal citizenship.

A similar situation occurred in 2000 when the Seminole Nation voted to cast freedmen descendants out of its tribe, said attorney Jon Velie of Norman, an expert on Indian law who has represented freedmen descendants in previous cases.
"The United States, when posed the same situation with the Seminoles, would not recognize the election and they ultimately cut off most federal programs to the Seminoles," Velie said. "They also determined the Seminoles, without this relationship with the government, were not authorized to conduct gaming."

Ultimately, the Seminole freedmen were allowed back into the tribe, Velie said.

Velie said Saturday's vote already has hurt the tribe's public perception.

"It's throwback, old-school racist rhetoric," Velie said. "And it's really heartbreaking, because the Cherokees are good people and have a very diverse citizenship," he said.

Miller, the tribal spokesman, defended the Cherokees against charges of racism, saying that Saturday's vote showed the tribe was open to allowing its citizens vote on whether non-Indians be allowed membership. "I think it's actually the opposite. To say that the Cherokee Nation is intolerant or racist ignores the fact that we have an open dialogue and have the discussion, he said.
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Before I begin: I am an Eastern, not Western, Cherokee. This act doesn't affect my Band or its people....outside of the fact that we are all, in our core, Aniyunwiya.

Not too long ago, I wrote a post about the Western Cherokee, and their decision to outlaw gay marriage. I was shocked and disgusted. But honestly? I never saw THIS coming.

People who have been Cherokee since the 1800's....suddenly, are no longer Cherokee? Is this not as outrageous as the inequities of the Dawes Rolls, in which many Cherokee were summarily dismissed as "not Cherokee enough" by the government, and thus, not a member of the Tribe? Have we not been enraged by that action for decades and decades? And now...the Western Cherokee are guilty of the same. They have deemed some people, whose parents were Cherokee and grandparents and greats were Cherokee, "not Cherokee enough." HORRIFIC!

Have we not been outraged, for centuries, by treaties made in good faith, and broken by the US government? And now, the Western Cherokee have broken their treaty with the freedmen descendents. HYPOCRISY!

Have we not been outraged, for more years than this country has even been a nation, by the treatment of our elderly and disabled? This action taken by the Western Cherokee cannot but contribute to that ill treatment. UNTHINKABLE!

Mike Miller claims the Western Cherokee are not bigots. They are not intolerant. But first they outlaw gay marriage, and now, they are revoking citizenship of those deemed "unworthy."

Mr. Miller....you are wrong. This action is the height of bigotry and intolerance. And the elderly, the poor, the disabled, the little children....will be the ones to suffer for it.

That suffering, voters of the Western Cherokee...is on your hands.

Please....do what you can, now, to relieve it. Judge no one as "unworthy" or "not Cherokee enough." Remember always, how there have been those to make that judgement against YOU. Remember that Trail of Tears the cheif mentioned so glibly...remember that it was started by those who deemed the Cherokee unworthy. Do not follow in their footsteps.

End this madness.

Rape Victim Arrested

2007-02-24T05:51:00.000-08:00

My comments, as always, are in red...

Woman jailed after reporting rape

TAMPA -- A 21-year-old woman who told police that a man raped her was jailed for two days after officers helping her found an old warrant accusing her of failing to pay restitution for theft charges.

A jail worker later refused to give her a second dose of a morning-after pill because of religious convictions, the college student's attorney said Tuesday. She was released from jail Monday only after attorney Vic Moore reported her plight to the local media.

"Shocked. Stunned. Outraged. I don't have words to describe it," Moore said of his client's arrest and treatment in jail. "She is not a victim of any one person. She is a victim of the system. There's just got to be some humanity involved when it's a victim of rape."

Tampa police said they were changing their policy to give officers more discretion on when to arrest a crime victim who has outstanding warrants.

"Obviously, any policy that allows a sexual battery victim to spend a night in jail is a flawed policy," police spokeswoman Laura McElroy said. "So our city attorney is writing a new policy right now."

The woman is not being named by The Associated Press because she reported being the victim of a sex crime.

She was in Tampa on Saturday afternoon for Gasparilla, a pirate-themed parade that draws thousands each year. She said she was walking alone to her car when a man pulled her behind a building and raped her, McElroy said.

She reported the rape to police at 3:30 p.m. Responding officers took her to a rape crisis center, where she was given the first of two doses of a morning-after pill, McElroy said. The second is supposed to be taken within 24 hours.

She was riding in a patrol car trying to locate the crime scene in the dark when a police check revealed an arrest warrant for failure to pay restitution. The warrant stemmed from a 2003 juvenile arrest for grand theft and burglary. It said she owed $4,585 in restitution, although her lawyer disputed that.

She was arrested around 8:50 p.m.

"They stopped the investigation right there," Moore said. "She was riding in the front of the patrol car. They put her in handcuff and put her in the back."

McElroy said detectives are still searching for the rapist. She said the arresting officer checked with a sergeant before arresting the student.

"It appears at face value that they didn't violate policy," McElroy said of the officers. "It's just we had a flawed policy."

The warrant required the student to pay the full restitution or stay in jail until she could face a judge in Sarasota. She spent Saturday and Sunday nights in jail.

Hillsborough County jail officials didn't immediately return a phone message seeking comment.

I don't know what outrages me more...the fact that a woman reports a rape and is ARRESTED and spends two days in jail, or the fact that once again, some assmunch nutbag refused a woman contraception based on HIS religious or moral beliefs. The fact that it was EMERGENCY contraception due to rape makes it all the more outrageous.

Far too few women report rape now as it is. Some are afraid of facing the rapist in court, some are afraid of not being believed....and now, some will be afraid of being arrested. And worse, denied the morning after pill because of it.

I am sickened, sickened, sickened by this.

Yet Another Update, and Hope on the Horizon

2007-02-10T17:36:00.000-08:00

It's been a very rough winter.

In the past four months, I've had: ovarian cysts, kidney stones, chicken pox (for the FOURTH time), bronchitis, banged-up ribs and walking pneumonia. And now? The lingering cough has caused the neuralgia to act up with a vengeance.

Come on, spring! I need a break.

The past few months, my life has just been on HOLD while I deal with all of this stuff. I've had to reschedule appointments, put off meeting with friends, and let's not even get into what my house looks like right about now.

How do people who live in that level of sickness constantly get anything done? I'm living in fear that this is just a taste of things to come. Has the MS worsened? Why I am suddenly sick all of the time? Is it just a run of bad luck?

The worst part of it, is how run-down I am. I feel so very weak, and overcome with fatigue. I feel as if my body is a giant washcloth that has been wrung out one time too many. I am hoping and praying that this run of bad luck is over, because I am not sure how much more I can take.

On the positive side, I spoke with a doctor a few weeks ago (after the busted-up ribs but before the pneumonia), and it was a pleasant and productive conversation. He is an attending, who I will be referring to from now on as "Dr. Bedside Manner." He is called thus, because he has the BEST bedside manner of any doctor, outside of my kids' pediatrician, that I have ever come across.

Anyhoo, Dr. Bedside Manner oversees Dr. Youngblood (thus called because he is so young, he's practically a fetus...I feel like I'm being treated by Doogie Howser sometimes), the resident who is currently in charge of my overall care. Dr. Youngblood is not often in the office, as he is still a resident and must needs do a shitload of things in a myriad of places if he ever wishes to become a full-fledged doctor. When Dr. Youngblood is not around, I see Dr. Bedside Manner. I like both of these physicians, but of the two, I am more comfortable around Dr. Bedside Manner. Is it wrong of me to feel better with an older doctor? Who knows. I just do. I also recognize how important it is for the up-and-coming physician to have experience treating patients with MS and chronic pain...so I'm not 86'ing Youngblood.

Getting back to the point...Dr. Bedside Manner told me that he felt my trigeminal neuralgia had gotten to the point where treating it with the Oxycodone regimen plus the occassional extra Oxycodone for breakthrough pain was not realistic anymore. And as I've been ruled out as a candidate for surgery, we must look elsewhere for relief. In his words, "It may be time to switch to a long-lasting medication." A long-lasting medication would cause a level to build up in my system, thus keeping most of the pain at bay. I would still need Oxycodone for the breakthrough pain, but the hope is that such pain would be rare rather than routine.

For the first time since I was ruled out as a surgical candidate...I felt some hope.

Apparently, there are two options for said long-lasting medication, and both come with their own set of side-effects and issues. The first is MS Contin, more readily recognized as Morphine. The problems with Morphine are worsening of fatigue, constipation, concentration and memory difficulties, nausea, and other issues that always come along with a purely narcotic treatment. The biggest issue is, that if I go to Morphine now, if the neuralgia worsens in years to come...I will be close to out of options for narcotic pain relief. There's always Fentanyl, of course...but that would nearly incapacitate me. The problem is, of course, one of tolerance. And as I am likely to need pain meds in the future, I have always been very careful about keeping my tolerance as low as possible. I spent six years on Vicoden, wary of making the step up to Oxycodone too soon. I had to be persuaded to make that step. So I am, again, wary. Morphine is a big step up. I'm also not sure I want to deal with MORE fatigue and nausea than I already do.

That leaves me with the second choice, one I never considered before because I didn't know it was an option: Methadone. Yes, I said Methadone.

Now I, like most people, thought of Methadone in relation to heroin addiction treatment. The image in my head is one of a junkie at a clinic, sipping Methadone from a paper cup with a straw. Never in a million years did I think Methadone would ever be a drug I myself would be considering trying.

But, as Dr. Bedside Manner was quick to point out, Methadone is not only used for narcotic addiction. It's also used, and quite effectively, to treat chronic pain. And it does so, without the side-effects associated with narcotic treatments. It builds up in your system, and only requires the occassional narcotic medication for breakthrough pain. It takes about ten days to build up a level in your blood, and has to be monitored carefully. It would not effect my pain-medication tolerance. With Methadone, I would continue to use Oxycodone for breakthrough pain until such time as my narcotic tolerance and pain level force me to go to the next step up. I could continue on with the slow building-up of my tolerance that I have carefully maintained all these years.

Now, it's not without its side-effects. Constipation is very severe with Methadone, apparently. I've dealth with that particular symptom for years now, but I am told it's a whole different ball game with Methadone. Also, the risk of overdose is something that must be considered. Taking too much Methadone, even just one extra dose too much, can lead to serious health problems and even death. It means I would have to be very careful. There's also the stigma surrounding Methadone to be dealt with. Chances are, the first thing most people are going to think---including pharmacists and ER personnel---is that I'm being treated for heroin addiction. This could cause problems, should I need an ER or hospital treatment for pain. Such workers could be reluctant to give narcotics to someone who might be an addict. I have a hard enough time, far too often, getting pain relief from hospitals as it is. I would have to have a doctor's statement in my pain management contract specifically detailing why I am taking Methadone and that I can in fact have narcotic treatment. I've also been told that many pharmacies do not carry Methadone, because of problems with junkies and so on. So it might be a bit of an issue to even get the prescription filled. There's also the pain-in-the-ass factor to be considered: the fact that I would have to defend my use of Methadone to pretty much anyone who found out I was taking it.

So I did some research on my two options. I looked through the PDR, checked online sources, really thought about what it is I want to do.

And despite all its problems...I am leaning towards the Methadone.

I like what I am reading about it. With MS Contin, I could easily find myself in the same boat I'm in right now in just a few months or years. Morphine would work as just another band-aid for the pain...a more powerful band-aid, sure. But a band-aid none the less. With Methadone, I have a chance of treating this non-narcotically. The side-effects I deal with all the time from narcotics would be gone. The fear of running out of pain meds, practically vanished. I would have a chance of really PREVENTING pain rather than just treating it once it happens. And with trigeminal neuralgia, once the pain begins, it snowballs. With every minute that goes by, it becomes harder and harder to get ahead of the pain and have any hope of getting rid of it. This is bad news, when you consider that it takes about 20-30 minutes, on the average, for a pain pill to kick in. There's always the injectable method, but as long-time readers of my blog know all too well, that usually requires the ER and often becomes a bigger nightmare than the pain itself. Now, my pain has been lessened since I began the Oxycodone regimen (this means taking one pill every single day, whether I need it or not, to build up a level in the blood), which leads me to believe that I am the kind of person who responds to that sort of treatment. The problem is, the Oxycodone doesn't work well enough...on its own. There does exist the possibility that with the Methodone, the two could work well enough that I might have some semblance of freedom from pain.

And so, I have decided to take the chance. I am trying not to get my hopes up too high, like I did with the surgery. Oh, when they told me I couldn't have it! I was devastated. I don't want that to happen again. There is always the possibility that Methadone won't work for me, or that the side-effects will negate any positive aspects of the treatment. So I am trying to be realistic. I have made up a list of questions to ask my doctor about Methadone treatment, and made an appointment in March to re-write my pain management contract (it's that time of year again) and to discuss Methadone treatment and see if it's right for me.

Some of the questions I have:

My 2 biggest side-effects from Oxycodone are fatigue and nausea. Will Methadone increase either?

If the constipation associated with Methadone is more severe than I am used to, do I need to change my current constipation treatment? At this time, I take 2-3 stool softeners (docusate sodium and senna concentrate) every 2-3 days as needed. Will I need a more steady regimen, or a different medication? What do you recommend?

I have read that many pharmacies do not fill prescriptions for Methadone. Are you aware of which pharmacies in Portland do carry Methadone?

Currently, I am required to call in to the prescription coordinator every month to get a paper prescription for my Oxycodone, which I must then pick up at the office. Is the same required of Methadone?

The PDR lists “dizziness” as a side-effect of Methadone. I currently am experiencing a stronger-than-usual amount of MS-related vertigo. Will Methadone effect this?

I understand that overdose is a considerable concern with Methadone treatment. What steps can I take to protect myself?

Methadone treatment requires opiods for breakthrough pain. How many Oxycodone will I receive a month for this?

I understand that Methadone takes an average of ten days to create an appropriate level in the bloodstream. Are there are any symptoms or side-effects I need to be aware of during this period?

Do I need to make emergency personnel aware of my Methadone treatments?

How many times per day do I need to take Methadone? If I miss a dose, what should I do?

Is there any particular time of day that is better to take Methadone? Do I need to take it on a full or empty stomach?

How long should I be monitored before we are reasonably certain that the Methadone treatments are working? What can I do to assist?

During the ten-day adjustment period, should I continue or discontinue my current Oxycodone regimen (one pill per day)?

I am looking forward to the appointment. Despite my desire to remain realistic, and not get my hopes up, I do indeed feel very hopeful. I also wonder why no one has brought this to my attention before. Were they waiting to see if I was a surgical candidate? I was ruled out over a year ago. Were they waiting to see if an Oxycodone regimen worked for me? I don't know, but I intend to find out.

I will keep everyone posted. As usual, prayers and good thoughts are always welcome...

Just an FYI

2007-01-18T22:54:00.000-08:00

I haven't forgotten the blog. Let me tell you, ZPT fans: I've had one hell of a winter thus far. First, I get the ovarian cysts and kidney stones at the same time. Then, I get chicken pox for the FOURTH time. And now? I had a Giant Clumsy MS Moment, fell into a door jam, and banged up my ribs. I'm on bed rest (again) for the next few weeks. It's uncomfortable to be sitting at the computer for too long a time, so that's why I've been MIA. I'm feeling a little better, so hopefully, the healing won't be too long in coming.

Until then...