EEEEEWWWWW!

Well, today I made good on a New Year's Resolution. I went to a podiatrist. If you're squeamish, don't read today's entry. You have been warned!

I have a very thick callous on my right foot that's been there ever since I cut out my two plantar's warts back in my twenties.

Yes, I did. Twice. After getting the acid and using it for weeks, the things pulled out easily one day. Then a callous grew over the holes, but the pain stayed and quickly became unbearable. So I cut through the callous and found the warts hadn't completely gone. So I started treatment again and dug around them and finally got them for good. Then the callous grew and grew and grew.

I'd use pumice, lotions, get pedicures, and in desperation would take scissors to it. I'd taken to calling it a hoof.

Turns out there ain't much can be done about it except keep it soft and use a pumice on it once a week. The scissors are out. Even the doctor winced when I told her that.

The other item was three toenails that have become thick. A number of years ago I went to my family doctor and asked about it, he squinted at it for a second and said "I think it's a fungus." He wrote me a prescription for a topical fungicide, which I promptly lost. I simply didn't believe it.

Guess what. It's a fungus. It makes the nail thicken and darken, and where I used to have just one affected nail, I now have three, due to lack of proper sterilization of tools after cleaning.

Yuck.

There's a fungus amongus.

There were three solutions presented to me, none of which is a topical fungicide - so now I have to follow up on that again!

Solution 1, which only works 30% of the time, is a medicated nail polish that has to be applied every day. She didn't think it would work for me, since my "colony" is so well-established.

Solution 2 is pills that have to be taken for three months, for which I'd have to get a prescription from my family doctor. It is effective in 70% of cases. The catch - they are hard on the liver. Ah - I already take medication that is hard on the liver. Not a candidate. Next!

Solution 3 - the laser.

Now there's a solution a sci-fi fiend can relate to! Yes! Lasers lasers everywhere! Zap! ZZZZZING! BZZT! Kill! Kill! Kill!

Of course, this isn't under medicare. It remains to be seen whether my work insurance will cover it as well. It takes at least four treatments and is effective in 70% of cases.

The good news is, the fungus itself is not dangerous. Just ugly, and, if the nails grow thick enough, uncomfortable. I'm not going to lose my nails, my toes or my feet.

She then proceeded to take out what looked for all the world like a dremmel tool and grind my affected nails thinner. Only this one has water spraying from it too, like a cement saw! Now my nails are a shadow of their former selves, but a bit patchy-looking, actually uglier than before. But thin. And for twice the price of a pedicure (which is now out of the question, since I'd be contaminating the equipment) I can go back any time and get them thinned down again.

So time will tell. Part of me would like to try the laser, since it's so cool it's hot!

The Shopping Gene

I didn't get it. The shopping gene.

Whether it was because my grandparents, themselves survivors of the Great Depression, taught me to be extra thrifty, or because I never learned how to dress myself fashionably, or because I've never given my wardrobe a second thought, I have missed out on the art of finding something to wear.

I watch "What Not to Wear." I take mental notes of people with body shapes like mine and what suits them. I have even steeled myself to the fact that I may have to drop big bucks on various items.

But despite a 2.5 hour long search through the mall today, and all the sales, I still came home with nothing.

Well, I may go back after some reflection, but nothing leapt off the shelf at me, which did come as a bit of a disappointment, after all. I had dressed up for a winter walk, waddled ALL the way around the mall, looked in 5 different shops. The only things I tried on were shoes, which I had not gone looking for, but which I need anyway.

I did see some nice tops, which is what I was looking for. I have a lot of tops I don't wear. They're polyester, which makes me sweat. Or the neck opening is too big and I feel like I'm in danger of catching a cold, even in summer. Or the v-cut is too deep and shows my bra, which may be nice on a knockout 20-year old like my Daughter, but on me it tends to look like I'm too stupid to realize my underwear is showing, "Pair auld wumman..." sort of thing.

So I'm looking for something in a 2x size, which right away cuts out 80% of the merchandise available. Designers never go larger than XL, if they even go there at all. And designers for plus-size women (80% of women, in other words) seem to think that we all enjoy exposing ourselves. It's not like our heads are any bigger than any other woman's head, for crying out loud! What's with these tent-sized necks?! Giving new interpretation to the phrase "Boat Neck" or "Crew Neck." Hey - we live in the bleeding Arctic circle here! Can we not have a normal neck opening? Our heads are not the size of beach balls! And forget wearing a scarf - I've already got big boobs, I don't need to drape yet more fabric on top of them. I just want to cover the damned things!

Once I do find a top with a normal opening, it's usually got hideous markings all over it, or 3D flowers or flounces or some such other nonsense. Again, I'm already fat, I don't want to draw more attention to my chest area! Such things look great on size 2 models with no tits. We larger women look much better in clean, structured lines.

So that means all these soft, flimsy "sporty" tops look awful on us as well. All that drapey fabric looks great on windows, but only serves to accentuate every bump we've got.

So say I find a top with a normal neck and no outlandish decorations. Guess what - it's black! Yay! I'm in mourning!

And if I do manage to find one in a color, it's polyester and makes me sweat.

I'd pay for silk - if it had a nice small neck and wasn't covered in ridiculous appendages.

As I leave the mall, I walk past the men's wear and sigh with jealousy. Nobody ever puts pom-poms on men's shirts or cuts the opening down to the navel, and you don't see row upon row upon row of black shirts for men. And most of them are 100% cotton.

Who designs for plus-sized women, anyway? I can't fathom what they're thinking.

The Change of Seasons

Well, autumn is definitely upon us. We've had one of the loveliest Septembers on record, I'm sure, and Environment Canada is telling us we're about to have a lovely October as well.

Nevertheless, the temperature is dropping. And with that change comes a new settling-in of two people who haven't lived together in a winter before - Boyfriend and me.

Boyfriend is a nudist. He likes his boys to swing freely in the (warm) breezes. He has already compromised, though I'm sure his heart is aching, in that we don't yet have curtains up in the living room to block the view of the - ahem - swingset. He's generously given me till Christmas to make a set of curtains, after which he'll pay someone to make the curtains for us. And I figure if I can't make a set of curtains by Christmas, it's time to give the sewing machine away!

But back to my poor, inconvenienced Boyfriend.

Being a nudist, he likes the house warm.

I'm a woman in her fifties. Can you say "hot flash!?"

For two nights running, I've slept beautifully. That's because the temperature has finally dropped down to about 18 at night and I've put the down-filled duvet on the bed. I'm warm and cosy beneath the covers, and the air is cool and soothing around me. All is right with my world.

Trouble is, Boyfriend gets up at five o'clock in the morning. I get up around nine, or ten, or maybe eleven...

He has a deviated septum, and so is sensitive to cold air, and he was completely stuffed up and sneezing and blowing his nose, waiting for me to get up so he could put on the heat, even though it's HIS house.

Can you say, "Awwwww...?"

When I surfaced at nine this morning, Boyfriend had been up, shivering, for four hours. He'd wrapped himself in the quilt that's on the sofa. He'd come in to get his winter housecoat, his slippers, his warm socks. I got up to pee, and quickly realized it was !*$%# freezing in the house, and told him to put the heat up.

I quickly ascertained that he was a block of ice and offered to make him porridge. He looked up at me with the grateful eyes of a child about to cry. Porridge and buttered toast were comfort foods from when he was a wee bairn. I got them in front of him and saw even his hands were clenched with the cold. Poor bunny! Even I, immune as I am to the "suffering" of males, was moved to pity!

So we've now decided that when he gets up he's allowed to put the heat on, and we'll just close off the outlet in the bedroom and see how that works.

I'll keep you posted on the further trials and tribulations of settling in!

The Di'el Didna Want Me

So I'm home from my surgery, basking in the well-wishing of friends and enjoying a break from the routine. I was surprised that a couple of my friends were completely taken by surprise to discover I'd had a partial mastectomy. I thought I'd broadcasted my condition worldwide. Apparently I missed a few.

It happened this way. I promised my Daughter that I'd have a mammogram this year, because I've been successfully avoiding them for four years now. At the time I booked the appointment, I lived in NDG, so I booked at a clinic there. I went, got squished and irradiated, and left, thinking I'd hear from them in two more years.

Instead, I got a phone call from the clinic two days later wanting me to come in for a second mammogram, an enlargement of one area. At that time I was told I had something called "microcalcification clusters," and that these usually turned out to be nothing. So I wasn't worried. This time I was told to wait around for the radiologist to read the mammograms and discuss them with me.

She was very nice. She explained that these things are usually nothing, that in most cases like mine they simply decided to have the patient back every six months to see if the area changed. She said I could see a breast specialist if I was worried, and that in fact there was a new breast specialist at the clinic on the same floor. So I walked over and they gave me an appointment.

I expected that when I saw the specialist I'd be told these things were usually nothing, and to come back in six months for another mammogram.

Instead, the specialist said she was referring me to Hotel-Dieu, where they have a nopnotch breast clinic and state-of-the-art equipment and the best breast diagnosticians in Montreal. I was to take my x-rays and my CD to them and drop them off along with her referral, and they would contact me and tell me whether they wanted me to come in or whether I should turn up in six months for another mammogram.

Of course, that's what I expected, but instead they asked me to come back in for a biopsy and more mammograms.

The biopsy was "interesting:" I had to remain motionless for 45 minutes with my boob hanging through a circular hole in a very uncomfortable platform. The boob was frozen and immobilized in a vise, two sites were biopsied and markers left where the tissue had been sampled. Titanium, and no, it doesn't set off airport alarms.

I was told my specialist would receive the results in two weeks and to make an appointment to see her.

I expected to be told, everything's fine, come back next year.

Instead, she said, "Okay, I'm going to perform an excision." One of the biopsied sites had yielded "atypical" cells. The way I was given to understand it, if a normal cell is white and a cancer cell is black, I was in a 30% grey. It wasn't a lump, just some cells that weren't normal.

So because this was surgery, I had to go for pre-op tests, and that's when I met the pre-op nurse, who used the term "partial mastectomy."

I didn't like the sound of that. "The surgeon called it an excision," I said. She nodded vigorously. Yes, an excision in the breast is called a partial mastectomy.

How about that. I didn't hear much of what the nurse told me after that. My brain was trying to come to grips with that M-word. Adding to my discomfort, she handed me a pamphlet describing exercises I was to perform after my surgery. To minimize the effects of lymphodema.

I stared at the booklet uncomprehendingly. Lymph nodes? They might have to take out lymph nodes? I put all the papers away to look over at home later.

Then I had to meet with an anesthesiologist. I thought, "what a bore." What on earth was that about? Well, it turned out to be about my sleep apnea, the reason I have a V-PAP machine. (That's a machine that keeps your airways open at night using Positive Air Pressure.) The anesthesiologist thought I'd better stay in the hospital overnight and bring my V-PAP with me, because apparently anesthesia can make you stop breathing.

Oh. Okay then. So now, I've gone from "come back in two years for your next mammogram" to staying overnight in a hospital. I was starting to freak out, despite still being assured that these things were usually nothing.

It didn't help when Daughter decided she was going to come stay with me. I figured for sure I was going to die from the anesthesia then. Fortunately she got a gig in Toronto that kept her there during my surgery! I mean, I didn't mind that she wanted to be with me, but, let's face it - I'm not getting any younger. There will no doubt be plenty of opportunities for her to come hold my hand as I'm wheeled into the operating room in years to come. It'll be old hat some day, I'm sure. And no doubt far more serious.

The day finally arrived. It began by a 6:30 a.m. start to drive to Hotel-Dieu again, where, back in the room with the painful bed with the hole for my boob to hang down, a "harpon" was inserted into the site where the atypical cells had been discovered. I called it a harpoon. It was a small wire, but "harpoon" was funnier, since it brought to mind lines about whales. The harpoon was sticking out of my boob and got taped up. Next stop, the Verdun hospital for the surgery.

So I found myself signing in to Day Surgery and being assured that after the surgery had actually happened I'd be transferred to a room. I was asked at least a dozen times if I'd remembered to bring my V-PAP machine with me. Hubby patiently carried my bag from point to point and sat with me while we waited for my surgery time to arrive. Finally the orderly came for me. Hubby leant forward, gave me a kiss and said "Repent - the end is near!" So I entered the operating room laughing my head off. Bless my dear Hubby - he doesn't say much, but when he does, it's hilarious!

Then the head anesthesiologist said this was supposed to be day surgery and he'd send me home afterwards, no need to stay in overnight. O-kayyy, I said. I guess.

My surgeon arrived and checked my films again. Everything was a go, everything was fine. Oh, she wasn't going to be there the day after to release me in person, because she had to stay home and wait for the refrigerator repairman to come. You know - you have to stay home from 8 a.m. till whenever they come, because they can't give you a specific time... It was hard not to laugh. Here we are, mighty surgeon and ordinary plebe, both humbled and brought low before the almighty refrigerator repairman! I told her the anesthesiologist wanted to send me home anyway and she said she'd make sure to write my release in just in case.

And then I was wheeled in and the I.V. put in, and then I was waking up in the recovery room. And then I was wheeled back to the Day Surgery room for further observation, where Hubby was waiting for me.

"I made it!" I said. "Not dead yet!" he answered. A familiar old joke. And the meaning behind the title of this blog, incidentally, for those of you who don't speak Scots! "The Devil didn't want me" is the English translation!

And then began the post-operative dithering about whether I was staying or going home. I was game. Before they'd let me go home though, I had to make to the bathroom under my own steam. Right, I'll try it now, I said, and proceeded to get up.

Then I quickly lay back down and called for the kidney-shaped bucket. Oops. I'd forgotten I get naseous after general anesthesia.

Okay, said the nurse, I think I'm going to give you something for nausea. We've got three protocols for nausea, I'll give you the first one. Okay. It put me back to sleep, of course. But a short time later I was ready to try again. One, two, three, upsie-daisy...

No-go, back to the barf bucket.

Okay, I'll try the second one, said the nurse. And back to sleep I went. And tried again. Again with the same result. And protocol three went the same way.

At this point the nurse wisely decided to try removing the oxygen stream and seeing how I was breathing on my own. Not five minutes later, the alarm went off beside me. My oxygen had dropped lower than 83%, and that's a very bad thing. So she gave me the oxygen again, and we tried a little later to see how my breathing was on my own. Beep beep beep went the alarm.

At which point she said "I'd feel a lot happier if you were to stay in overnight so we could monitor you."

"Well, that was the original plan!" I said.

And in no time I was in my semi-private room, my V-PAP chugging away happily, Hubby gone gratefully home to bed, and me finally allowed to stay in dreamland for 2 hours at a time. Because of course, "monitoring" me meant they had to wake me up every 2 hours to check my vitals. No matter. I made it through the night and got released near noon the next day, and now I'm home recovering.

No pain to speak of - it feels a little itchy, sometimes feels like I have a large splinter. But I've enjoyed a steady stream of visitors, calls, and good wishes on Facebook. Sadly, no chocolates have appeared yet, but today R brought me flowers - yay! And any minute now Daughter is going to arrive from Toronto for a brief visit.

So that's the story of my partial mastectomy. I see the specialist in two weeks, at which time I expect to be told the cells weren't cancerous, and to come back in a year for another mammogram.

And then we'll see!

Carbs!

I made an error in judgement recently. I figured, since I'd lost about 40 lbs., that I could safely indulge in a few desserts. In fact, I was desperate to see if I could stop losing weight, since I didn't know the cause of the weight loss in the first place. Yes, I know, it's illogical.

But the fewer carbs you eat, the less you crave them.

And... once I started eating them again, I started craving them again.

Well, tonight I'm fighting the urge to go pop a few whippets. You know, marshmallow-filled, coated in dark chocolate. Oh, and did I mention, they're raspberry-filled as well? Umm, mmm mmm! Oh, and they are calling my name!

But I'm holding out.

It's autumn. This is the time of year I want to fatten up for winter hibernation. Get nice and plump, so I can crawl into bed till April, warm and cozy under my duvet, and get a really good sleep.

Unfortunately, I don't really hibernate. I am quite capable of gaining weight however, and I'm not actually wanting to put it back on.

It's been a nice ride, these past couple of weeks, snacking on cookies and squares. But I have experienced the lack-of-cravings before, and I'm going for it again.

So, no matter that the whippets are softly crooning "Eat me! Eat me!"

I am determined.

Safe and sound

There is a lovely full moon out tonight. The full moon always puts me in a wistful mood. Familiar and brilliant, she embodies my concept of the Great Goddess that was worshipped at the dawn of humanity, the life-giver, sacred feminine, mysterious.

It's been quite a while since I've thought about my pagan beliefs. This past spring was overshadowed by my coming out of a depression and starting to pack to move in with Boyfriend - a definite new chapter in my life. And then came the Move itself, with unpacking, settling in, a roof to be done, items to be sorted. And enjoying the summer as best we could. Visits back to see Hubby. Now a strike and a medical issue creating busyness.

But tonight I had my bridge ladies over to my new home for the first time. And it felt wonderful. Of course I had to give the grand tour when they arrived. My home is tidy, clean, and comfortable. Boyfriend's natural orderliness is rubbing off on me. It's a home you can relax in.

Hubby's home, on the other hand, is chaotic, noisy and cluttered. Poor Hubby is trying to hold it all together, with precious little help from his two DNA replicants, plus a destructive dog and a (shedding) long-haired cat. Stepdaughter's clothes are knee-deep in her room, and Stepson's clothes occupy four of the nine rooms in the house, plus the stairway. Both of them leave their personal effects wherever they drop. The concept of being considerate to the people they live with has simply not made it to their consciousness.

To be sure, they both help out from time to time, either when yelled at sufficiently or if they want to have people over. But the house usually looks like it could be on "Hoarders."

As Dr. Phil would no doubt say, this situation will continue as long as Hubby allows it to continue. It will stop when he makes it stop, and not a moment before.

When I go visit Hubby I try to help him out a bit. I can empty, load, and run the dishwasher. I can do laundry. I can change the sheets on the bed. I can pick up dog poop. I can brush the cat and give her water.

When I lived with Hubby I was able to keep the chaos mostly at bay. I would get angry much quicker than he did, I would insist that the children be made to pitch in. Apparently when I left everyone breathed one gigantic sigh of relief. There would be no more yelling.

And everything went to pot. Dirt, debris, junk all sifted into each room, basically filling all the available space, filling even the air with confusion.

I still love Hubby very much, and it breaks my heart to see him living in these conditions. And it has cast a shadow over me, over my happiness in my new home. It is hard to be happy when people we love are living in misery.

I had to leave. I was angry all the time, I was fighting a losing battle. I was constantly informed that I wasn't the parent, and every attempt was made to subvert my authority as the homeowner, and Hubby allowed it, didn't back me up, and it drove me away.

And now I have a different life. Still close to Hubby, yes. But my world is orderly, calm, relaxed. There is no fighting, there are no battles. Here there is cooperation and appreciation. Both Boyfriend and I are working together to keep our home serene.

And tonight I was thrilled to walk my bridge friends through my new home and welcome them here, where I live now.

The eldest member of our group is in her eighties - I'm not sure how high, but she's getting up there! She's been a friend of my Grandmother, my Mother and Father, a friend to me, to my Daughter and Stepchildren. She is one of the loveliest people ever to grace this earth. And tonight she said to me, as she was leaving, that it did her heart good to see me settled again in such a lovely home.

And now finally I can be truly thankful that I've been brought, safe and sound, to harbour. It feels now like I have permission to enjoy my life here, in this pleasant and comfortable place.

It feels like home.

A Day on the Picket Line

I'm on strike. So are 1700 others, my co-workers, non-academic staff at a prestigious university. (That's a hint as to which university it is - it likes to proclaim itself the "Harvard of the North.") I just spent my first four-hour shift on the picket line, and boy, do I ever hope this strike is over soon!

Remember, I'm an old lady, and I've been working a desk job for 20 years now! OMG, walking so slowly for such a long stretch of time is painful! I can barely hobble now, I never want to stand up as long as I live, and I have to do it all over again tomorrow. I hurt so much it brought tears to my eyes. I came home, hit the shower, and lay whimpering on the bed, crying out to Boyfriend to make supper for me.

This is way harder than working.