Migraines

I saw the neurologist yesterday, about my migraines. This particular doctor is one of those rarities who will explain things to his patients, thoroughly, till all their questions are answered. And he asks questions of the patients, lots of them. And does physical checks to assess pain. 

He's a gem.

He's one of the leading scientists in his field, having helped develop or oversee the development of (I forget which) at least one highly effective medication for migraines.

A bigwig. And a gem.

Being thorough often means your appointment runs late, but this one is worth waiting for.

I saw him first around 15 years ago when migraines had become so problematic for me that my ability to function was being impacted on an almost daily basis. I had one type of treatment then, and for about a decade I then only experienced migraines about twice a year.

Then they recently flared up again, more than 10 in a month on average, so I looked him up again and waited out the delay for getting an appointment, and boy, am I ever glad I did!

I learned more about migraines in my appointment yesterday, information that has helped me understand some of the puzzle pieces of my life.

I brought Hubby into the interview with me this time, and Doc immediately began addressing him. (Later on, Hubby and I discussed this, and we came to the conclusion that most husbands think their wives are simply nuts or trying to get out of making supper when they complain of migraines. This isn't the case with Hubby or Boyfriend, but it did underscore the fact that migraines have been largely misunderstood for a long time.)

Surprising facts about migraines:

1. They're a genetic defect in the (insert terribly technical term here) largest nerve in the human body.
2. The WHO (World Health Organization) has placed them 9th on the list of incapacitating diseases.
3. A migraine is a storm in the brain that goes on for days. Sort of like a smaller version of Jupiter's big Red Spot. And pain is the last symptom to appear. When the pain hits, the storm has been running for three days in the brain already.

Doc went on to illustrate to Hubby and me the difference between our brains. He took out a pen with the nib retracted and began to scribble wildly on the surface of the desk, which made an annoying small noise. He said that, were he to continue making this noise for an hour, Hubby's brain would eventually become habituated to the sound, and he would be able to "tune in out."

Not so with the migraine sufferer's brain. We never become habituated to the stimulus. The sound is as annoying twenty seconds in as twenty minutes or twenty hours.

This information came as a revelation to me, one of those blasts-from-heaven kinds of revelations. It explained so many things about my reactions in one fell swoop, it was like being hit by the proverbial lightning bolt!

"…never become habituated to the stimulus…" Wow - does that ever explain me! For starters, it explains why, years ago, when we had a Media Centre where I worked and we had specific times during the day when we were serving customers, I was unable to ignore people when it was someone else's time to serve the counter. I could HEAR them waiting. I could hear them coming down the hallway, putting their books down, taking off their coats...and I used to think my co-workers were deaf, daft, or just plain lazy and incompetent for not getting up right away to serve people. I used to get pretty steamed at them. It did not make for a harmonious working relationship. My longsuffering Boss used to tell me, repeatedly, to just ignore it and let the people who were supposed to be serving them do so, and just get on with the workorders I was working on.

But I couldn't! I couldn't let it go, and it always seemed an eternity to me till someone would get up.

But it wasn't an eternity. It was my brain on migraines. It was a hyper sensitivity to stimulus. I could no more ignore the fact that there were people waiting at the counter than I could ignore a screaming baby or my own limbs being cut off with a chainsaw.

And it wasn't my fault.

That's a biggie, because all these years I've been blaming myself for being stupid, or easily distracted, or hot-under-the-collar over this issue. I have been busy chastising myself for my inability to do what I was told - namely, getting on with my work and letting someone else help the clients.

And now I understand that I couldn't help it. That's it's a genetic defect in a major nerve of the brain. That once the nerve gets jangling, there is nothing I could do to stop it, and a few days later there would be a migraine as a result. 

I now understand that my colleagues weren't necessarily stupid or lazy or inconsiderate. 

They were habituated. They were able to tune out sounds they heard as "background noise."

For me, there is no such thing as "background noise." I've always had a hard time with the radio playing in the car, with people trying to hold conversations while the tv was on.

Because I can't tune it out! Now, I've known for a long time that I can't do that, but now I know WHY!

It's also why I never let Daughter talk on the phone to her friends when Star Trek was on. Why music playing in a kid's room, or a kid talking on a cell phone, would drive me nuts. Because I simply can't tune it out. Ever.

It may sound like a small thing, but this understanding comes for me as a huge relief. All these years I thought I was just disagreeable, just ornery. "Affectations!" Hubby used to tease me. "Selective hearing!" I used to snap back. I used to wonder what was wrong with him, he'd have a radio on in every room of the house, all tuned to different stations, and the tv on as well. He wasn't "listening" to any of it, and meanwhile my brain was fighting to make sense of all of, all at once.

And once that nerve started jangling, there was no stopping it.

Well, that's it for today's rant. I hope I haven't bored you with my fascination on this subject. I'm going to mull this one over for a long time.

But I do recommend to any migraine sufferers out there that you skip the over-the-counter meds and the GPs and head to a neurologist. Mine's got 3,000 patients, but these guys to to school for a reason, and specialize for a reason. 

I'm just so glad there are specialists out there that we can, eventually, get to see.

Getting Water from a Stone

We recently had Mother's Day. For years, my Mother's Day celebrations were a bit unusual, compared to other people's.

There was my "real" Mom, Patricia, who gave birth to me, and from whose arms I was wrested at the tender age of five years old. From age five to about 14, it was made my "duty" to call my mother on Mother's Day, and on her birthday, and on Christmas and Easter, etc etc. My phone calls were carefully overheard. I had to tell my mother I loved her, and I dutifully did so.

What I wasn't allowed to say was how desperately I loved her and missed her, and how my soul had died inside from the lack of her, and how I couldn't feel anything because of my painful separation from her, and how I had shoved all my love, all my feelings, deep down inside me in order to follow the rules, so that I might, for a few minutes each year, hear her voice, and maybe be allowed to see her.

That situation crippled me for life. Oh yes, I have learned to cope. I have even come to terms with what people did, and understood why they did it. And I have got on with my life, learning to love once again.

But my relationships have all been screwed, and it is hard work for me to become "normal," and it's an ongoing struggle.

Albeit one I am grateful for. At least I DID reunite with my mother, and I DID come to know her a bit, and though I had developed a habit of not listening to anyone, I was eventually able to hear her advice, even though she might not have lived long enough to know that.

Moving on...

I had also to wish my Grandma a happy Mother's Day. Grandma wanted everyone to think I was her daughter, not her granddaughter. I dutifully told her I loved her, when beneath that I hated her for removing me from my mother. And beneath that, I loved her for making sure I was kept in contact, a very distant and infrequent contact, but she did make sure I kept in contact with my mother.

And beneath that, I love her because she was my Grandma.

Then my father remarried, and I was told to love my new Stepmother, which I did. Not much choice in anything in my early years! Minnie won my heart on her own terms, first with her cream-cheese-and-cherry-pie, after which I felt she could do no wrong. And later, with her questions about feelings, questions I had never heard before because my father and grandparents didn't want to know the truth. Questions I didn't understand at the time, because I had sequestered my feelings somewhere where even I didn't know they were. But questions which nevertheless came back to me when I was old enough to start dealing with all the s**t that had befallen me.

Mother's Day, Father's Day, Christmas, Easter, birthdays...they were all spent with people who loved me, who I loved, and all of them were spent apart from the people I loved.

Then I became a mother myself. I was still not "fixed" from the injuries of my youth, but my Daughter dragged me up above water, just by existing. Ever so slowly, I began to learn what love was really about - how you can't really help yourself, how there is no way to ignore this other being. We think it's the infants that are helpless. No, it's the mothers - we can't help ourselves where our young are concerned.

And we usually go on to make a bunch of mistakes regarding our offspring. Some people are too indulgent. Some too strict. We spend an awful lot of time worrying about them, and not enough time enjoying them.

It's my Daughter who has taught me the most about a Mother's love, and she who has motivated me to do countless things I would never have considered.

This morning, it's the protein or vitamin shake I'm having for breakfast. I wouldn't say it's delicious - there's no where NEAR enough sugar in it for that! But it's blueberries and chocolate almond milk and real cranberry juice and green powder. It makes my Daughter happy to think I'm drinking this stuff, and it beats making breakfast.

But it got me thinking as I was using the hand blender to mix it all up, who came up with the idea to get milk from almonds? Almonds, in my experience, have very little liquid in them. It certainly wouldn't have occurred to me to try to produce any large amounts of liquid from them!

This is quite an age we live in. We have surpassed our own ability to comprehend our world. We now have so much information we don't know how to process it. We can make such technological gadgets that revolutionize how we do things, that anybody over 15 can't take it all in. Our ability to understand our own lives decreases exponentially with each decade we claim in our lives.

Life is as confusing and bewildering for most of us over 50 as it was to me, as a little girl, not understanding how I could make things work to my advantage, ie, how to get my mommy back.

But if we can get milk from almonds, we may yet one day get water, or blood, from stones.

Ivrine

No, it's not a typo, I know how to spell my friend's name. It's a reversion of the letters of the family name Irvine. My friend has hated her name pretty much all of her 90 years on this planet, because no one pronounces it or spells it correctly. I - V - R - I - N - E.

Ivrine is of Scottish origin. She was born there. And after 50+ years in Canada she still hasn't lost her accent! Glasgow, I'm pretty sure. She and my friend Sally have often discussed landmarks in the town they grew up in, and I seem to remember letting my mind wander a bit while these discussions were going on and humming "I belong to Glasgee, Dear auld Glasgee toon," so I think she's from Glasgow!

My family met Ivrine when they moved onto Homer Street, 1957 was the year my Grandparent's home was built. Grandma and Ivrine became friends quickly. 

And that's because Ivrine is simply one of the most pleasant human beings that has ever walked the face of this earth. I have never heard her say an unkind word to anyone - literally, not figuratively. No matter how late she was for work, how tired she was or frustrated with her waaaaay-less-than-perfect husband. Even if others she was speaking to had nothing but snide remarks to make about a person or a topic, Ivrine found a way to discuss the problem intelligently and with compassion.

She is a kind soul. I would escape the emotional turmoil of my family and race over to her house after supper to help her with her dishes. (Now you know I absolutely loathe doing dishes - so that's quite a testament to how pleasant her company is!)

Ivrine was first my Grandmother and Grandfather's friend, then my father's and my mother's. And my stepmother's as well. She was a best buddy to my Auntie Flo, and my cousin to this day calls her "Auntie Ivrine."

She is my friend, my daughter's friend. That's four generations now, and keep counting to include my stepchildren. Even my cats and my dog have been guests in her home, receiving forbidden treats surreptitiously with grace. A morsel couldn't pass Ivrine's lips but she had to share it with the wee beasties! Ivrine has presided over many a dinner at my home with my other friends too, and without exception everyone has fallen in love with her humor and kindness.

I cannot begin to imagine my life without her, she is literally woven into the fabric of it. Not a crisis went by in my life but Ivrine was there for me to cry on her shoulder, to offer me refuge, humor, advice, sewing help, baking help, and the joys of simply being companionable. I'd ask her to come over and just sit at my table and talk to me while I was cleaning the kitchen.

Ivrine has a very, very special place in my heart. I did not grow up with my mother, and fought bitterly with my Grandma. But never a cross word ever came between Ivrine and me. (And I've been pretty cross, in my time!) I sought out her advice and her company. I still do, though she's getting a little mixed up these days.

She is 90 years old today, and I'm up at 3 in the morning to decorate her birthday cake. She's worth it. She is a shining light, a true gem. And I hope she's here for me to make her a 100th birthday cake.

Must be Christmas...

So here it is, the keyboard Hubby gave me two years ago for Christmas, up in the livingroom with the book of Christmas Carols, ready to go.

That book of Christmas carols, my Grandmother gave me when I was 14 years old. And I still can't play them!

Every year I drag them out and give it a go. They're written as hymns - 4-part harmony.

I'm not very good at reading music. Hah! That's the understatement of a lifetime! I never learned how to properly read music. Interestingly enough, I can teach it though! So I struggled with any music, but 4-part harmony was a nightmare for me. See, that means you are playing four notes all the time, using four separate fingers, all going in different directions. Every beat of the song, no letup, no respite. Your brain has to direct four uncooperative fingers in four different directions from start to finish. 

Imagine trying to read four lines of text, grouped one above the other, all about different subjects, in one continuous process from the top to the bottom of a page, and be able to tell someone what each of them were about when you reached the end. Here, I'll try a sample:

Merry Christmas to us all, see the doggie chase the ball, wagging his tail down the hall.

The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy-ass Red Bull dog while barking his head off.

Lorem Ipsem something-or-other Latin phrase that's used as filler and here as example.

Boom-boom, ain't it great to be crazy? Well that depends on your point of view though!

Go ahead, read all four at the same time. That means you read "Merry the Lorem Boom" and "Christmas quick Ipsem boom" etc. (Actually if you're going to do it properly, you start at the bottom and read to the top. So it would be "Boom Lorem The Merry" and "boom Ipsem quick Christmas.")

And don't forget,  you have to do it in the correct amount of time, since people are singing along. Yeah. New respect for the church organist!

Grandma used to listen, not particularly patiently, while I struggled with the Christmas Carols. Then she'd pontificate on the one thing she'd ever heard from someone-or-other about reading music.

"It should be just like reading a book!" she'd parrot away, frustrated with my inability to get through a christmas carol without stumbling numerous times. "Smooth and continuous and seamless!"

She never could understand what the problem was. 

With 20/20 hindsight, there was a solution to this, except I didn't see it at the time. I should have offered to teach Granny how to play the piano. I should have begun her instruction in the names of the notes and the placement on the staff, and stuck her down in front of the piano with the all-intimidating "C-D-E, has a tree, full of apples as can be!" from (I think) Teaching Little Fingers to Play.

That would have shut her up. There's nothing like trying to coordinate fingers, which are remarkably stupid and uncooperative, with symbols printed on a page 2.5 feet away from where your fingers are. And "C-D-E" is only three notes with one finger each. Music doesn't stay that simple for long.

But I digress.

I actually love this book of Christmas carols. My favourites are "O Christmas Tree" and "Good King Wenceslas," and "Silent Night." That's because they're the easiest to read, with the fewest number of changes in chords. "Deck the Halls" is a nightmare - it changes chords every single word. It's dizzying!

But I love playing them all, nevertheless, despite the annoying memories of frustrating years enduring Grandma's sermons on a topic she knew nothing about. Despite not being a Christian - heck, Christmas is a pagan holiday from start to finish anyway! (Spoiler alert!) The pagans are celebrating the birth of the god from the Mother Goddess. Sound familiar?

Anyway, another reason I like "Good King Wenceslas" is because of the story. "Ye who now will bless the poor shall yourselves find blessing." Unfortunately it comes after five verses and doesn't often make it that far in today's fast-paced world where we sing one verse and move on to the next song.

So I play all five verses. Actually, at some point during the holidays, I play all the verses of all the carols. Just to be...I don't know...pedantic? Thorough?

Have a good time? Yes, I think that may be it...I enjoy playing them. Badly, yes, but I'm so glad I'm not a concert pianist and I can thump away and sing at the top of my lungs and scare the cats, because it's actually f u n !

Separating the Men from the ... not men ...

It snowed today. It started late last night, on our way home from Boyfriend's office party. Boyfriend was psyching himself up for a day spent shovelling. I laughed at his angst, because I do a good deal of the shovelling. I said he wouldn't be alone, that I'd be out there doing the stairs while he took care of the snowplow pile in front of the tempo.

Apparently, I lied.

I did get the Christmas cards done. All new addresses duly stored - physically, in a book, one of those things you use pencils and pens in, remember? Everything stamped and ready to go to the post office. It takes hours to do christmas cards, even when you're not writing a personal message in them.

I wasn't actually feeling quite up to snuff today either. Got a bit of a cold. I was actually surprised that Boyfriend came out to get groceries with me. And right up to the last possible minute I was still deluding myself that I was going to in fact go skating today, in town, at the Principal's Skating Party - a McGill tradition.

But I pulled the plug on that and went to bed for the afternoon instead. And felt much better for it.

Just before suppertime, "Untold Stories of the ER" was on. Boyfriend suffered quietly through one of them, but drew the line at eating his dinner in front of the tv to watch the second one. So even though he'd done all the shovelling alone, I let him eat by himself in the bedroom while I stuffed myself through all kinds of medical procedures.

And then Downton Abbey came on, and the rest of the world slipped away. Basically, the world does cease to exist for me when Matthew and Bates and Anna and Mrs. Hughes and Lady Mary are onscreen.

At some point Boyfriend got back into his snow shovelling clothes and made a good deal of noise outside, scraping and hitting the railings. I even had to get up to turn the light on for him. Fortunately, it was in a break from the show while they were running the Ralph Lauren and Viking River Cruises and Kells Academy ads. He did the deck too, for Bijou's sake, who wasted no time in enjoying the fruits of his labours.

I even poked my head out to encourage him. "Such rampant enthusiasm!" I cried. When he came in a few minutes later, he assured me he was far from enthusiastic. I've never seen him so drenched in sweat! He pointed out, pointedly, that he was only doing his duty.

I reminded him that occasionally I do my duty as well. But he didn't get to chuckle for long, because Lady Sybill was busy dying in childbirth and the world, and Boyfriend with it, was fast disappearing.

He's a Downton widower.

You know, how people say "golf widow" or "fishing widow." Well, he's a man, so he can't be a "widow," he has to be a "widower."

Hey, I got dinner made, and the dishes washed, and the cat food made, and the dishes washed again, and two loads of laundry done too.

But I have to admit, he wore the (snow)pants today! 

A Quilt for Attawapiskat

Well, the First Nations community of Attawapiskat has suffered yet another blow. On the CBC, they reminded us of how, two years ago, the sewage system suffered a fatal breakdown, and the response was to install temporary housing for the families there.

Two years in temporary housing. Well, to some people that doesn't seem like such a bad thing. But have you looked at a map? We're talking just about Arctic here.

Families. That means old women and children. Babies.

One working toilet for 80 people. One working kitchen for 80 people.

I would hate to share my bathroom with 80 people. And I can barely tolerate my Boyfriend helping me in the kitchen, much less having 80 people trying to get meals going.

I'd be discouraged. Wouldn't you?

Then two months ago the power went off. Did Ontario Hydro rush to the scene? I mean, this is sub-Arctic climate here. Was it an emergency that all these people had no power?

Apparently not.

When we had the Ice Storm here, people started using fireplaces, Coleman stoves, candles, anything they could to stay warm.

And of course, that's what the people of Attawapiskat had to do.

Here, we had people burn their homes down in trying to keep warm. And two weeks ago, that's what happened in Attawapiskat.

Of course it happened. 

Now, I'm not a historian or a specialist in Aboriginal affairs. I can't begin to guess at how this situation got the way it has. I'm sure of one thing - there has been bad faith, mismanagement, lack of understanding and lack of trust, maybe on both "sides," more likely on "ours."

But I am a mother, a daughter, and a quilter. And I'm 56 years old. I've had experiences that have taught me that a little compassion goes a long way. That nobody gets up, yawns and stretches in the morning, looks in the mirror and says "Today, I think I'll become a statistic."

I've learned that life throws us curves. That some of us are luckier than others. We got born into a relatively affluent society, on the right side of the color-and-creed barriers.

And others weren't so lucky. The cynics would say "So what, that's life, it sucks to be you."

I'm pretty sure that if any of us had to live in these kind of conditions, we'd squawk. I'm also pretty sure that if the power went out here, they'd be working hard to get it back on.

Because. We. "Count."

Well, I could go on about this forever, but in the interests of getting to the point, I'm going to send a quilt to one of the persons who has been displaced by the fire.

It's nothing. It's a drop in a sea. It will actually be a large investment of my time and will take determination to see that it ends up keeping somebody warm, because I don't actually know anybody from Attawapiskat.

I'm well-placed in my job to have some contacts, and earlier this week I met with two Aboriginal women to discuss the way I could somehow get a quilt to one of these displaced persons. I'd like the label I will put on it to eventually read "You are not alone." Or "you are not forgotten." Or something like that. But that's even harder to figure out, because then not only does someone have to point the way to a displaced person, it means finding someone who speaks their language and can write the syllabics for me to embroider or appliqué onto the quilt.

One step at a time. If all I can do is send one person a quilt that will keep them warm, that's one thing I can do.

So, has anybody had experience with wool batting? I have a feeling it's warmer than cotton, but I wonder about shrinkage.

All kind comments are appreciated.

Here, suet suet suet suet suet...

I am an anachronism, a relic, an antique, a has-been...

I am trying to make a fruitcake from scratch. I've done this many times in the past, but I learned today that there is a province-wide shortage of suet.

Suet is beef fat. It's supposed to be fat specifically from around the kidneys (because of the texture). And every other year I've been able to get a 500g bag of it, nice and white and fine and made by Maple Leaf, to put in my fruitcake.

This year, nuh-uh.

Who knows why - I throw my arms in the air in a gesture of hopelessness. Because I'm in a primarily French province, and suet-based cooking is primarily English? Because people are watching their weight and cutting down on animal fats, or becoming vegetarian?

Besides the fact that I've driven all over Hell's half-acre today in a vain attempt to get suet, I'm depressed about more than that one issue. See, somebody suggested I go to Adonis, in the 10/30 mall.

I avoid the 10/30 like the plague. It is huge. It is a small city. It makes no sense for Canadian weather. You have to drive from one store to another, it's impossible to be a pedestrian, they don't even have sidewalks through most of it.

Whenever I'm a passenger in a car going to the 10/30, we get there without incident. However, "Granny" here got herself well and truly lost.

How hard can it be? The thing is visible from Mars! I've always, always returned safely from the 10/30 by way of Lapiniere, so to get there today, I took Lapiniere.

Turns out, that doesn't exactly work.

I saw many sights today. The graveyard where my grandparents are buried. Leon's furniture warehouse. The Ikea distribution center. Signs pointing to the 30 East, heading to Sorel. Signs pointing to the 30 West, heading to Vaudreuil. A manufacturing and commercial center I didn't know existed, where they're still paving the roads. There was even a Boulevard du Quartier - which convinced me I was in the right place at last, because that is the name of the main road in the 10/30! Must've been a different "Quartier" though, because I made it as far as St. Bruno before I gave up and turned around.

Unfortunately, this 10/30 mall, visible from Mars, is not visible from the 30, East or West, or from Lapiniere. 

Eventually I did manage to see great big signs advertising the existence of the 10/30, and proceeded to get lost in the maze of unnamed streets that meander meaninglessly this way and that through the most mind-numbing tedium I have ever encountered.

If I ever become a terrorist, the first place I'd take out is the 10/30 mall. But I digress.

I did, eventually, find Adonis. They didn't have any suet either. They also didn't know what it was, but the manager was keen to make me some. Unfortunately, I think the process involves chopping, heating and melting, cooking, and more chopping.

And I got lost coming home. Nearly wept when I found Boul. Rome, coin Taschereau.

All in all, not an experience to put me in a festive mood for making fruitcake.

And of course, there was the internal monologue the while this was going on. "You're the fruitcake, Deb." "Go on a diet." "This'll teach to you become a vegetarian!" "Why do you persist in routinely giving yourself the trouble of doing s--t from scratch! Buy one at Costco and get on with your life!"

I was not feeling particularly happy. Then I realized that my Daughter had left me a message. I had tried to call her while I was going both ways on the 30 and she was returning my call.

She had been visiting my Stepfather in the hospital. Stepdad has just had his second leg amputated.

Okay, I may not be able to find suet this year, but at least I've got two legs. Kind of puts things a teensy bit in perspective.