Tickles

Tomorrow marks another day in my life that I hope to get through with flying colors. Or at least flying black and white....or grey. I am getting my wisdom teeth pulled tomorrow. I seem to have gotten a cavity in one of them and of course, in the irony that rules my life, the cavity is on the trigeminal neuralgia side. So to avoid thinking about any of what could happen (i.e., the possibility of an attack after the surgery) I have been asking my kids all kinds of questions about my husband just to see what they say.

Me: Do you guys remember what Daddy looks like?

Them: Yes!

4 year old: Big and tall and brown skin with not a lot of brown hair. (brown skin?!! for those of you who don't know...he is white, like Irish white.)

3 year old: My daddy is big! And he sounds like this (cue a very high pitched tea kettle whistling) weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! (OK, just be assured he does not sound like that)

Me: Do you know where Daddy is?

4 year old: Yes! Mommy do you have the number to call Daddy? (I wish!)

3 year old: Daddy is helping people. And all the teeth in the world. (my poor kids are so confused)

Me: What else do you think of when you think of Daddy?

4 year old: Big, huge muscles! (if Daddy is reading this, he is smiling from ear to ear)

3 year old: Daddy has tutus! (mental picture of Daddy in a tutu! ha! Daddy's smile is gone)

Me: You mean tattoos?

4 year old: Yes! Johnny Cash on his arm.

3 year old: And a puzzle around his arm. (a Celtic braid)

4 year old: And a chain on his ankle, but I can't remember which one. (pathetically, neither can I...sorry honey. and it isn't a chain. it is barbed wire. )

Me: What is your favorite thing about Daddy?

4 year old: When we wrestle! (I too miss those after-dinner wrestling matches while I do the dishes and listen to the kids laughing and laughing)

3 year old: My Daddy tickles me. (this is where I start tearing up...sniffle sniffle)

1 year old: MAAAAAAAAAA! (In the most obnoxious screeching noise ever...and he is saying "more" I think...this is where the sniffles and tears are gone)

So for a few minutes I forgot about my impending procedure. I wish I could look into the future (like three days...not so dramatic right?) and make sure that an attack is not going to happen. I wish I could look into the future (like four months...again, not so dramatic) to make sure my husband comes home safely.

Tutus and all.

0545

Apparently I am not meant to have a better day today. I should have known it would quickly spiral down when my four year old wakes me up at 0545 (that is 5:45AM to all of you sane civilian people) to tell me not to open the front door until I turn off the alarm, ok? Ok, so I have set the alarm off a time or two, and yes, by doing this I have ruined my children's ears, but who hasn't.

So somehow I manage to get all three up and ready and out the door to go to CDC (no, that isn't Center for Disease Control, it is Child Development Center -- remember, we are dealing with people who like lots of acronyms, doesn't matter if they have already been used) for which there is an expectant time of 0900 that my children need to be there. About half way there, I realize that I have forgotten all of their bags which contain their EpiPens and diapers and everything else required.

Needless to say, I was late in dropping them off and we got the baby room ticked off at us because they were waiting for my one year old so they could take the babies to see a HumV. That's right. A HumV. For the babies to gaze upon. Moving on.

After I deal with CDC I drive over to the Sports Center where I signed my son up for TBall. And once again have to confront The Desk. You remember The Desk. Apparently, I wasn't supposed to be charged what I was charged, so I had called them previous to going over. "No problem, just come on in, we'll fix it!" No Problem is what The Phone said. But The Desk says, "You need a manager to refund this." I say, "Please get a manager then." The Desk says, "There is no manager here." I say, "When will manager be here?" "Don't know," says The Desk. I say, "But the Phone told me..." blah blah blah. We've all been there. I still don't have my money back and somehow I have to guess when the manager will appear at The Desk. (The Phone and The Desk never have the same answers I have come to realize.)

After a couple of hours of doing dishes and folding laundry (Wrinkled, of course. That is what you get when it sits in the dryer for a few days.) I pick up my kids, "We didn't put him down for a nap, figured you didn't want us to," (why wouldn't I want you to? now I have to deal with cranky baby for the next hour -- thanks!) and went to ....wait for it....Walmart.

Yes, three kids, including a baby, who has not slept in several hours, off to Walmart. The mothers out there are cringing and those who don't have kids are rolling their eyes (ugh...it's that family.) So let me just run through a few of the highlights:

* Can't find what I am looking for, and of course there is no one to help. Every isle is crammed with older people who apparently can't find what they are looking for either.

* I lose my car keys somewhere between whispering threats to my four year old in the electronic section and stuffing snacks into my toddlers mouth in the shoe section. I did not realize I had lost them until I was half way into the food section. Four year old is crying because he thinks we are stuck in Walmart and therefor he will not see his Bear again.

* Two of the three kids melt down in the cereal isle (who is the bastard who designed that isle? I hope he/she is plagued with preschoolers)

* One child wanders off with a different family (Freudian?)

*As we are checking out, the man in front of us wants to purchase some sliced meat. There is no price. Of course this delays the checkout by what seems like hours. Then the same man forgets his wallet. More delay. Finally, our turn. "Mommy I have to pee pee!" oh god, no... She couldn't wait. We are in the middle of our checkout. I don't know what to do. Three kids, half way through check out. A line of people without teeth (not kidding) behind us.

I must have looked frantic because a lady comes up to us and says, "Go ahead and take her, I will watch the other two." I look at the woman with a mixture of gratitude and suspicion. I mean, who is that nice except for psycho killers? She had a Walmart badge on her -- a manager badge! I say, "Thank you! Boys, stay with this (stranger) lady!" and run my daughter to the bathroom:

"Hurry up, ok sweety? Mommy left the boys with a stranger and all of our food!" oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Do psycho killer kidnappers dress like Walmart managers? oh my god, oh my god, My mother is going to kill me when she hears about this! " Are you done sweety? Good, no time for washing...we will Purell later!"

Needless to say, the woman was a manager, we finish up at Walmart and drove home with the keys I finally found (in my pocket). We pull into my garage and the kids run up to the door to go into the house and start yelling "Ewwwww! Mommy quick!" Now why would I want to see whatever it is they are ewwwing about? But I go. I see the entire door is completely covered in ants. After an hour of getting children in the house and killing off the ants I get back into my car to move it again and what song is playing on the CD? "The ants go marching one by one."

I swear I can hear Him laughing when I have days like this.

List

My friend was teasing me because I am so over the town I live in as well as the people in it. She calls me a "short timer" since I will (maybe) be leaving soon. I don't think that is what my problem is. My problem is: I am fed up with being a single mom and dealing with people. Doesn't matter where I am living. I am fed up with people. Let's give some examples:

My Oral Surgeon. Had me waiting over an hour in the typical doctor's room. Tiny, stuffy, nothing to look at. Usually you can hear signs of life outside the door right? Well, after forty minutes I heard nothing. Not a peep. So immediately I thought: they forgot about me and went to lunch. Now when my mind gets paranoid the thoughts immediately go to reality. Now I am very upset because they forgot me. I got up and went to the front. Nope, still there. The receptionist with the sugar smile. Apologizing and probably cursing the doc out herself since she was missing her lunch hour. The consult was quick. Pull your teeth, blah blah blah. See you Monday. (I will get back to that at another time)

My Lawn Guy. My front lawn is literally a foot high. My kids are out there yelling "look at this one Mommy, this one reaches my belly!" I am sure my neighbors hate me. No one else's lawn looks like this. My backyard is even worse. My daughter took off her Crocs in the grass last night and we couldn't find them. I was on my porch scanning the field (ie, my backyard) and couldn't locate them. I know for a fact my husband set up a lawn service. I even know the guy who does it. He has come to mow my neighbor's lawn twice now. Can he not see the jungle that is my yard? Does he get a kick out of the different shades of green and yellow? I want to throttle him. Worse, I have to figure out how to mow this wheat field (my lawn) with the three kids in tow.

Civilian Workers on Post. Today I thought I would go sign my four year old son up for Tball. I was fairly excited. Why? It is a fairly momentous occasion in any child's life to sign up for "baseball." I should have known that my excitement would be dashed and crushed on the floor by the bureaucratic civilian workers behind The Desk. You know The Desk. If you have ever dealt with the Government, you are familiar with The Desk. And the people behind It. I brought everything I could think of to sign him up: a copy of his last physical, his birth certificate, my military ID, my check book, and my wallet. The lady behind The Desk takes a look at his physical and says: "he's got a heart murmur?" To which I reply, "ummm....no?!" (I mean first of all where did she even come up with that and secondly, why would I sign him up if he did have a heart murmur)Then, "says here he got asthma." (yes yes. My child cannot breathe nor can he run because of his heart condition, but I want to see him out on that field!) That is what I wanted to say. Instead: "ummm....no, no asthma. Where are you looking?" I thought maybe I had taken someone else's (sickly child's) physical. I looked. She was reading it wrong. It read: "Physician Denies: heart murmur, asthma, eye problems..." Denies. Apparently, The Desk wipes out all brain cells upon sitting down behind it.

My Husband. Yes. I know. I should be running around with an American flag and my husband's picture plastered to my heart. But I am fed up. I am done being single mommy. I am done being the good wifey. When my kids get hurt, who do they cry for? Daddy. And yes, I understand they miss him. Blah blah blah. But what would it take to get a letter? It has been two months and nothing. An occasional email. There had better be a good reason (that I will never know) for that. When the kids ask me if Daddy has sent anything, I say with a huge smile, "why yes! let me get it! " and I quickly write a letter and read it to them. They then take the letter that "Daddy" sent and hug it and talk about it for the next day or two.

I am tired of the people. I have great hope that this will soon pass. If it doesn't you can find me and my kids hunting for Croc's, reading pretend letters, and taking it easy due to heart murmurs and asthma for the next several months.

Stage

So I met with the neurologist again last week. She gave me a bunch of new and exciting ways to take my meds so that I could possibly go a while longer before I had to succumb to surgery. But first I joined the Trigeminal Neuralgia Association. And they sent me a plethora of information some of which struck me as being so out of my realm of being; and yet I am one of them now. In fact, that very sentence was one of their topics. The stages of learning you have this rare disorder. (hey...I've been wondering what to call it, and now I know. A rare disorder everyone! Can I get that Medium rare?)

The first stage to finding out about this condition --oops! I mean disorder! -- is denial. Yeah. I can say I am in complete denial. I keep waiting for the doctor to find something like a really deep cavity and be like: oh my God! All you have to do is pull that tooth and you are good to go! So sorry! And speaking of that, I am going to meet with an Oral Surgeon on Monday. Because, as if my head isn't going through enough....I have to get my wisdom teeth pulled!!! Hurrah! I honestly keep thinking this is it....this is when they will fix it. My tooth will come out and all will be better. Yeah....back to the whole denial thing.

The papers from the Association basically goes through what we all know as the steps of dying (though, luckily, this won't kill me! hurrah!! this will only hurt like a bitch the rest of my life!!!). Acceptance is the final stage. "Finding your new normal" because, like me, most people just want their old life back. The life they had before they started hurting. I remember the day I started to hurt. We were at Lowe's. Just a normal day. And ever since then, I begged God to give me the day before that day over and over again. I am not ready to start my "new normal." I want my old normal. I like it here in denial stage. I am too much of a fighter to get to "new normal" stage.

With that said....I am going to meet with the surgeon next month. I am hoping he can tell me more about the radiation therapy and the MVD surgery (the cutting my skull open surgery.) I am hoping that either the Oral Surgeon, the Neurosurgeon or the Surgeon General (had to throw that in there) can tell me SOMETHING! Throw me a bone here guys. Just something to hang onto. I will be sitting here in stage one. I will be the one holding the Lowe's bag waiting for a cure.

Heroes

I am off to see the neurologist (again) this week. I am not even sure what to say to her. I feel like someone who was dropped off in a country I don't know, with language I don't know and people I don't know who can't give me directions to places I don't know. I don't even know what I want to see her for. I guess so I can be referred to a surgeon so I can discuss a surgery that I am not even convinced I am ready for.

Some family members and I sat down this past weekend and discussed my options. I kept asking them, what would you do? What would anyone do in this bizarre turn of events. I just never expected to have to deal with something that I didn't even know existed! I am still in a state of shock. And having to think about it with no one else in the house every night. And having to deal with the children every night without a partner...well when the pain hits it is from hell. Straight from hell.

Have I described the pain yet? I just refer to the pain usually. My family members asked me to describe it. I tried to figure out what it feels like. Why it is called the "suicide disease." Why I am such despair when I am having an attack.

The only way I can describe the pain is this: There is a burning hot knife cutting into the gum behind my teeth where the top and bottom jaw meet. There are also what feels like hundreds of bees stinging my gums above and below my teeth. And then under my tongue there is a pinching sensation that comes and goes. Add to this every tooth in my mouth feeling like there is an exposed nerve so when I breathe or drink or talk, the teeth pound with pain. Sometimes these different pains are individually happening. Other times they all occur at the same time.

I guess the reason it is so terrifying as well as painful is because I don't know if the pain is ever going to stop. For some reason the meds have stopped working enough to allow the pain to come back, so what if the meds stop working all together. What if I have to live with this horrible pain? What if I never go back to my normal way of life? I can't go on like this. I can't live with this amount of pain. And that is why they (who?) call it the "suicide disease." I guess some people just couldn't wait for that next day to find out if there is another drug, another ice pack, another miracle.

My family asked me if I ever considered suicide because of this condition. I guess in a way I have. I know when I am having a long, horrible attack, I know that I couldn't possibly live knowing that there is no end to it. I just keep the faith that by morning or by the next day the pain will subside. That the drugs will kick in again. That the ice packs will provide relief.

And I keep the faith that upstairs from me are three kids whom I pray to God will never, ever have to deal with anything like this in their lives, and who I couldn't leave in this world without seeing them grow to be happy adults. I also have faith that my husband, wherever he may be, is coming home and we can fight this together.

I am wandering in a foreign land dealing with a foreign disease, but my kids and husband are my oasis. They are what provide me the reassurance that I will end up back where I should be, back where I belong -- pain free and happy again.

Packing

It is almost ten at night and I am finally feeling some relief. It has been a bad pain day. And I feel so responsible for the day my kids had. My four year old ran away (walked really) from home. My three year old cried for most of the evening. My one year old, well he was fine.

I cannot subject my kids to me in this state any longer. My three year old prays for "all the teeth in the world" every night. I mean, who does that?! My four year old wants to live at his friend's house; hence, the running away episode. I tried every trick in the book. I told him to go ahead and to watch out for dogs and cars as he walked to his friend's house. I thought, surely he will come home after that statement.

I soon realized that he wasn't coming home. As I stood in the doorway watching his little body march down the street, my three year old sobbing, "I don't want my brother to go! Come back! Come back!" I knew I had to go get him. The tricks in the book obviously weren't working. I yelled to him, "You need to come and say good bye to your sister!" When he came back and hugged her, I told him that we want him to come home and we loved him. He nodded and came into the house.

Does this happen to other people who don't have severe pain ruling their world? Even as I type this I can barely focus on the screen due to all of the drugs I am taking to get through the night. Yes, we are barely hanging on. Sometimes I believe we are a family in crises. At least today we were. As I sat on the floor with ice packs stuck on my face I cuddled my kids as they cried for Daddy. I just don't think we are handling our life well right now.

I am going upstairs with jerking hands and blurry vision to check on my sleeping children. And when I come down I will be researching the brain surgery that I think I will have to have. My hands are jerking, my face is hurting, and my heart is breaking. I wish I could run away too.

Lipstick

I took a big step yesterday. I hired a cleaning lady. As you can surmise...I need the help. But it is a big step because it is a big admission: I can't do this, so you do this. You are officially handing over the mop. I have had cleaning ladies before, some good some really really bad. Good or bad, these ladies know your family better than anyone--even your friends and relatives.

When relatives come over, the house is sparkling (or at least twinkling). When friends stop by, the house is straightened. But the cleaning lady knows how disgusting you and your family members are. She sees the tubs, the toilets, the corners and crevices. The little ice dispenser tray on the front of your fridge. (actually in my case, my sister was able to come to the nasty conclusion that I have no idea how to clean my house by picking up the ice tray. I honestly never even thought about that little thing. I won't describe how it looked. Seriously, I don't even get ice out of there anymore)

And if you have ever stayed home while the cleaning lady/crew are doing their job, it is one of the most uncomfortable days of your life. First of all, you sit there feeling like the laziest person alive. (yes, yes, clean over there....and over here. Hurry up darling, my show is about to come on! ) It is really pathetic.

When I lived in Bratislava, Slovakia I had a wonderful cleaning lady who is now practically a member of our family. But before we became close, I would try to describe using body language what I would like her to do or didn't have to do. After a while I just gave up. She knew what she was doing.

She was a wonderful addition to the family, but I am sure she thought I was nuts. At one point, when she was cleaning the wooden stairs, I was in the kitchen opening a package from the States. In it was a tube of lipstick that I thought would look nice on her. So instead of waiting, I rushed over to her and handed it to her. I said in slow English, "I think this would look great on you!"

She took it, and looking at me, put it on. Right there on the stairs. And then continued to clean the stairs. I stood there in horror. Oh my God. She thinks I want her to wear the lipstick while she cleaned my house. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye while she rubbed the stairs with a rag. I could only imagine what she was thinking. "Okay lady...whatever you want. I always heard Americans were weird."

I was completely embarrassed and felt like an idiot. From there on I didn't give her anything while she was cleaning. I waited until she was done and my husband could translate everything for me.

This time I am going to be out of the house and no gifts for the cleaning lady or her crew. I am comfortable in admitting that the house is too much for me right now. I am fine in paying someone else to handle the cleaning. I'm even okay if they think we are disgusting. I just don't want another person to think we are weird.

Too late, right?

Cricket

Have you ever felt like you have lost complete control of your life? Yesterday I had that feeling and then some. I guess it is normal when you are the only adult in the house and the four, three and one year old are ruling the roost. We had a meltdown in Walgreens. One of those meltdowns that make the entire store (remember, it is Walgreens, not a massive Walmart. Tiny.) stop and see how you, the Mom, are going to handle the situation. I am quite sure I did everything wrong. It all started because the three year old wanted toothpaste with Dora on it. The four year old wanted the watermelon one. And stupid Mommy tried to give a lesson in being a smart consumer. The conversation went something like this:

"I want the Dora one!" said the whiney three year old.
"I want the watermelon one!" said the whiney four year old.
"But look, the bubble gum one is less money and more toothpaste! Let's buy this one!" whined the twenty-eight year old Mommy. (It's my blog, I can fib a little)

"NO! DORA!" yelled the three year old.
"NO! WATERMELON!" yelled the four year old.
"No, bubblegum," said the very calm, nurturing young mother. (again, my blog)

"DORA!!!" screamed the three year old.
"WATERMELON!!" screamed the four year old.
"Bubblegum my sweet children," sang the beautiful, skinny mother. (what?)
"Hi!" said the one year old.

At this point I realized how ridiculous we all sounded and I took all of the tubes of toothpaste and threw them on the shelf. I grabbed one and headed for the check out. Which prompted an even bigger tantrum from the three year old. I had grabbed the watermelon one.

I just knew everyone was thinking what a horrible mother I was. I could read their minds. Don't people know about birth control? and I would never let my kids act that way.

We finally made it to the checkout. The four and three year old were both crying now. The young clerk rang me up quicker than anyone has ever done. I felt like grabbing the intercom phone and saying, "I am all alone in this! You try to do it better!" But I didn't. Instead I hustled everyone into the car and ignored every plea for every children's song or audio book. I just ignored them. And miraculously, they all fell asleep for the ride home. I had a few minutes of peace and quiet.

And then the evening. I thought I was being a strong, take no prisoners mommy. I had found a cricket under my bed (ewwww...show no fear, show no fear) and because my four year old was with me, I had to remain calm. I quickly got a bag and tried to make it bounce into it, but my four year old started crying hysterically when the cricket jumped towards him. So I put the bag over the cricket and tied it up. My son is still crying and my daughter is now asking to see the cricket, where is the cricket?, where is the cricket? (over and over and over while clinging to my leg)

As I am dragging both kids and the bagged cricket over to the back door, I walk into the kitchen to see the one year old has found a new ability:

"Hi" he said.

Gamble

The time has come to start seriously considering the dreaded surgery. The pain has come back and I am now taking so many pills throughout the day that I am constantly looking at the clock and running to my pill case. Which is hard enough and would be OK if that was the only obstacle with taking them. But as usual, there is a dark side (bum bum bum-- supposed to be shocking music).

These pills, and I am not sure which one, have the lovely side effect of giving me grade A, disgusting acne. And no I am not talking about a couple of zits. That I can handle (and have been handling my entire adult life.) No, I am talking about the kind of acne that makes you want to wear turtle necks in the spring time, your hair curtaining your face (remember when I said I am glad to give up my Goth days? Well, I might be revisiting them), and you avert your eyes whenever someone really good looking comes within five feet of you. My God, I am a 13 year old again.

Now, imagine all of this, all that I will feel when my husband comes home. I think he will turn around and pretend he doesn't know me, except, he does want to see his kids. So they will be there to distract him enough to let me quickly throw on a turtle neck and enough makeup to hide underneath.

I don't think I am being vain by considering the surgery due to horrible acne. The pain is making me take more and more pills. And I am not sure my kidneys and liver can handle the amount of drugs coursing through them. Apparently my skin can't. I do, however, have to consider the risks and side effects of the surgery. And the fact that it is only effective in 80% of the people who get the surgery. And I just know that I will be in that unlucky 20%. Let us not gloss over nor forget that only 1 to 15 people in 100,000 get this condition in the first place. Again...not so lucky in stats.

So what do I do? Do I go under and have the docs cut open my head and "move my brain over" to place a disk between a blood vessel and a nerve? (I imagine it like a slot machine. Insert the disk, pull on my arm and my eyes spin around.) Do I risk the infections that could occur? Do I risk the swelling of the brain? Do I risk the fact that it might not work?

I don't know. I do know that the pain is back and doesn't seem to be going away. I do know that I can't live like this. But I also know that I can't imagine my kid's lives without me if something should go wrong. Or the look on my husband's face if something should go wrong.

But the pain is back. It is back and I have at least 30 more years to go. 30 years of turtle necks and shaggy hair cuts? Of ice packs and more and more and more pills? So do I risk the 30 years?

Do I?

Smiles

My youngest son's first birthday is in three days. It seems impossible that a year has passed since he came into this world and then two weeks later tried to leave it again by contracting RSV. I never felt such relief as when they admitted him into the hospital. I had known for a couple of days that something wasn't quite right with him and finally someone agreed and took control of the situation.

Isn't it always a relief when someone else takes control? I think that is one of the hardest parts of a deployment. Having to deal with every situation. Every creak, every bug, every scraped knee and every call from the bank, the landlord, the utility companies. You know going into the life of the army wife that as soon as he steps out of the door, the skies will open up and poor down rain, sleet, hail and that is when the tires on your truck will deflate. With all three children in it.

It is also when every stair, floor, wall and window will start to creek and moan -- never during the daylight hours. Only right before you go to that lonely sleep. And every snake (yes it has happened to me), mouse, spider and other unidentifiable creepy crawlies come out as if he were the only reason they were keeping away. I literally had to call my friend and neighbor to come over and kill one of these nasty suckers. I just couldn't be that brave. She was. And her husband has been gone for three weeks.

I know for a fact that I lose control of my household on weekly occasions to the children. I can see it happening before my eyes. The kids just know when Mommy doesn't have it in her to take hold of the situation. And boy, do they run with it. By the time I snap out of the "Mommy's checked out for a while" fog, the house is covered in parts of sippy cups, toilet paper shreds, fruit chew wrappers, all the clothing in their closets that they can reach -- and yet they are running around naked -- and towels from their baths the night before. Even the baby gets into the demolition by emptying every cabinet in the kitchen to his great delight.

Usually the reason I lose control of the kids, the house, etc. is when the pain has gained control over me. And unfortunately that is what has been happening this last week. It is hard to make dinner with one hand holding an ice pack to my face. It is impossible to change diapers that way. Calming a melting down four year old while you are on the brink of melting down yourself is a challenge and having to turn down your three year old's request to play dollhouse with her because you literally can't form sentences is heartbreaking. Getting the children re-dressed while they squirm under you -- well you can only imagine.

I so look forward to when my husband comes home and can take over some of the issues. When my pain can be controlled by me being able to go be alone for a while. And for when my youngest's second birthday comes around and we are all there: smiling, clothed and ice packless.

Tremors

Unfortunately the monster doth protest. I have had some real breakthrough pain in the last couple of days. I have tried to get by with taking Motrin and doubling up on some of the meds. I guess the good news -- can there be good news with any of this?-- is that I am only feeling pain on one side. Which means the diagnosis remains correct. Which means I am a candidate for the surgery. Which means I can start freaking out again about said surgery.

I have been having incredible dreams due to, I am sure, the massive amounts of drugs, I mean medicines, coursing through my system. (I really do need to stop calling them drugs. I had to go tell my kid's teachers that I am not on "drugs" I am on medicine) And one of the weirder parts of being on the four different meds and having these crazy dreams is that I remember them in the middle of the day, quite clearly and I have to literally stop and think, Was that real? Did I really experience that? Or was that a dream?

The way I realize that those moments aren't real is that they suddenly stop replaying in my head and I can't remember them. I assume that if they were a real memory, I would be quite clearer in my ability to keep them going and remember them. I am sure I look crazy with my hands jerking about and my mind suddenly wandering and wondering. I tend to drop a lot of items now, my usual grace (that of a fencer) is completely gone. I am jerking and shaking all over the place. If I wore a suit of armor, it would be clanking and clanging. Surely the people around me would protest this, but in my image of me is a mess.

My life has taken such a strange turn. I spend every Thursday night as a seventy year old woman. I get all of my bottles out and my tray of pill cases and divvy them out. I might as well have Lawrence Welk blaring on the TV. It used to be Thursdays were "Jousters Nights" (a little shout out to my dear old Ohio friends) a bar that would sell anything to anyone no matter what the age. Now I am hoping that one of those drunks got their degree in Neurology and is working to solve my condition.

And as I get ready to go to bed and have a night of crazy, vivid dreams, I place my ice packs in a neat little row in the freezer so I can easily grab them in the middle of the night. In the dark, my ice packs are my only defense against the monster under my skin. It is me against it as I struggle for sleep. I am staring down a gigantic windmill, holding an icepack and praying that someone out there can relieve me of this journey.