I knew it was coming. For months I watched as one by one, those around me left, leaving huge holes, figuratively and literally, where they once stood. One by one, they all fell down, violated and stolen, taken without permission, used. I would watch and wonder what happened after they fell, the journey they took, how their fate ended. I hoped. I hoped that they would find peace, that no further harm would happen to them. What could I do? I was stuck here, powerless, waiting.
Each time they entered, I wondered if it would be me. I watched, quietly observing as they marred what was all that I knew as my life. The green was slowly dying, being replaced by a dense sunlight, a wilting brown, spaces of nothingness in my community that once was not there. As I watched, I waited. I wailed inside seeing the others go, but felt enormous relief that it was not yet me. I knew though, that one day when I saw them come forward again, it would be me and there would be nothing that I could do but surrender and accept my fate.
Over there, the empty space to the right of the poison ivy, I remember when she came. I had been here about three years. I watched as she blossomed, as she grew. She was one of the first to go. It seemed like a crime, really, her being so small. They didn’t care. They had no discretion. They took whatever they wanted, ravaging, stealing the souls from this place, not giving it a second thought. Up a few feet, that one hurt. He was there near the beginning. When I first came, he welcomed me, protected me. As I watched them take him away, I had to close my eyes. I couldn’t watch. I couldn’t. Now I wish I would have so I could have seen him, just once, to help me be strong.
And now, here I am, alone. No one comes and goes anymore. They have all found shelter somewhere else, being scared off by the noise, by the barren landscape, by the change when change couldn’t be afforded by anyone. I stand here, tall, reflecting. Sometimes the worst friend you can have are your thoughts, racing, taunting, leaving you feel even more alone.
I stand here and wait, knowing soon, it will too be my time.
I am cheap. I was raised in a family where you didn’t buy something unless you needed it, there was no such thing as spending money on fast food, and if you are too lazy to cook it – you don’t deserve to eat it.
Today I went to Dollar Tree and picked up groceries. This is something that I just started doing and it has saved our family so much money each month on groceries that it is absolutely amazing. I purchased everything from a few Hot Pockets for my husband when he gets home from work at 2:oo am to chicken broth. I was able to get a bag of frozen fries for $1.00 Tortillas, lunch meat, lunchables, orange juice, pretzels, animal crackers, instant potatos. $1.00 $1.00 $1.00 $1.00 $1.00 $1.00 This is good food, not expired, not flavorless (though if it was they have a whole colony of spices and herbs there, too, and not just plain ole generic knock offs.
They have Campbell’s tomato soup there for $1.00. The bonus? They are the 45% more cans, which makes things like making chili even cheaper. Additionally, one can of soup only need to be used at lunch time instead of two. And I can use the soup as a base in Bacon Cheeseburger hotdish. Oh, and the have the Sargento cheese that I use for the topping of said hotdish there, too. For $1.00
The only thing that I need to get from the grocery store is ground beef, chicken, yeast (to make bread), milk, and eggs. If I had my way, I would have my own chickens so I could use their eggs and so I could butcher them. (Can you tell that I am completely from the country?)
My husband works very, very hard for our money. It is his job to make it. It is my job to make it stretch as much as possible. I take a lot of pride in it and the fact that my daughter thinks I am the best cook ever brings me a lot of pride, too.
I feel really thankful today, given the state of the economy, that I have the tools to be able to take care of my family in this way.
I have been putting off writing this post.
I am leaving New Orleans.
There. I said it outloud.
I could rant in this post how eff-ed up it is to live in a country where a court can tell a law abiding citizen where and where they cannot live, but I won’t. I could go on about how much of an emotional terrorist my ex-husband is, insuring that I have no peace, even 1,200 miles away from him, but that post would drain me too much emotionally and create a climate inside of myself full of negativity and hate. I should probably go on about how I am a thrity-three year old woman more than capable of making good decisions, especially when it comes to my child that I am with day in and day out – even homeschooling her when I found the schools to be a bad environment for her in the city, but it would do no good. Nothing that I could say right now would adequately describe the situation that I am in so instead of having my hands tied and a little girl left unprotected from a man that violated her in the worse way and my family continually sinking because of the unnecessary cost this is forcing upon us, I will simply say that I am leaving.
In trying to see the positives out of everything, I realize that this does mean many different things to my family. It means more financial freedom – owning a home – better schools – children that I trust my daughter to play with – more space – land – and in some ways, freedom from some of the things difficult to escape in NOLA.
As I write this, I look at the piles of things to do. My husband works every day for the next two weeks, so that task falls on my hands. My body is in a great deal of pain thanks to my fibromyalgia, but I don’t have the luxary of just slowing down – things need to get done and I need to be the person to do them.
I’m cranky.
I’m bitter.
I’m cautiously optimistic.
I’m not moving that far away from NOLA, but it’s NOLA, and there are so many things that I am truly going to miss – watching the streets from the street car, my visits with Miss Elizabeth at Blue Cypress Books, the zoo, the aquarium, City Park, and Miss Norma’s Sno-Balls. I am going to miss being able to count on seeing Miss Evie ride her bike around the neighborhood and listening to my neighbor play the french horn. I’m going to miss the banana trees in my yard, the Asian plums, and the feeling I get when I ride anywhere with my husband and look around.
I’m leaving NOLA, but so much of me will still be here.
I remember when I was in third grade. Somehow, I had convinced my mother – who then had to convince my penny-pinching Irish father – that I wanted needed the complete collection of Little House on the Prairie Books. I grew up in Wisconsin. Every day, after school, I ran home from the bus stop to watch Little House on the Prairie from 4pm – 5pm on channel 9. Ten miles from my home, we had our own little pioneer village. I was at one with Half Pint. My mother purchased the books for me, and boy, was I proud of them! SO proud, in fact, that the very next day I took them to school for show and tell. Unfortunately, on my way to show and on my way to tell, I fell down in a snow bank and the paperback copies of the books were destroyed. I was heartbroken, ashamed, and afraid to tell my mother. I told her, she assured me it was ok, but I didn’t ask for anymore books after that, afraid the same thing would happen again.
Now that my daughter is eight, I am forcing introducing her to Half Pint, Mary, and Baby Carrie. Reading the Little House series is apart of the curriculum that I have created for her. I think it teaches her a lot of important things, as well as teaching her about the area that her Mama comes from. This has an added appeal to her, as I she received the first season of the television show on DVD as a Christmas gift and we do have a lot of fun snuggling up with one another in my room and watching it while my husband productively spends his time playing Resident Evil or some other zombie killing game in the living room.
Our vocabulary for the first book, Little House in the Big Woods, is as follows:
basque
basswood
bladder
brindle bulldog
butcher
buttermilk
calico
cameo
catechism
churn
cowhorn
corset
crescent
curlicues
curried
deerlick
delaine
fawn
fiddle
fierce
flannel
flatiron
flounce
gaiters
griddle
gunpowder
gunstock
hasty pudding
headcheese
hearth
heifer
hickory
hoop
hull
jackknife
johnnycake
kerosene
lantern
latchstring
mink
mufflers
muskrats
muzzle
panther
pantry
petticoats
quivered
ramrod
ravine
rennet
rind
sap
savage
scalp
shock
slender
spareribs
spices
stalk
stout
sulk
thimble
thrashing
thresh
threshing machine
trough
trundle bed
venison
washtub
whetstone
whey
wisp
woodbox
yearling
We use this words as our spelling words and as practice in using reference books.
We have been making our bread from scratch, so she gets a bit of an idea of what goes into that. We also made two batches of Apple Cinn. jelly. Next week we are making cheese!
Easy White Cheese
Great for breading and frying, stir-frying with vegetables, or by itself, this mild cheese will keep refrigerated for one week.
1 gallon milk
2 T. lemon juice
3 T. white vinegarPour milk into a large enamel pot. Slowly bring the temperature up to 180F. This may take an hour. Stir frequently to prevent scorching, and hold the temperature at 180F for four minutes. Combine vinegar and lemon juice and add to the milk, stirring gently, until the curds separate form the whey. Line a colander with cheesecloth, and pour the contents of the pot. Tie the corners of the cheescloth together to form a bag and let it hang to drain for three hours. The cheese will be solid when its ready. Wrap and refrigerate. Yield: one pound. Variation: Herbed Easy White Cheese — Add 1� teaspoon dried chives and � teaspoon dillweed to the curds before hanging.
And we are making maps of Wisconsin and Minnesota.
Of course a Little House in the Big Woods unit would not be complete without making a handkerchief doll.
And our poem for memorization is :
Pioneer Dolls
By Judie Fordham
Judie Fordham, “Pioneer Dolls,” Friend, July 1992, 27
When pioneer children were crossing the plains,
They didn’t have cars, airplanes, or trains.
They walked beside wagons loaded clear to the top
With food, bedding, and seeds for the next season’s crop.
There just wasn’t room for a toy or a doll—
The wagons were filled with all they could haul.
So Papa’s handkerchief became a new toy,
A cherished soft doll that brought lots of joy.
This cute little doll loves to play or just sleep.
She’ll brush away tears if ever you weep.
So keep her close by—she’s easy to hold—
And pretend you’re a pioneer child of old.
Our big project, though, is to make a log cabin and all of the furnishings inside. The Dollar Tree has craft sticks for $1.00 and although it is a long way from actual logs, that is going to be the walls to our cabin. We are going to gather small rocks and clay for the fireplace.
We had a pretty earth-shattering experience in our household since the last time I posted.
No one died. (Knock on wood)
We fought minor Post-Mardi Gras Krud without any trips to the doctor. (Thank God!)
I didn’t get asked to sing for The Runaways reunion tour (though I totally would, if anyone out there is listening, and maybe y’all should reunite – at least for one show since I was too young to ever see you live)
Cleo got her library card.
Oh, I know, it’s just a library card, but not in this house and not to Cleo. No, this is one of those once-in-a-lifetime, I’m-the-luckiest-girl-in-the-world, I-need-you-to-buy-me-a-wallet-now moments.
We dressed and got ready to go to the Latter Library sale as we do most Saturdays. I had been doing some research on books I wanted Cleo to read along with her homeschool curriculum. We are tackling the Little House on the Prairie series as apart of school, and I wanted her to see some authentic Pioneer Days stuff and get some pioneer-ish recipes for us to make so she can appreciate how hard those that came way before us had to work and could see exactly how far we have come (whether good or bad I leave that for you to ponder) and I thought it would be a good time to go into the library. I have not seen Cleo light up like this since she caught her shoe at the Muses parade during Mardi Gras. And then when she got Tumbles the dog at Christmas. For Cleo, this was a serious deal.
“Um, excuse me, Ma’am,” Cleo said in her little voice – the one she uses when she is trying to be super polite, but talking to a stranger who has something she wants. I think she was afraid that they would turn her down if she used her big voice.
“Yes, baby, what can I do for you?” the boisterous librarian said behind her librarian desk.
“I would like a library card, please! How many of my coins do you need?”
“I don’t need any of your monies, baby, all you need to do is apply for one.”
“Like you apply for a job?” Cleo asked.
So, Papa Bear took care of applying for Cleo’s library card and I took care of making sure Papa Bear had all of Cleo’s information right, not trusting him to because he is, after all, a boy and boys aren’t always that great when it comes to important things like birthdates. (I assure you there is no bitterness or glares in that statement)
And off we went. We went to the children’s section and by the time we and worked our way down the first row, Cleo had nearly fourteen books that “looked interesting” or “could probably teach her a thing or two.” I sat her down and explained that we didn’t have to get all of them at one time, that we could find the ones we need and return them to the library near our home, but that simply wouldn’t do. The library by our home didn’t use to be a mansion and she HAS to go to the Latter Library because it WAS a mansion. More important, though, is it has a carriage house and she just KNOWS that the horses that used to live there had to be incredible horses so we need to there to HONOR the horses majesty. Yes, she said the word majesty and the emphasis was hers.
Needless to say, after she had the library card in her hand, she was happy.
“Mom, we can go to the library every week BECAUSE I HAVE MY OWN LIBRARY CARD!”
“Mom, we should go shopping. I need a wallet BECAUSE I HAVE MY OWN LIBRARY CARD!”
“Mom, I don’t need you to teach me anymore. I can teach myself BECAUSE I HAVE MY OWN LIBRARY CARD!”
Somewhere, we lose that as adults – the need for only the simple things and the simple things meaning the most. It is like a sweater that we outgrow and we throw away. In thinking about it, it made me a bit sad, the fact that at one time I used to appreciate every single little thing so much and now, well, I’ve been having a case of the grumpies lately – a combination of a lot of things- and have felt so…unhappy.
I decided to try to see the world through the eyes of Cleo, a tough cookie who has been through her own hard times that some cannot even imagine, and try to see how much power is there in the little things. I’m trying…. I’m trying….
“Mama, do you think I will get a shoe?” Cleo asked as we were making our plans for the Muses parade. I had been told by so many people that the Muses parade was THEE parade that I certainly did not want to miss, so despite my apprehension of navigating around the city at night, without my husband, in an area unfamiliar to me, I knew that this was the one thing I needed to do if I did nothing else for Mardi Gras.
“I don’t know, baby, maybe!”
“Mom, you said baby and maybe and they rhyme. Are you trying to be a rapper?”
“Yes. I am MC Hurry-UP- Let’s-Get-Ready-to-go,” I said, giving Cleo the look I promised I would never give, the same look my mom gave me and the exact same look I had seen my Grandma Bea give my mom.
We put on her dress and her wings and she asked for some make up, a night to play dress up and receive gifts from the gods for her and a night to challenge myself and the fears I had developed for me.
We arrived a couple hours early, setting up a picinic, me reading Augsten Burroughs, her reading Captain Crankypants or Underpants or whatever it is that she devours and laughs and tries to mock the pictures of. She spread out on the blanket, her head on my lap, me caressing her hair, her looking up at me and smiling. A Kodak pictures in our mind that we never will forget.
It was finally time for the parade to start and she took it all in, waiting and waiting. She caught bead after bead, refusing to place some on her neck, partly due to being weighed down and partly due to wanting to share with her mom. It was our night, My Girls’ Night, and I was spending it with one of my favorite girls.
The parade came to an abrupt stop and we sat down, waiting to see what had happened. We had struck up conversations with the people next to us, an older couple visiting from Michigan. We talked about the Mid-West, about New Orleans, and about the transition of moving down here. They chatted with Cleo about books and art. After forty-five minutes and the temp dropping, we decided to head home. The parade was still stopped with no start in sight. We walked the half block to the parades beginning intersection when we saw movement, so we quickly ran back to our spot, and thankfully the Michigan couple welcomed us in, vowing for our previous parade placement when a couple of college kids became upset that they were going to have to compete with a child for beads.
Cleo held her sign up high as each float passed by.
One of the women on the top of one float pointed at Cleo, making eye contact with me, and tossed down to me the coveted Muses prize, a hand decorated shoe. These shoes are hot commodities, with women of all ages holding signs asking for the shoes to be gifted by a generous rider. Cleo’s eyes lit up bright, she gave me a thumbs up, and screamed, “YES!”
“Mama, we can go home now! I got a shoe!!!” she said, jumping up and down.
“Let’s watch the rest of the parade and then we will go home, Ok?”
“Deal!”
We repeated the same routine as each float passed by. Cleo received a few stuffed animals, which made her happy since next to just about anything, stuffed animals are her favoritest thing in the world. She has a trunk full of Bratz dolls that go unplayed with, but her stuffed animals have homes made from cardboard boxes with Cleo’s artistic flair added.
And then another lady signaled to me. Another shoe, this one orange in color – Cleo’s new favorite color.
More beads. More stuffed animals. More smiles. More laughs.
“Does she have an octo yet?” asked the little boy near us.
“No, she doesn’t.”
“She can have this, “he said, handing it to her, causing both of them to laugh, smile, and blush.
And at last, the last float of the parade. Cleo did her same routine, jumping up and down, holding up her sign, screaming, “Throw me something Missus!”
The eye contact came. Along with another shoe. The light in Cleo’s eyes was so bright. In that moment, she was so happy. The difficulties that she faced this past year were erased all she felt was pure joy. Mama’s heart was smiling.
“I need to make sure I bring one of my shoes to Miss Elizabeth,” Cleo said.
And that did it. In the middle of the lights and the crowd and the Mardi Gras joyfulness, I broke down in tears, looking at my daughter, with such a big heart and so considerate of others. That’s my girl.
The next day, we took the shoe that Cleo picked out for Miss Elizabeth over to her bookshop. We took the other shoe to Cleo’s Miss Ellen, the woman who has worked miracles in Cleo’s life. The remaining shoe is proudly displayed on her bookshelf, so she “never forgets our best date out”, next to her Octo and her Elvis scarf she was pinned with by one of the motor scootering Elvi.
This is the Mardi Gras I chose to remember. This is the Mardi Gras that should be reported on NBC, ABC, and whichever other national channel that wants to mar not only Mardi Gras, but New Orleans – a city that is trying to do the best that it can with what it has. A city that care may have forgotten, but not a city that has forgotten to care.
I joke with The Viking and tell him that I have some sort of super-sensitivity to paranormal things, as I seem to wake every evening/morning during thee witching hour, unable to go back to sleep until the hour is complete. I also have bat ears and hear every single thing, so along with my witching hour wake up call, I hear the house creak, someone pass by our house, and a change in Cleo’s breathing as she slumbers away. Of course I know there are a multiple of reasons why – post traumatic stress (I am most certain), living in a city where noise is all around us, fibro – needless to say, though, if I were to write my letter to Santa Claus tonight, I would ask him for a safer New Orleans and a good night sleep free of interruption and sleep disturbance. You wouldn’t believe what continual sleep disturbance can do to a person. Go read or rent Fight Club and it will fill you in.
So here I am, wide awake, getting upset that I am wide awake – which will simply lead to not being able to sleep for a while, which leads to me getting upset about that. Damn you, cycle of ill will towards and very tired Mommy.
The jelly that I made earlier today/yesterday (depending on if you count the new day really starting at midnight or if you have slept, etc) set. I am relieved to know that. Not really, but at least I know that now, since I am up at thee witching hour.
Ok, enough complaining. Maybe that is what I should have given up for lent.
Once upon a time, there lived a girl from the country. Growing up, she watched her mother sew dresses, bake bread, can veg, and make their own jelly. When she grew up and had a family of her own, she distracted herself from life and having three babies under three by doing many of the things that she grew up watcher her mother do. She decided that her mother didn’t do it because it was cheaper or because she loved doing it, she did it to escape, like some people shop or some people drink.
After I left my last life, swam around trying to find myself like Nemo for a while, and started my new life – I left those things behind. Not necessarily because I didn’t enjoy them or because I didn’t think they were important, but because it represented something really bad to me. It represented my mom, who suffered for over a decade with an illness that took her ability to breathe away. It represented my last marriage, loveless and full of control and abuse. It represented selling myself out in order to make my family happy and to follow what they thought were the right and things were to do. It meant having to have perfection, no emotion, and being a nodding and agreeable Stepford Wife. So I rebelled. I rebelled against homemade food. I rebelled against immaculate housework. I rebelled against everything that was my old life, the things I resented, all of those thing I wish could be changed by some magic time machine that didn’t change the course of the future so much that I didn’t have my current husband, but changed it enough to spare those that needed to be spared.
So you can understand exactly how theraputic yesterday was, mixing flour and yeast and oil and water together, kneeding with my hands, punching out air and kneeding again, when I made the first loaf of homemade bread that I have made in many years. Making it here, in New Orleans, with a different life, a different set of circumstances, with different meaning.
It made me miss somethings – the country, the quite, the security that comes with it and the safety too – it made me appreciate other things, mostly internal things like myself that keep me moving forward, even when I want to stay paused, even when I want to stop, most of all though, when I wish I could simply rewind and edit.
Baking homemade bread – cheaper than therapy and tastes much better
The bread recipe I used:
3 cups flour (white or wheat)
1-teaspoon salt
1 package, or 2 teaspoons yeast
1-tablespoon sugar (or brown sugar, or honey)
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 cup of lukewarm water.
First, mix your dry ingredients, and then add oil and water. Stir with a fork or spoon until sticky and stiff.
Turn your dough onto a floured countertop, and knead for a full 5 minutes.
Place your dough back into the bowl and cover with oil, move dough around so all sides are covered.
Place your dough into a warm spot, free of drafts with a cover (such as a table linen, or dishcloth) and let it set for about 2 hours.
After it has set, take it out and “punch” it down to release any built up air inside, knead again.
Place dough into very well greased loaf pans, and let it rise again for about an hour.
Place in oven and bake at 350 degrees for roughly 30-40 minutes.
This afternoon at 3:30, my family packed up the car and headed to Magazine St. to park the car and have a picnic while we waited for that night’s festivities to begin. This is our first Mardi Gras and. unfortunately, my husband has to work for much of Mardi Gras in the French Quarter, so this was really our only chance to spend Mardi Gras together as a family. It was one of those special days that create memories that you will always carry with you, sharing the story with your children’s children, and with anyone else that will lend you an ear to listen.
Cleo and I spread our blanket out, brought out books we were reading, and spend our time basking in the beautiful February New Orleans sun, watching as preparation for the festivies began. People walked passed us, wishing us a Happy Mardi Gras, and police officers made small talk as they were preparing to take their stations for the parade. We watched as people made their way up Magazine Street, returning to their homes from work or driving to meet up with friends to partake in the Mardi Gras celeration together. My husband wandered around Magazine Street, looking for a Daquari chain for me, with no such luck.
People next to us, a man named John, was up from Belle Chase with his two boys, Logan and Joshua. Cleo joined the two in a game of catch. He offered made small talk, shared his experiences of living in Southern Louisiana his whole life. Emily met another little girl and they played sidewalk games together, dancing around the cracks that are infamous in the New Orleans sidewalks and playing an impromptu game of hop scotch without the traditional number grid. The parade began and we watched in anticipation, Cleo holding up her sign declaring herself a novice minion of the Krewe D’ Etat, hoping to get something that lit up the night sky in alternating flashes of light.
As D’Etat reached their mid-parade point, we met a couple named Karen and Dave, who split their time between Colorado and Louisiana. Dave and Karen split their time between Louisiana and Colorado. We shared with them that it was our first Mardi Gras, told them about moving from Wisconsin to New Orleans, and talked about Cleo. Karen and Dave were so full of life, welcoming us into their Mardi Gras experience. Karen held up Cleo’s sign that declared it was her first Mardi Gras. As the floats passed by, we would make as much noise as possible and before you knew it, Cleo had learned the coordination needed to catch the beads. Dave gave Cleo some beads, telling her that if a boy gives you beads, you need to give him a kiss. Cleo got a kick out of that, and gave Dave a kiss on the cheek.
During our time at the parade with Karen and Dave, I forgot about how much pain I was in earlier in the day. I forgot about everything I was worried about just a few hours earlier. I forgot about what I was doing this time last year and just how difficult the year had been, one plagued with disturbing revelations, familial drama, and the lethal combination of worry and stress. Karen and Dave showed us what being a New Orleanian really is about. They laughed, they smiled, they enjoyed life. They didn’t just enjoy life, they really lived life. Their kindness, not only to Cleo, but to The Viking and I, was unbelievable. I felt so fortunate, so lucky, to have had this experience – an experience that came after dealing with rudeness and greediness – to instill in our whole family is that looking out for one another is what New Orleanians do, more so here than any other place, because the people here in New Orleans have learned what the important things are, and how to be grateful for the blessings they have, not angry about those things that they don’t.
The Viking works the rest of Mardi Gras. Today we are taking a much needed break away from the parades and festivites. Tomorrow we may meet up with Dave and Karen again. Whether we do or not, they really presented us with an amazing gift. Thank you, Dave and Karen, for showing us what carnival season really is about.
“What can I do to help?” my husband asks me, seeing exactly how much pain I am in when I attempt to walk from the couch that I have made my home to the bathroom, five feet away.
“Take me out back and put me out of my misery, ” I respond, thinking of how we took care of ailing livestock back on the farm in Wisconsin.
“Besides that?”
“There is nothing you can do, honey, just help me.”
Unfortunately, in my life, this exchange takes place quite frequently. Sometimes it takes place daily, sometimes weekly, but it is a constant in my life.
For me, it is apart of living with fibromyalgia.
Fibromyalgia is so much apart of my life that I have a nickname for her, Fibro, just like I call my husband Papa Bear or my daughter Pumkin or Peaches or Baby Girl. I don’t have the affection for Fibro like I do for my family, but the thing it has in common is that it is just as much apart of me as they are – it is always here, even when I wish it would go visit somewhere else.
Fibromyalgia affects different people differently. For me, when Fibro is at full flare up, I am essentially immobile. To walk from the couch that becomes my marked territory during these days to the bathroom, a whole ten feet, tears are in my eyes and I am crying because it hurts to even walk. This isn’t an exaggeration. Every step I take causes a shooting, burning, and electric pain to course up my legs from the time that my foot lands on the floor to take a step until I attempt the next step with my other foot.
There have been times when I have walked and my legs completely give out from under me and I fall. This is especially inconvenient when you are out in public and you fall down hard on the cement. This also leads to a plethora of fire trucks and EMS trucks being dispatched to your location, to make sure you are ok, and you have to look at them, humiliation on your face, and tell them that you are just fine, that your legs just gave out for a minute and you will be ok.
For me, Fibro means planning my days and activites on a day-to-day basis — needing to know exactly how i am going to feel that day. It also means not being able to work outside of the home — I obviously can’t get a labor job (although I LOVE labor jobs), sitting for extended period of times causes my tail bone great pain, sometimes my arms hurt so much that lifting them is nearly impossibly, and then there is that whole walking thing. This means that our family’s survival lays firmly on the hands of my husband, who although he has a law degree, hasn’t been able to find a regular job. So, on top of the pain that I feel, I have a whole hell of a lot of guilt, too.
Aside from the pain with my legs and hips, it is rare day when I am not plagued with a headache. I pop Advil and Aleve like it is candy. I lay down at night and I can feel my head throb. At times I ask my husband if he thinks that I have a brain tumor or if you thinks the thing that will get me is a brain aneurysm. I know it is all apart of the Fibro, but I worry. A. Lot. I also experience non-cardiac chest pain, which is good when you want to go out and live a normal life with your girlfriends. The looks you get are horrifying, though you know they aren’t horrified by you, but worried about what this means and what they should do.
I am thirty-two years old. I should be going hiking. I should be out wandering around this city.
Instead, I am living in pain almost every single day. And nothing makes the pain go away, it just fades into the background and pops up at the most unappropriate times.
Oh, and if my words get confused, or I am having difficulty understanding something that you say, it isn’t because I am a thick person. It’s because “the fog” and memory loss comes with Fibro too.
I went to the Krewe of Muses parade last night with Cleo. I had been told by a variety of people that this was THEE parade to go to and I would love it. All day, I rested, suffering from foot and leg pain, hoping that staying off my feet and taking a nap may dull it just enough. I forced my body to go, even though it was begging to just stay at home. A few hours later, after I arrived safely home, I could hardly walk. The pain was horrible. And here I am, trying to get the pain to a level that I can do it all over again tonight for the two parades rolling. Tonight, luckily, my husband is home so I won’t be doing this all on my own. Thank. God.
It’s hard, being 32 and experiencing this level of pain. It’s harder being a mom and not being able to take my daughter to do everything I want to because I am afraid of what will happen or the pain is just to much or my husband happens to be working that day. It’s hard not beating yourself up. We would be in a much better place financially if I didn’t have Fibro. We would have a much more active life. It’s hard not thinking that your husband deserves much more than a woman that is broken, him having to play caregiver some days.
A day with fibromyalgia is not a fun day. But it is a day. And at least I have one more day. Alone or not, I have one more day.
