At the end of June, I finally got an answer to my (most-recent) medical mystery tour when I saw a rheumatologist who diagnosed me with fibromyalgia.
Walking back to the car, I went through a whirlwind of emotions: relief to finally have an answer kind of overrode everything, though. There was a bit of anger/fear/oh shit, but mostly I was relieved to finally know.
I called my mom, all shared experience! woo! except I got the answering machine, so I left a message. To which she replied via text message. Four hours later. Not really feeling the support, yo. But I guess that makes sense, considering she now doesn't have fibromyalgia.
Seven-ish years ago, her quack doctor "diagnosed" her with fibromyalgia. From across the room. Without ever laying a hand on her. She sloughed it off as quackery after seeing a cardiologist who told her the symptoms she was experiencing were caused by panic attacks (he also discredited the fibro diagnosis).
Fast forward three years to when we first moved out here, and she magically DID have fibro. When I asked when/how she got an official diagnosis, she cited Dr. Quack's initial "diagnosis": she hadn't seen anyone else, he hadn't done any further examinations, but - because it was convenient (she was in too much pain to EVER make the road trip out here to visit... spoiler alert: after four years, they STILL haven't been out here to visit us) - she suddenly had it. I was quite annoyed with her and told her it would be nice if she would get it confirmed officially since it can be hereditary (and, at the time, I suspected I had it myself).
Four years later, "Oh, [she] never had it, that was just something Dr. Quack threw out once."
Buh, wut? I very literally had to confirm (with Chebbar, with Daydreamin Fool, with my sister) that I hadn't imagined that whole thing. So, yeah, that was... weird. And infuriating. Again.
I've had some time to process this new label and am mostly okay with it. The rheumatologist said it's a mild case - the symptoms are mostly manageable, and I don't get flares super often - and suggested I avoid medication at this point, as the side effects will likely outweigh any benefits. He told me to keep doing what I'm doing - exercise, meditation, etc - and said it's possible those things have helped keep the symptoms manageable. Unfortunately, I think I'm in the midst of a flare at the moment, based on my fatigue and (abnormal) pain.
That being said, it truly helps to know a) what it is/why it's happening and b) it won't last forever. In all reality, this doesn't change my life for the worse: it's not like this cropped up overnight - I've been living with this for awhile. It just means I have more information and knowledge at my disposal when I'm struggling. Honestly, I think this will help me be a little more gentle and compassionate with myself and my body when I feel like it's "failing" me.
This won't define me anymore than my other labels.
Side note: I literally *just* learned this song is not called "What's Going On." WTactualF, teen me?
I don't even know where to start!
We bought a house. A real, live, grown up house. With 3 bedrooms and 2.5 bathrooms and a garage and shit! The process started February 14, but we didn't move in until April 23; I didn't say much about it while it was ongoing because there was this constant fear that something would go wrong and that talking about it would "jinx" us (I'm so logical).
Also on April 23, Pops moved in with us. I went from thinking I was never having children to having a 60-year old... HA! Not really, but kinda sort of a little bit. He still has some effects of the stroke, like not remembering to take the medication that prevents another stroke, so that's exciting!
I also got a promotion at work, just shy of my one-year anniversary! Super exciting, super happy... super busy because I'm doing double duty until they find someone to replace me in my old role.
The move has taken us out of the city by 10 minutes and much further (for me) from work; my drive to work is 30-40 minutes depending on how early I get out of the house, but closer to an hour home, so I feel very rushed and like I don't have a lot of down time - I get home, walk the dog, make/eat/clean up dinner, have a shower, and BAM! bed time because I'm now up at 5am to make sure I have time to walk said dog before leaving for work 45 minutes earlier than I used to.
On Monday, I rear-ended a poor (but lovely and kind!) woman on my way to work.
On Tuesday, I left my swipe card on my desk when I went to washroom and had to loiter in the hallways until someone came along to let me back into my office; I then proceeded to leave without my bloody car keys.
On Wednesday, our nightmare landlord (another post for another day because emotionally fucking draining) refunded us less than half of our damage deposit, claiming she spent 16+ hours cleaning (AFTER we spent 10+ hours cleaning) and that the dog damaged a 15 x 15 FOOT area of the backyard.
On Thursday, I stopped there on my way to work to take pictures with a measuring tape. I wasn't going to unload all my crap - I wanted to get in the backyard, take the pictures, and get the hell out of Dodge lest she show up and accuse me of trespassing - and thought, "Oh, I'll have to make sure I leave the door unlocked." I grabbed the measuring tape and the first iDevice my hand touched (my iPod, which takes pictures, so I didn't bother swapping it for my phone) and hopped out of the car. I took my pictures (6 x 2 feet, for those interested: she clearly just wants the entire shitty backyard redone on our dime), went back to the car, and SONOFAMOTHERLESSGOAT. The window was down about an inch, but I couldn't open it wider. My iPod doesn't make phone calls (duh), so I went next door to the neighbours', but got no answer, so I wandered down the road to the little old lady who loves my dog as much as I do to call Chebbar - no answer; try again: no answer - then CAA, then work, then work again. She's such a sweetheart, she waited with me until the tow truck got there. I was only half an hour late for work.
Feeling overwhelmed navigating this new normal, but I also know (and recognize, thank Ceiling Cat) that THIS is part of my process - I go through it every time something major happens in life, so I'm doing my best to hang on and ride it out. With copious amounts of drinking meditating.
Yep. The thing I've feared (less and less as time has gone by, sure) for the past eight years (HOLY SHIT!) finally happened.
I got an email about this here blog. To my personal email address, not the Chibi Jeebs email address that's linked in the sidebar right there on the left. *ahem*
When I saw it, I did a double-take, wondering if somehow someway my Chibi Jeebs email was being sent to my phone (nope). When I realized I had a blog email in my personal account, my blood went cold - my body very literally went numb as I tried to figure out HOW it happened.
Welp, my Whois Proof service failed. While it was still paid up through the end of August, it was no longer diverting my contact information to a PO Box, but showing my full *personal* name, email address, phone number, AND HOME FUCKING ADDRESS.
You should've seen me scrambling around trying to figure this out: I started with the web host who told me they were no longer hosting the URL. I went to the host they mentioned, but couldn't figure out how to long in. They told me my URL and been sold, which made no sense because I've never let my service lapse. Eventually I figured out I do still own my URL and that the error was not on my end.
I'm not happy, but it's fixed (for now?). All I can say is that I'm damned glad we moved. Oy vey.
My father-in-law had his weekend pass this past weekend to assess his status for release from rehab. Long story short, he needed keys to the apartment, so I texted Mom to see if she could run the spare set to him. After a prolonged delay, I got, "Yeah I guess so..."
Well, PLEASE don't let me put you out with a 20-minute round trip. For a man who is recovering from a stroke. A man you professed to like "SO MUCH."
I. Was. Pissed.
Pissed was quickly replaced by disappointed and... well, embarrassed.
When we learned Pops would likely be at the apartment alone for two weeks before he moves out here with us, we talked about support for him. I started to say I'd ask Mom and was interrupted by a grimace from Chebbar. I now-now'd him and said if it was simply a matter of her checking to see if he needed anything *IF* she was in the area, it shouldn't be a big deal: I wasn't planning on asking her to drive him to rehab three times a week. Chebbar still said he doubted she'd be okay with it.
Fast forward to Thursday night, and a) she proved me wrong and b) she proved Chebbar right. I didn't even HAVE a chance to ask her about checking in with him before she disappointed me to the point that I WON'T ask her.
All I could think was that I hope to hell she's never in a position like Pops where she might need a favour or two.