Last night, Monkey Number 10 took the stage in some kind of weird mashup of Caps for Sale, The Musicians of Bremen, The Three Billy Goats Gruff, and something about a magic fish. It was all lumped into this amalgamated play called “Stories from Under the Big Top.” There was some sarcastic dialog written to hold it together, and some moralizing thrown in throughout, and BAM, that is how you get something like 35 grade schoolers onto one stage in thirty minutes. Drama club! What a racket. Strudel had a blast.
Morgan came and we had dinner first and then some cake at home. Why not make a little celebration of it?
A grocery store cake with the world’s most slapdash Thursday night icing.
Tonight Strudel is having her first violin lesson, at her behest. Kid wants to take music lessons? OKAY, CAN I SIGN HER UP NOW?? I did not want to take music lessons. My mother got a wild hair and bought a piano. “Doesn’t this sound fun?” My answer was always, “I’d rather have art lessons.” I’m a big fan of kid-led interests as long as they are a. not too expensive and b. something they commit to for a while. I can provide some nagging, it’s okay.
A month ago when I knew this play was coming up, I was afraid I was not going to be able to get out of bed and get there. Now I am around walking and talking like an asshole, though I will tell you that I am SO TIRED. I am working part time briefly, which is so right for now. I get to hour 3.5 at work and I am nodding off in meetings.
So this begs the questions, how I am doing and what the hell happened? Well, it’s kind of a mystery. I tested negative for errrthing they could think of to test me for. I bounced to Infectious Diseases and to to a rheumatologist this week. The rheumatologist said, “I don’t want to diagnose you with anything just yet, because I don’t think you have anything diagnosable, per se.”
These experts put their heads together about the test results and the history and said, ok, food poisoning. Probably turned into a viral/bacterial gut infection. This is a thing that can cause your body to hit the e-brake and go all autoimmune and attack everything, including yourself. This is where the myalgia/fevers/not being able to walk was coming from. I am told an overboard autoimmune response is more common in women. What I am very very lucky about is that it doesn’t seem to have a permanent result. It didn’t destroy my joints, or perforate my guts.
I am on my second taper down with Prednisone, and the rheumatologist is taking me off very, very slowly so my body can kind of figure out what is normal again and ack right. It seems the infection is gone (fingers crossed) and I haven’t had a fever in a couple of days. So what kind of good news is that six weeks later?
My only complaint now is that my brain is dum, like dummer than usual. I am grasping for the right word always. I said “status” instead of “stasis” this morning. I know this happens to all of us, but it’s like I cannot even access the correct word. I think as the tiredness lifts I will be able to let the bon mots fly again. In the meantime, I am going lente, lente.
Here is a fucked up thing that is not a complaint: this is SUCH a cliche, to the point where I hate to even waste finger motions on them, BUT. I am kind of grateful to have a little perspective reset. Did I want my vacation “ruined”? NO. Did I want pain pain pain and fear for six weeks. Um, no. But I feel like I’ve broken out of some little ruts and it’s changing my view. Okay, this is a super stupid one: I had oatmeal for breakfast this morning. I LOVE oatmeal. I never have it. Mostly because I know I am a protein machine and I will be hungry again in an hour. Just carbs, generally, make me crashy and puffy, both temporarily and in the “oh dear these pants seem to have shrunk” sort of way. I am ruthless about looking for the most efficient nutrient bang for my buck.
This morning I said, YOU KNOW WHAT? BIG FUCKING DEAL. I AM GOING TO EAT THE CRAP OUT OF THIS OATMEAL. It was delicious. This is not a barrel of zen wisdom, I am sorry. Just monkeys.
In Other News
Yesterday I accidentally discovered via my bank account that I am getting royalties for some porn I published for Kindle last summer. I thought, wouldn’t it be funny if I had died a month ago and that was my legacy for P. to find? Sorry your babymother died, here is your $12 autopayment for March. HA HA.
My piece said, “rats.” Proper.
Tags: Babette ate oatmeal