The House With No Name ~ by Sam

Our House needs a name.

We have been debating this since we moved in to the new house.  We can’t keep calling it the new house indefinitely.  Eventually, it is bound to not be so new.  I would rather not call it something like, “The Money Pit,” because that’s rather depressing, but “The House on Willard Street” is so bland, and “The Blue House,” is okay, but…we already lived in “The Little Blue House,” many years ago.  We have sort of waffled between “the Blue House,” “The House on Willard Street,” and “The Homestead,” which sort of made sense when I had a thriving garden, and was canning, making jams and jellies, and baking all of the time, but now I am not doing as much of that, and it feels a little bit like a slap in the face, sometimes.  Maybe I just need to get over that.  Or get my butt in gear, and get back to doing some of that stuff.

In the past, we have named our homes.  I like that.  We like to add the tagline to invitations, greeting cards,  videos, etc.  So videos might be “A Little Blue House production,” or “coming to you live from Little House in the Big Yard!” and parties might be held at “The Homestead.” We have toyed with calling the new house something silly like “The Loud House,” because “We’re not yelling ~ we’re Italian!”*  But then, that show, “The Loud House” came out, and it kind of made me wonder if someone overheard one of our conversations in public about the whole “we’re not yelling” thing.  Also, of course, sometimes, we are yelling, which I guess everyone does, so then it seems like a lousy name for a house altogether ~ but we would mean it in the jovial way, of course.   We figured we should translate in to Italian, for maximum effect.  Or perhaps German, just because…I don’t know.  Why not?  At that point, you know, the kids once learned, from a craft kit they received as a gift, how to say the phrase “sparkling unicorn” in German, and ran around barking it at people, just because they liked the sound of it, and how it startled people when you yelled it at them.  So…we could go with “Sparkling Unicorn House,” in German.  But I don’t think we will.

I remember, when I was a little girl, as we were driving to Grandma and Grandpa’s house in McSherrystown, Pennsylvania, we would pass a house along the way that was called “Gittings Ha-Ha.”  I always wondered what it meant.  Did someone get the last laugh?  Was their house a big joke?  Maybe it wasn’t really a big, fancy house, and it just looked like one from the street.  Perhaps, the joke was on us, all the time.  I guess I may never know.

Hopefully, however, we will be able to decide what to call our own home.  We could call it “Frank.”  It’s a good name.  I mean, it was my Papa’s name, and two of my Uncle’s, as well.  No?

Fine.

We’ll keep working on it, I guess.

For now, I will just sit here, watching the rain fall.

Inside the house.

I guess we won’t be calling it, “Impenetrable.” bluehouse2

*EDIT: It occurs to me, now, we were probably also yelling because I’m hard of hearing, and now I have a hearing aid, so I’m not sure how this changes things, in this regard:  “Of course we’re yelling ~ our mom’s hard of hearing!” LOL  This ~ and the fact that I am sitting here with a foot that still doesn’t want to work, watching rain fall inside my house, as well as a number of other things that I won’t mention, because, frankly, they don’t bear mentioning  ~ brings to mind one of all-time favourite Carrie Fisher quotes:“If my life wasn’t funny it would just be true, and that is unacceptable.”  Indeed.  And so, we laugh.  Perhaps, Gittings Ha-Ha is beginning to make sense, after all.

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How Bad Is it? ~ by Sam

Last night, my foot went out.  I don’t mean it had a pleasant night out on the town.  It’s done that, with me in tow (if you’ll pardon the pun), but that was not the case last night.  Last night, my foot just sort of ceased to work.  I call this “going out,” as in, “My foot’s gone out again.”  You know, like when your transmission goes out.  This happens in a number of ways.  What I mean by this is that it simply freezes up and refuses to move.  Sometimes, it sort of seizes, and assumes an usually grotesque position before freezing (often folding vertically in a way that feet don’t actually fold, so that my big toe rotates in to a position that is under or over the rest of my foot).  Other times, it just sort of flattens and becomes stiff, like a boot, all the way through the foot and ankle.  In any case, it is useless, and it feels freshly broken.  No, scratch that.  I would say it feels more painful than a break.  It feels… hmmm… It feels like it was broken, and then…I don’t know…something else happened to it.  Like, maybe it caught on fire, and got slammed in a door.  Yeah.  I’m gonna go with that.

But that’s a mouthful; so I just say, “My foot’s gone out.”

It goes out a lot lately.  I think I should buy it some fabulous jewelry.

Anyway,  this is a CRPS thing, and, yeah, it has been happening, so I guess I had better call my excellent Pain Management doctor, because his job is, after all, to help me manage my pain.

But, see…

It’s hard, because I can’t think of myself like that.  As a person who has a Pain Management doctor, and a chronic pain condition that needs to be managed. Coincidentally, just yesterday, Justice was asking me if I considered myself to be disabled, due to fibromyalgia, CRPS (and a host of other health concerns that have cropped up recently, I suspect), and I told her I don’t.  Of course I don’t.  I am able to get around and do what I need to do.  …pretty much…  I might not feel great, but I get by. …most days…  I mean, I had to quit my job, but I am still able to do a lot of things.  …usually…  I am even able to do things I enjoy.  …sometimes…

And then, here we are, on a day like today, when CRPS has brought me, literally, to my knees.  I am not looking for sympathy.  I am not making excuses.  The thing about CRPS, for me ~ where I am with it, anyway ~ is that I have been advised to just keep using my foot as much as possible, no matter how much it hurts.  I just have to keep making myself use it, even when it feels like it’s broken, and on fire, and someone slammed a door on it, because, if I don’t ~ if I let that stop me, and it stops me for a day, and that day turns to 10 days, then a month, then 4 months, then a year…well, then, eventually, I might lose the use of my foot.  And that  would be unacceptable to me.  I think, perhaps, I am writing today to figure out where it is I stand with all of this.  (Again, if you’ll pardon the pun.  There are just far too many foot puns.)

So, last night, when my foot went out, I took my Nortriptyline, like I always do.  I struggled to get my jeans off and pajamas on over my stumpy boot-foot.  I used the ketamine gel that I only use when I really need it, because, frankly, it’s just too expensive to use more often.  I ran through my exercises.  I cussed while doing all of the above, because, frankly, it hurt like a motherfucker (you can consult the  McGill Pain Index to see exactly how much a motherfucker hurts, if you are curious ~ it’s a lot).

(Sorry.  That was rude.  I probably apologized last night for cussing, too, even though Shane was the only one in the room, and he was asleep.)

This morning, I got up and made coffee, and didn’t help much with getting kids ready for school, and drove Kaia to school.  Then I went to the store, because I had to.  I mean, I probably didn’t have to, but there were a few things we needed, so I did it.  At one point, as I was pushing my cart, a man said to me, “Oh, come on now ~ it can’t be that bad,” and I thought, “Fuck you,” but I didn’t say it, and I think he’s kind of lucky I didn’t say it, because, really, just a little bit, fuck him.  I mean, I get it.  He had no idea what I was going through today.  He has no idea what my life is like.  In fact, I have no idea what his life is like.  He might have a terrible time, for all I know.  But, you know what, it is that bad.  Sometimes, it really is that bad, and I guess, this morning, maybe that was evident, in my demeanor.  I know I was limping.  I know I was using my cart for support.  I can assume I was obviously not having a great time, or he would not have commented.  And yes, as a matter of fact, it really was that bad.  I guess, I’m lucky he didn’t ask me to smile.  Or maybe he is.

On the way out of the store, after I had paid, I noticed a woman walking directly behind me with her shopping cart.  “I’m sorry,” I said, as we made our way through the automatic door, “I’m very slow.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” she replied.  “So am I.” After a moment she added.  “At least we have our carts to lean on. I don’t know how I’d make it without that.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “that does help, doesn’t it?”

We walked very slowly to our cars together.

So, I’ve come to the end of this entry, and I haven’t figured out anything ~ except, perhaps, that, sometimes, it’s enough to know that someone else understands.

To Start Anew ~ by Sam

2017 finds us all poised at the breaking dawn of a fresh, new year.  A year full of hope, and promise and possibilities.  The problems, the struggles, the tears, the regrets, the trials, the toils of 2016 and before lay behind us, and what lies ahead is infinite and unknown.  People encourage us to move only forward, to cast off the negative, never looking back; but, like Lot’s wife, we find ourselves compelled to cast that glance aft, and then…

Then what?

Isn’t it our history that informs us?  Isn’t it our past that makes us what we are today?

And so, I offer this advice for the New Year: Don’t attempt to make a brand new start, as people suggest.  That is far too tall an order for anyone, and destined for failure.  Sure, go ahead, move forward.  But don’t just put one foot in front of the other and trudge blindly on.  Move forward informed by the past, strengthened by your experience, hardened in your resolve ~ battle-scarred and imperfectly-perfect, as are we all ~ ready to conquer whatever life happens to throw your way.

In that spirit, I give you my Resolutions for the New Year, in no particular order:

In 2017, I resolve to:

Be Kind.
Listen.
Visit Places.
Make Things.
Plant Things.
Play Music.
Take Care of Myself.
Cook.
Write.
Read.
Dance.
Laugh.
Sing.

I might clean some stuff, too.
Maybe.

I think I can handle that.

Wishing you and yours Peace, Love, Health & Happiness in the New Year and beyond.  With all of those things, how can we possibly go wrong?