Sometimes watching a television show, or reading a certain book will start me on a train of thought I never imagined taking. I've spent the last few weeks watching the HBO series 'Six Feet Under' and it has me thinking about death. Big surprise that a series revolving around a funeral home would take me there, huh?
I'm not having dark, goth thoughts, or seeing dead people like some Haley Joel Osmet wannabe. I'm not wondering about what it feels like to be dead, although I used to, once upon a time. Occasionally, the show has sparked a severe pang of regret, a wallop of a reminder of how much I miss those I've lost, and how much it still hurts. Mostly, what it has made me think about is planning. We never really know what is going to happen in life, and there are things that should be on paper.
For years I had what is known in Oregon and Washington as a 'Advance Directive' filled out, stating what I wanted done in case of a medical emergency, and who I wanted to make those decisions for me. My sister was my designated person, since she knew my wishes, and can keep a calm head. After Steven and I got engaged, I changed that paperwork, naming him. He was irate to read that I had a DNR order in case or a severe trauma. The idea of being kept alive by machines is totally appalling to me, simply abhorrent. I know now that if something had happened to me while his name was on that paperwork, he'd have been fine with keeping me all Sunny Von Bulowed, if only so he could play the martyr. Needless to say, his name is no longer on my papers.
I realize it is a bit grim to be thinking these kind of thoughts on a warm Spring evening, yet my mind goes back to the number of times I have awakened in an ambulance or hospital bed, and I can't help but wonder. What is going to happen if I have a seizure some day and don't wake up? I do not want things to be any more difficult for my loved ones than they need to be, and more than anything, I want things done MY WAY! Really, what is the point of a memorial service if it isn't done the way I want it? Seriously. I would be so pissed off if I looked down from Heaven and realized that they were playing "The Wind Beneath My Wings" at my service! Or if someone had the nerve to bury me in uncomfortable clothes! I swear, I refuse to go to my eternal rest wearing pantyhose and heels!
Upheaval has happened in my tiny room, and Miss Google is traumatized.
On Friday & Saturday, my Mom had a yard sale, selling (or attempting to sell) all sorts of stuff gathered from around the house. This included clothes, toys, and furniture. Among the furniture was a headboard that was part of a bedroom set. I've been using the long, low dresser in my room because, well, it was in here when I moved back, and it was just easier to use it than not. It's a lovely piece, blond wood, and very sturdy. The headboard matches. At the sale on Saturday a family decided they wanted to buy the entire set, and would be back on Sunday afternoon to pick it up. So Sunday morning, I moved all of my belongings from the blond dresser to my old dresser, and Dad transported it down to the garage for them to pick up. Of course, these folks never showed up, and the whole thing was done for no reason!
Here is where the problem comes in: since I moved here, Miss Google's food & water bowls had been on a tray on top of that dresser. There is not enough space on the tall one for the tray, so I moved it to my desk. She didn't like that; every time she jumped from the bed to the desk, she ran into the wall. So she kept looking to the place where her bowls had been before, and yowling pitifully. "Meooow?" It was pathetic. I compromised and placed the tray on the floor beside the tall dresser. I only hope I don't trip over it in the dark!
My new old dresser, and a calm Miss G.
This is the dresser I've had since I was a child. I once told Mom I wanted to paint it, and she said "But why? It's such good wood!" This is her response to me everything I mention painting a piece of wooden furniture. I love the look of painted wood; Mom thinks that just the wood is enough. Sometimes I agree, sometimes, not so much. She's gonna have a hissy fit when I paint my antique school desk this summer, but I want to use it as a vanity, and it needs to be a different color.
On a different note, I began searching for apartments this weekend. It was both exhilarating and depressing. Those available in my price range are either way out in the boonies (or in Vancouver, no thank you!), or creepy. Lots of studios. I am too old to live in a studio apartment. Been there, done that. As for sharing a bathroom or kitchen with a bunch of strangers, not even gonna think about that! Isn't that why I'm moving? I have lived in dorms, student housing, a studio apartment, tiny apartments, a "manufactured home", condos, houses, and fairly nice apartments. My dream apartment is in an older building, funky, and fun. A cross between Jerry Seinfeld's place and the apartment of Friends. Easy to find, right? And totally possible on my teeny-tiny budget, of course!
This, for $550 a month? In your dreams.
I do know that where ever I end up, I will be decorating on an even smaller budget, hitting up Goodwill and thrift stores for the furniture I need. Which is nearly everything. I don't have any living room furniture anymore, and I gave my kitchen table to my niece Kristan. Of course, she's not using it now, and I'm using her living room chairs, so maybe we can trade for a bit...hmm. Anyway.
The idea of hitting the thrift shop used to just appall me. If it wasn't new, I didn't want it. While I always had an appreciation for antiques, especially furniture, the idea of buying thing like clothing from Goodwill was abhorrent to me. Not any more. (Don't get me wrong; I'm not tying to be some hipster, shopping at the thrift store because it's cool. And I have no intention of posting every days outfit on Instagram or Tumblr--folks would get real tired of seeing my yoga pants and plain cardigans! Life on a limited budget is challenging, and until this point, I've not been trying very hard to live within my means. ) There was also a time when I refused to buy groceries at WinCo, preferring Fred Myers, or a higher priced chain over the bag-your-own stores. My ex-husband was a big fan of WinCo, and introduced me to the delights of lower prices. It took me a long time to discover that shopping the bulk bins was even cheaper, as well as a greener choice, but these days, I buy lots of my stuff in bulk. I'd still prefer to have someone else bag my groceries, mainly because I suck at it, and always end up with one bag way too heavy, but I am getting better. The lower prices and larger selection have converted me to shopping WinCo! (Sorry for the commercial!)
What was my point?
Oh. I am challenging myself to live within my means from now on. I haven't been spending like crazy, but after all those years of not having any money, I went a little wild. Amazon was my downfall... The months ahead will be tough. Trying to find a place to live, and keeping the budget tight. Saving up all I can. I hate being broke, but I always remember that I am so much better off than so many others!
I woke up this morning wondering about all the British actors who have appeared in the Harry Potter movies. There was such a plethora of great names, such as Dame Maggie Smith, Kenneth Branagh, Robbie Coltrane, Emma Thompson, Bill Nighy, David Tennant (The Doctor!), John Cleese, Julie Christie, Miranda Richardson, Helena Bonham-Carter, Richard Harris, and of course, Alan Rickman. It's been said that anyone who's anyone in British acting was in these films, but that's not really true. Where's Sean Connery? Colin Firth? Judi Dench? Helen Mirren? I don't imagine they could have gotten Sean Connery, but Hugh Grant? Either way, it made me wonder. I wonder about all sorts of things. For example, how many of these actors will be given knighthoods (or the female equilvalent)? And if I were queen, who would I knight? I don't have an answer yet, but I'm still thinking.
It's Saturday. I cleaned my room, did laundry, made a pan of brownies (which I totally forgot about in the oven, and burned to a crisp!), helped my mom with her yard sale, and learned about Minecraft from my nephew, Max. Did you know in Minecraft, you can ride a pig for long distances, and your hunger bar will neither increase nor decrease? Yep. You have to saddle the pig (there isn't a crafting recipe for a pig saddle), and then use a carrot on a sick to control the pig. I've learned all sorts of odd things about Minecraft, since it's Max's favorite video game, which he plays all the time. He's built huge worlds, a model Titanic, and several hotels in Minecraft, and loves it.
Between Minecraft and burned brownies, I played around with my webcam toy, and took a bunch of silly pictures. here they are, all for you. Enjoy!
It arrived in the mail yesterday, but nobody handed me the envelope until this afternoon. A big ol' manila envelope from the Department of Human Services, Seniors and People With Disabilities in Salem. First-Class mail. As soon as Dad handed it to me, I started to shake, knowing that my future was in there.
"We are writing to let you know that we have made a decision on your disability hearing."
So, yeah, what did you decide already!!
"We find that your disability did not end. Therefore, your benefits will continue."
And I breathed a HUGE sigh of relief. Huge. A weight dropped from my shoulders. If I'd had a bottle of champagne, I'd have been popping corks. I did start to giggle when I read this line:
"If you disagree with this decision, you have a right to appeal." Yeah, I'm going to appeal the decision that says I get to keep my medical benefits. The decision that says I don't have to start pounding the pavement looking for a job that would likely put me back into the hospital. The decision that says I will continue to get the measly checks that may allow me to be independent now. Sure, I thinks I'll argue with that. (sarcasm font needed!)
As of now, the future begins. No more being in limbo, no more saying "well, once I know.." I know now, and now I can move forward. To where, I am not entirely sure, but I know it is beyond these four walls. A place of my own, a new life. If that is here in Portland, or in New Mexico, I don't know yet. At least I now know I can go!
I couldn't sleep last night. Toss and turn, with the theme song from 'True Blood' running through my head (because in the last few days I've binged on books, and episodes of my favorite tv show On Demand.). My entire body aches from this cold/flu/whatever it is I've had for nearly two weeks now. I swear, this virus has stuck around longer than some of the men I've dated. I should give it a name. Let's call it Victor. Victor has kept me up most nights, coughing, feverish, sniffling. It's difficult to sleep when you are trying to hack up a lung. Once I fall asleep, I want to stay asleep, for days on end. Hasn't happened yet.
Anyway, last night I was tangled in my sheets, and a question floated across my mind. I can't remember that question now. So I'll ask a different one.
I have a Mary Englebreit print in my room, with the saying "She who laughs, lasts." I've always liked that phrase, but the saying it's based on, "he who laughs last, laughs best," has always puzzled me. I know that the phrase originated with in Tudor England, and was used by, but not coined by Shakespeare. Yes, I understand that revenge is sweet. So why does this still puzzle me?
Perhaps because I've never wreaked revenge, or laughed last. There are plenty of folks I'd like to take some revenge on, but since I've not exactly triumphed in my life, I'm afraid they'd be the ones laughing at me. Sure, I could seek out that evil red-headed girl who made my life hell in eighth grade, and show her that her cruel words didn't mean anything, but I'd be lying. It's easy to get revenge when you have the resources, and lifestyle of Bruce Wayne; he can build himself a Batcave, and take out the evildoer's who killed his parents, because, hey, he's rich as hell, and, well, he's BATMAN! I'm not Batman. Not even Catwoman. Or Robin. Hell, I'm not even Alfred.
So I think I'll take the Englebreit path, and laugh instead. Look at the odd twists and turns my life has taken, at the strange things that happen every single day, and instead of desiring to rain down vengeance on the world around me, I'll laugh. See the humor in my world. Like Max, following his mom around making seal noises. Or hearing a woman in the grocery store line comment on the man in front of us, by saying "I'd wear him like a scrunchie!" (He was pretty hot!)
I've been on Social Security Disability since 2009, and last year I was informed my benefits were being terminated. See, I'm epileptic, and have fibromyalgia, major depression and chronic migraines, but since I'd gone 18 months without a seizure, they decided I was cured! (Cue "The Hallelujah Chorus" sung by flying cherubs!) Yeah. As if something I've been dealing with every day of my life for THIRTY FUCKING YEARS is just gonna go away. I filed an appeal, and asked for a hearing. Tons of paperwork, four different medical exams (their doctor, their shrink, my GP, and my neurologist) later, a hearing was finally scheduled. That hearing was today. Of course, I have a nasty cold, and go in to see the hearing guy (he told me his title, but I cannot remember it for the life of me) carrying my cough drops & hankie and smelling of Vapo Rub. The hearings guy (HG) is a hottie, obviously former military, still got that hair cut, and tall!! Big shiny gold wedding ring on his finger tells me someone else thinks he's hot, too. And he was compassionate, asked good questions, and really listened to the answers. Together we went through my medical records, and talked about my work history. I told him about how sometimes the pain is so bad I cannot lift a coffee cup; sometimes even wearing clothing hurts. That I have a difficult time focusing or remembering, will find myself standing in a room with no idea why I am there. I lose track of words, much in the same way a person with dementia does, and will struggle to name something I've known the name of my entire life. Imagine standing in the kitchen knowing you want a donut, but being totally unable to think of that word. The HG listened to my side, and asked my sister a few questions, and then we were done. He will have a determination for me sometime next week. Waiting has been hell, and now I get to wait some more. All I want is a decision, one way or the other. The Limbo is a nifty dance; being in limbo, stuck in that in between space, well, that sucks.
It's Tuesday night, and my room smells like Vicks Vapo-rub. I managed to catch the cold that has floated around our house for the last month, and for the last twenty-four hours I have been sneezing, sniffling and coughing. I feel like death on a stick. All I can do sit in my chair and watch television, going through seasons of Six Feet Under, guzzling juice and tearing through Kleenex.
We recently changed cable providers, from Dish Network back to Comcast, and I am digging the On Demand programming. Watching all sorts of shows that I missed out on the first time around, like Oz. For those of you who don't know, Oz is a HBO show set inside a men's prison. I watched a few seasons of Oz on Netflix, and now I am going on. This is such a freaky show, I have to be sure not to watch right before bed, or when Max is in the house. Honestly, all the male body parts flying around are, well, both disconcerting and titillating. The sheer violence is enticing, in a primitive way. This show is, for me, a guilty pleasure.
Then we have Six Feet Under, another HBO show, this one revolving around a family funeral home. At the beginning, my favorite thing about this show was the way the dead folks would hang around, talking to the morticians. I'm only part-way into Season two, and that seems to have stopped happening. The idea of death as a business, as well as a part of life, is complex and intriguing, and I find the idea of it just fascinating. Does that make me twisted? I don't know, or care, really. In the end, I'm not watching this because I'm interested in the deaths, but because of the characters and story lines.
Speaking of story lines and characters, my friend Karen is writing a book, and I've had the privileged of reading it as she writes, giving her some critique. I am so thrilled that she chose me for this honor; her book is, so far, wonderful! From the first paragraph, I was drawn in, and I cannot wait for it to be finished so I know what happens. Karen is enormously talented, which I've always known, but I think she is just figuring it out herself. I must admit to being a bit envious. She is doing what I cannot, or have not done. For that I am extremely proud of her, and at the same time, kinda jealous! When her book is done, I will be glad to share it with everyone I know.
The NyQuil is kicking in, and I am yawning. Goodnight, sweethearts, goodnight.
I have health issues. Epilepsy, which is fairly well controlled by medication; major depression; chronic migraines; RLS; fibromyalgia, a chronic pain disorder. The one causing the most problems these days is the fibromyalgia. In Portland's wet and damp weather, my body hurts all the time. The last few weeks, the has gotten increasingly worse. Day by day, my body seems to be turning against me.
I no longer have words for this pain. It has gone far beyond aching, stabbing, throbbing. It is constant, as present as breath, a companion I neither asked for nor want. Like that one person at the party who won't shut up, or they guy at the bar who refuses to take a hint, this pain has latched onto me, and is staying for the night.
I woke up this morning, swung my legs out of bed, stood up, and crumpled to the floor. The pain was so bad I couldn't stand; all I could do was lay on the floor and cry, as my cat looked at me in confusion. After a few minutes, and with help, I hauled my sorry ass back into bed, where I slept for another hour. Upon waking up again, I tried to have a simple cup of coffee; the pain in my arms was so bad that I couldn't lift the cup, let alone the coffee pot. Once upon a time I went out of the house, had friends who I actually saw in the real world, dated, had sex, had a job, had fun. These days, the very idea of sex causes pain. I seldom leave the house because I don't have the energy. This week I will have to go to the doctor, and that relatively short trip is more than I can bear. Two buses across town, then two more to get home; just the idea hurts. I can barely stand the pressure of clothing on my skin some days; some days a shower is as painful as being whipped. I would love to be out in the world again, the idea scares me. Just a simple trip to the market is exhausting; how would I ever make it in the workplace again? How on earth would I be able to get myself ready for a date when I can barely get out of bed? The whole idea scares me, makes me tired. Depresses me. It is easier, safer, certainly less painful, to stay here in my chair, in my room, and read. Watch television. Surf the internet.
In two weeks I have a hearing with Social Security to decide if my disability appeal will be denied. I was granted disability based on my epilepsy, which, at one point was so bad I could not work. The seizures are under control, for now, and the government, in their infinite wisdom (I need a sarcasm font!) has decided I am cured! Nope. I am hoping, praying, that they will see that A) my epilepsy isn't gone, and B) there are so many other things wrong that prevent me from working that the seizures really don't even matter now! I can only hope I get a judge with a compassionate heart and a brain.
