tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77943124147079657342024-02-18T23:16:00.744-08:00The Spectral ObeliskKeri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.comBlogger276125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-4724734726466957682017-04-24T14:57:00.000-07:002017-04-24T15:50:33.265-07:00How You Know It's Monday<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
This is how you can tell it’s Monday. But to fully explain
it, we take the Wayback Machine to Saturday night. Well, actually Friday night.
You see, the kids had spent Spring Break at Disneyworld with their dad, which
meant that I didn’t get them back until Friday evening. They were supposed to
go camping on Saturday, but since they’d walked roughly 50,000 miles during the
week and hadn’t been home in six days, they decided they just weren’t up to
camping. That’s all well and good, as I always miss them when they’re not home –
until they’re home for about 15 minutes and start sniping at each other, at
which point I don’t miss them as much. But I digress. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So my Saturday was thrown off, because it’s hard to work
when they’re unexpectedly home. So I was falling progressively behind. At about 10 PM on
Saturday night, I had the choice of either working late or going to bed early
and starting work early on Sunday. In my vain attempt to have a regular sleep
pattern, I decided to go to bed early and get to work at 7 AM on Sunday and
kick everything out by noon, so I could spend the rest of the day with the
boys. (This always sounds so plausible in my head.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do manage to fall asleep at about 11 PM. Victory! About 45
minutes later there’s a loud explosion. That’s not hyberbole. A really loud
explosion. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The power goes out. But we
have a whole home generator, which kicks on immediately. And sits right outside
my window. And sounds like a jackhammer. I get out of bed to check and make
sure the air conditioner is off. You should not run the air conditioner on the
generator. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(The thermostat in my house
is haunted. Even though I have expressly forbid anyone else to touch the
thermostat, whenever my back is turned, it is mysteriously set to “arctic,”
which at my house is an actual setting. I blame the boys’ father, who always
kept the house at a temperature suitable to play ice hockey in. That seems to
be an inheritable genetic trait. Although neither child will ever admit to
being the one who set the thermostat to “Minnesota in January.” ) The air
conditioner is off. I check the outage map on my phone. Whatever blew affected
only 12 houses, all on my street. We can get into an argument later about
whether Thor was trying to specifically smite me and missed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I trundle back to bed. I try and watch something on Netflix
on my phone, because that invariably puts me to sleep. I start with a Danish
crime drama that was recommended to me. I forget by whom, but they are stupid
and evil. I become annoyed with the moody Danes and move on to a horror movie.
I could tell the director had good intentions, but he would be better off
working a key-duplication kiosk at the mall. Strike two. The jackhammer is
still going, so I check the outage map again. ETA on power restoration is 7 AM.
Lovely. (The S/O later asked me if there isn’t a way to turn off the generator.
I’m sure there is. I don’t know it. A well-placed axe blow might work, but
seems inadvisable at this juncture.) I finally do drift off somewhere south of
3 AM. I am awoken at about 5:45 by sudden silence. The power is on, the
generator is off. But it’s really cold. Too cold. I trudge to the hallway.
Someone has turned the thermostat to 60 degrees. When this happened, I don’t
know. No will admit to doing it, of course. I turn the air conditioning back
off, and go get back in bed because it’s freezing, but just for a few minutes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a mistake. All of the sudden it’s
11:45. I was supposed to be done with work at noon. That’s not going to happen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But there are bills to be paid and a full inbox so I start
to work. Nick comes in a while later in a panic. He’s worried about his country
report, so I put work aside so we can knock out a rough draft for him to take
to his teacher. “Knock out a rough draft” when dealing with a picky and
indecisive 11-year-old takes a lot longer than you would think. It took us an
hour to choose a font for the cover page.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And then you try condensing every fact about Japan into six pages. It’s
harder than it sounds. I feel like I’m compounding his indecisiveness, so when
the S/O calls at 5-ish to ask if I want to go walking at City Park, I jump at
the chance, telling Nick to keep writing, and I’ll help edit when I come back. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m gone for a couple of hours, because it’s a lovely
evening and the weather is nice and I really don’t want to know any more about
Japan. In my head, I’ll come back and Nick will have finished the last four
pages and we’ll spend 30 minutes or so editing and be done with it. When I come
through the door, Nick is in his room watching MST3K.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ask him how the report went, and he says he
“wrote some” but needed more help. Well, it’s nearly 8 PM, so we make dinner,
eat, and then head back out to the office. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wrote some” turned out to be a sentence. At which point he
was stricken by writer’s block. Sigh. So it’s back to work. Loch comes out and
mentions he has to do a paper too. Of course he does. He says he’ll wait until
Nick is done. I realize, at this point, Nick may never be done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a slog. Loch comes back an hour later. I tell him
to do his Sunday night chores, which include doing his laundry, cleaning his
bathroom (because teenage boys are filthy disgusting animals) and taking out
the trash, which means emptying the trash cans in my bathroom, my bedroom, Nick’s
bedroom, Loch’s room, Loch’s bathroom, and the kitchen, sorting the recyclables
out, and then taking both the bagged trash and recyclables out and taking the
cans to the curb, because the trash pickup is Monday morning around 6 AM. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the same routine every Sunday night,
so it is not a surprise.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fast forward to 11 PM and finally Nick’s rough draft is
done. I send him to bed and fetch Lochlainn, and we finish his paper at
midnight. As he’s heading out the office door, he tells me, “Oh, by the way, I
don’t have my school clothes here.” His school clothes are at his father’s
apartment an hour away. Nice to know at midnight. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is now officially Monday morning, and I haven’t done any
work. This is the point where I either commit to trying to get 4-5 hours of
sleep or just staying up and pulling an all-nighter. In the vain hope of not
being exhausted in the morning I decide to chuck it and try for sleep. The
minute I set my alarm my door opens. It’s Nick. He woke up because he forgot to
do his laundry. Okay, I tell him, I’ll take care of it, because he needs to
have his school clothes in the morning. So I get up and blindly shove the contents of the hamper into the washer,
then wait for an hour so they can go into the dryer, realizing that 4-5 hours of
sleep have turned into 2-3 hours of sleep. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The alarm goes off at 6 AM. We need to leave no later than
6:30, because it’s at minimum a 45-minute drive on the Interstate to the town
they attend school in, and we have to make the stop so Loch can change clothes
and won’t be tardy at 7:40. I go to pack Nick’s lunch. He doesn’t have his
lunch bag, which is also at the apartment. Never mind, I keep a five dollar
bill in my purse for cash emergencies, so I’ll just give him that to buy lunch.
I tell him to get his school clothes out of the dryer. He comes from the laundry
room empty-handed. He forgot his school clothes at his dad’s too. So I stayed
up to do laundry for no reason. Double sigh. I tell him to go back to his room
and grab his backpack, while I let the dogs out. Biz is a 16-year-old lab who
needs help getting up in the mornings, because he’s <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>old and the house is always freezing. As I’m
going back to get Biz, I notice that the trash is not emptied. Because of
course it’s not. Hoping that I haven’t missed pick-up, I yell at Loch to get Biz
while I start gathering the trash. As I’m sorting out the recyclables, Loch
tells me he can’t find Biz. So the dog is lost somewhere in the house, and
garbage truck is due any minute and it’s 6:25.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As I head down the hallway with a bag full of aluminum cans to see if
the ancient dog has wandered into the closet, I notice a lump in Nick’s bed,
which turns out to be Nick. Who laid back down and fell asleep because
Lochlainn was “taking too long.” I’m not yelling and throwing things yet, but I’m
close. Now Nick is up, I have the trash, and my mom comes in from her apartment
to tell me she let Biz out because he had made it to the living room without
assistance while we weren’t looking. At least we’ve found the dog. I fling the
trash at the boys and get in the car, where I realize belatedly that I was
supposed to get gas on Saturday, but forgot. Me and the dog are both old,
confused, and cold.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s 6:32. Hopefully traffic
will be light. I stop for gas and while I’m pumping, send Loch in to get me
some caffeine, because the 2 hours of sleep is not quite cutting it and dog
forbid we should all die on the highway. Loch has not returned by the time I’m
done, so I go in after him. He’s behind a woman who is trying to pay for her
Polar Pop with either Canadian pennies or craft animals fashioned from lint at
the bottom or her purse, I’m unclear as to which. Eventually a deal is struck
and she moves along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t check the
time because it would just make my head hurt. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
About 15 minutes into the drive, I have a horrible thought.
Each of the boys has a key to their father’s apartment. Neither of the boys is
ever in actual physical possession of the keys. I hesitate but finally ask
Lochlainn where his key is. Of course it’s “at the apartment.” I ask Nickolas, and
his key is hanging on a hook on the back of his door at home. My ex-husband
commutes an hour to work the opposite direction, and I doubt he’d look kindly
upon my breaking into his apartment. I yell at Lochlainn to call his father and
see if he’s still at the apartment. Amazingly, he is, so I tell Lochlainn to
tell him to stay put until we get there. Then I proceed to yell some more at
the boys, demanding to know if they ever get tired of me yelling at them,
because it sure seems like they don’t. They don’t have any school clothes,
keys, lunch sacks, the trash is not out, and the temperature in the house is
the equivalent of the Antarctic research station at the end of John Carpenter’s
THE THING, when everything has burned down and Kurt Russell is waiting to
either freeze to death or be consumed by the space critter wearing Keith David’s
skin. At this point, I would welcome being consumed by a space critter. Or
freezing to death. I’m not picky. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pull up at the apartment and order my children out of the
car. They are the slowest beings on earth. They look like Ray Harryhausen
stop-motion animation dinosaurs. I watch them meandering up the stairs to the
second story of the fourplex while I check the time. We might make it. I wait,
and wait some more. One child emerges. He has made it down the stairs, across
the street and to the car by the time the second child emerges. SLOWEST BEINGS
ON EARTH. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I refrain from peeling out once they’re in the car, but
barely. We make it to the high school at 7:38.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I drop Nick off at his school, remembering to give him the emergency
fiver from my purse. Whew. Then I make my regular stop at the Hoppin’ Harleys
for a biscuit and some more caffeine, because, dammit, I’ve earned it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I get a Coke Zero and get in line. You know how I said my
children were the slowest beings on earth? I was wrong. Ahead of me in line are
three middle-schoolers trying to decide what they want for breakfast. At least
I’m gratified to know my 11-year-old’s indecisiveness is not unique to him.
Finally they decide on sausage biscuits. No. Not sausage biscuits. Do they have
chicken wings? No. Not chicken wings. Three servings of bacon. Where are their
parents? Why is this roving pack of sixth graders out alone? Oh, they forgot to
get drinks. It’ll be just a second. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m back on the road with my biscuit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I get on the interstate and I’m a mile from
the junction to get on the other interstate. In the list of things you don’t
want to see when driving on the interstate, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>someone pulling up beside you and honking and gesticulating
wildly while pointing at your car has got to be right near the top. So, of
course a helpful women in a little red coupe does just that. Hell and damn. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pull off at the next exit and into a service station. Sure
enough, it’s the dodgy right rear tire, which randomly goes a little flatish.
New tires are on the list, but the list is long and getting longer. I usually
check it when I get gas, but, well, this morning I was preoccupied. I know that
if I air it up, it’ll be fine for a few weeks. Luckily there’s an air station
here and I check and it takes $1.50 in quarters. It’s not until I get inside to
get change that I realize that I gave my emergency cash to Nick for his lunch.
The woman at the counter is apologetic when she tells me I can’t get cash back
with a purchase. But there is an ATM machine. Of course the ATM machine wants
$2.75 for the privilege of dispensing $20 of my own money. At this point I can’t
make a stand on principle. I just want to go home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I get my $20, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>buy
another drink, get my change and head back outside, where I see three workmen
in a truck with a trailer pulling up to the air station. You know how I said
middle-schoolers trying to choose breakfast are the slowest beings on earth?
NO. Workmen on a Monday morning are the slowest beings on earth. And as a corollary
to women not being able to go anywhere without each other, men can’t go anywhere
WITH each other. Each guy goes in independently to make his purchase, and the
next can’t go in until the other has returned. 20 fucking minutes waiting for
them to finish their arcane breakfast ritual and vacate the air station. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I air up the tire and get back on the road. Upon merging
onto the interstate, the check engine light goes on. I try to remember if solid
or blinking is worse, and fail. Ordinarily, I ignore things like check engine
lights. But the S/O, who is a mechanical whiz, has repeatedly explained to me
that it is unreasonable (actually I think he used the words “crazy” and “irresponsible”)
to assume that mechanical problems will spontaneously heal themselves if you
ignore them long enough. He called it “magical thinking” like it was a bad
thing. Whatever.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the last time the check engine came on, it was because I
hadn’t turned the gas cap far enough to hear the final click. Why this would
cause the check engine light to come on is beyond me, but that’s what the
mechanic told me. He said to reseat the gas cap and drive about 40 miles and
see if the light goes off. It did. Seeing as how I had just gotten gas in a
rush at 6:30 in the morning after two days of little sleep, I decide to roll
the dice. I stop, reset the gas cap and get back in the car. It’s about 40
miles more to home, so I listen to NPR and keep an eye on the treacherous check
engine light. Of course, now I need to pee, because I’ve drank roughly a gallon
of Coke Zero this morning, and every single damn thing has taken 30 times longer
than it should have. I’ve been in the car long enough that the NPR feed has
looped and I’m hearing the same stories I’ve already heard once, and most of
them are about how Donald Trump is certifiably insane, like I hadn’t noticed. I
keep trying not to notice it, but it’s nearly impossible when you have to check
outside the window every few minutes to assure yourself there are no mushroom
clouds. Although nuclear annihilation would probably render the check engine
light obsolete. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the time I reach my driveway, the check engine light has
winked out. Either because it really was the gas cap, or because it has given
up trying, like most of America. My GPS reads “WELCOME HOME” with a happy little
exclamation point. Indeed. </div>
Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-34437396175306424282016-08-22T11:18:00.000-07:002016-08-22T11:18:35.254-07:00Starting Up A Brand New DaySleep schedule has been wacky for the last two months. Having the boys here and then not here, too much stress and mental anguish and uncertainty. Then the floods and delay in school starting, which threw things off even more. I was sleeping an hour here, three hours there. Getting up at 3 in the morning or going to bed at noon. Not a great recipe for normalizing your life.<br />
<br />
But today was the day! Oh, frabjous first day of school!<br />
<br />
So last night we did dinner, and then cleaned up and laid everything out for the morning. Nick was getting crabby, so I had him take a bath and threw in some lavender essential oil and eucalyptus epsom salts, telling him it would relax him. Whether it actually worked, or it was just the power of suggestion, he crashed early and did not move until I went to wake him up at 5:30.<br />
<br />
Me, I crashed also. I was asleep before 10. Of course, I was also wide awake at 3:15. Instead of chasing sleep, I got up and just started doing shit. Cleaned out the fridge, cleaned the bathrooms, sorted stuff that was laying around and found a home for it. By the time I got the boys up, I was feeling sort of good about things. Which was a novel feeling.<br />
<br />
This is a new thing for me -- after 27 years of being 24/7 mom, I'm going to be kind of a parttime mom. It wasn't something I wanted. You'd be shocked at how much I did not want it. But sometimes when someone is determined to fuck up your life, the best thing you can do is to give them exactly what they want. If you find yourself in an endless tug-of-war, just let go of the damned rope.<br />
<br />
So I dropped the boys off at school this morning, and I'll pick them up after school on Friday afternoon. And I'll do that every week for the forseeable future. Terrifying. The big house is suddenly much bigger. And quieter. (And cleaner.)<br />
<br />
But I'm going to look at this as an opportunity. For all involved. I'll finally get a break, and I can work and write without spending the majority of every day pulled in 12 different directions at once. The boys will learn how to adapt, how to be more self-reliant, how to maneuver without me. Their father will have the chance to be part of their lives again. At the very least, he'll have some idea of what I've done every day for the past 27 years, and how much of it I did without asking for a cookie or a pat on the head. How much of it I made invisible. Hopefully we'll all learn something, and be better for it.<br />
<br />
Of course, I'll be Skyping every night. I'll worry endlessly. (I'm a great worrier. And a bit of a control freak.) Baby steps. Lots and lots of baby steps. Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-54729025924217197832016-08-20T15:15:00.000-07:002016-08-20T15:15:13.503-07:00Fall, AgainIt's almost fall, and this is a good thing. It's been a stupid summer. After the last two stupid years, it's been an incredibly stupid summer, made worse by the fact that things were finally supposed to settle down.<br />
<br />
Life was supposed to change. But it didn't. Instead it was a sort of doubling down on some of the most troubling aspects of the unfortunate series of events that began like a horrifying domino cascade in July of 2014. Every time I thought I had gotten past the worst of it, I would realize it was just a lull. Nothing was every fixed permanently. I ended up living with a series of those cartoon filing cabinets, where when you shove one drawer closed, another one pops open and spills shit everywhere, endlessly.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
But you know what, that's sort of the way life is. You fight for your peace. It's a mistake to think that you get to finish things. I mean, sometimes you do get to finish things, but assuming that is the natural order of things will just lead you to heartache.<br />
<br />
So now I find myself looking for another lull. Hopefully a longer one. Hopefully one that becomes more permanent, and hopefully a life where the waves that crash against me are smaller, and I handle them with more grace and steadfastness. When your life is turned upside down so absolutely and completely, it's hard to recalibrate. Part of that is dismay, because you've had to deal with something so utterly horrible that you never imagined it. It's so fucking horrible. It's so fucking unfair. And sometimes it's hard to get past the fact that it is SO. FUCKING. UNFAIR. You just stop in your tracks. You write more lengthy entries in your Book of Grievances. (And we all have a Book of Grievances, even the best of us.) You become flummoxed by simple things, things you might have taken in stride in your old life, the one that's now a smoking ruin behind you.<br />
<br />
Some people can't get past it. The fall completely into that darkness. Mental illness. Suicide. They are broken and they don't get better.<br />
<br />
Some people adjust to the degree they can. They limp along. They jump from one rock in the river to the next. Some of those jumps are small. Some seem incredibly long. Sometimes the gap between rocks seems so vast that you think you won't make it, but you do.<br />
<br />
Some people get stronger. They get better. They incorporate the lessons learned, or at least understand that there are some lessons that can't be learned, and let that shit go. That's the hardest part, in the end, letting that shit go.<br />
<br />
My favorite proverb tells me that for every evil under the sun, there is a cure or there is none. If there is one, then find it. If there is none, then never mind it. In other words, let that shit go.<br />
<br />
It's a process. It doesn't necessarily have an end, even when you believe with every fiber that it should. And one things that I have realized is that I'm still angry. The events of this summer have clearly defined my anger. Like a good girl, I've always been taught to reign that anger in. Growing up the way I did -- and living in the adult relationships I've had -- I became someone who placated others. Who swallowed the anger, or boxed it away, or attached a fucking cinderblock to it and sunk it so deep in the waters of my consciousness that it was never supposed to surface again.<br />
<br />
But nothing is ever gone for good. So now I'm forced to deal with it some more. To find a better way to deal with it, maybe. I dunno, work in progress. But at least recognizing the degree to which I'm still angry is a start.<br />
<br />
I recently moved house. (And houses are important to me. Maybe the most important thing.) I left a house I had loved, but had become a museum or sorrow. I bought a house, MY HOUSE, that I fell in love with the moment I saw it. I made the mistake of thinking that leaving one house and moving to the next meant that I would leave behind the worst of what was killing me. It didn't, at least not yet.<br />
<br />
Because, you see, in sorting out and packing up, I thought I was dealing with all the components of my sorrow, of my anger. I tried to keep what I loved and discard what hurt me. I packed away, gave away, threw out, burned, sold, returned so many things. Every thing. It was hard, it was painful, and sometimes, after cleaning out a closet I would just sit in the middle of the floor and cry and hug my dog and cry some more.<br />
<br />
I made the mistake of thinking that getting rid of the things would get rid of the emotions. That removing the tangible evidence of a life destroyed would somehow make me magically whole. That moving away would mean moving on. Don't get me wrong, moving away was the best thing. Getting out of that house (the museum of sorrow in my head) and getting out of that poisonous town, was necessary and in many way has made my life so, so much better. But it's not quite enough.<br />
<br />
So now we come to the last of it. Finally finding a way to deal with what's left, and in doing so, searching for my peace. And so I'm writing again. When you strip away all the things I am and have been (a wife, a lover, a friend, a mother), I'm a writer. That's the essence of me. Words are my house.<br />
<br />
And so I am coming home again. I'm angry. I am wounded. I am also joyful. I am determined. I am mapping my new country. This is what saves me. Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-74775309018285004102015-07-27T13:05:00.001-07:002015-07-27T13:05:57.338-07:00Random Thoughts -- 7/27(Programming note -- I'm in a better place. And no, it's not Happydale. Physically, emotionally, financially. So maybe not so complainy. Still, well, me. Acerbic? Darkly humorous? I guess that's a kind way of putting it. So more than just random thoughts, it's what I've been up to )<br />
<br />
-Woke up with Dickie Bennett hair this morning. I don't know whether that means I slept well or poorly. I had a vivid and confusing dream. Same thing I always dream about, but different. Weird.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
- Hermit crabs make surprisingly engaging pets. (Loch and Cate got hermit crabs, Nicky got turtles. The turtles are way cuter than the hermit crabs, but less fascinating.)<br />
<br />
- Going to the store requires putting on a bra. Unfair.<br />
<br />
-Speaking of stores, we now have a Walmart Market, or whatever it's called. Now, I hate Walmart and try to avoid it like the plague, but sometimes it's a necessity. I live in a healthy food desert, and Piggly-Wiggly, for all it's charm and the fact that everyone in the store knows you by name, does not carry a wide variety of healthy foods. So I was kind of excited, because I thought I would be able to find some things that I NEED, without having to drive to another town. NO. Just the basics, and if not the basics, versions that I don't want. They have Morningstar Grillers, but not the Veggie Burgers, Mushroom Burgers, or Black Bean Burgers. They have no fizzy water. Not even Dasani. No Mamma Chia (especially not Blackberry Hibiscus.) And the only Luna Bars they have are Lemon Zest and Chocolate Dipped Coconut. This is not working for me. Sigh, so it's still a trip to Amite. (Where they have BOXES of Chocolate Peanut Butter Luna Bars, and La Croix fizzy water in grapefruit.). That makes me sound like a frou-frou food snob. But after the last year, I am on a specific and healthy diet that is carefully balanced. Except if I go out to eat. Then all bets are off....<br />
<br />
- HBO GO is pretty awesome.<br />
<br />
- If someone keeps showing you who they really are, no matter how horrifying it is, you should believe them. If you don't, it's your fault, not theirs.<br />
<br />
- Along those lines, never try to crash an echo chamber. If you go outside, stare into the sun, and hit yourself repeatedly in the head with a ballpeen hammer, you'll get the same effect and it will take less of your time.<br />
<br />
-Found a great pair of hoof trimmers for the goat. I was not aware that it is markedly harder to trim goat hooves than horse hooves. Mainly because the goat is like, "No." And I'm like, "Yes." And the goat is like, "No. Really." And I'm like, "Yes, really." And the goat is like, "Then I am going to kick you really hard and run away." And I'm like "Whatever." And then the goat is like, "Don't say I didn't warn you." Sigh.<br />
<br />
-Speaking of the goat, a couple of weeks ago it was raining tremendously hard, really sheeting, with wind. We had built the goat a shelter, but it proved inadequate, because we really hadn't considered sideways rain. GOATS HATE TO GET WET. So I brought Loki inside, because there was no other option at the moment. The first thing he did was carefully remove everything from my office trashcan, proceed to get his horns stuck in the mesh, and then run around with the trashcan on his head. THIS IS WHY GOATS ARE NOT HOUSE PETS. He then proceeded to eat half the cover of my thesaurus and a bill I hadn't paid yet. (Goats are not like dogs. They can't be shamed. If you yell at them to stop doing something, they don't even glance at you. It's all, "La-la-la-I can't hear you," and an eventual tug-of-war.) Eventually he curled up on the dog bed beneath my desk and went to sleep. (He's no bigger than Bismarck, the lab/pointer mix I unexpectedly inherited.) We have since built a better, raised shelter, so now he can't be pathetic if it rains.<br />
<br />
-Along those lines, it has been brought to my attention that we are sharing our lives with 11 critters now. Some people think that's excessive. But you know what, screw them. When I was a kid we were surrounded by animals. At the ranch we had cattle and horses and sheep, and various and sundry other critters. (My aunt had an attack goose that scared everybody, and I remember learning how to rope with goats. I was still never very good at it.) At home we always had a variety of animals: my horse, cats, dogs, pheasants, quail, rabbits, ducks, and mice, rats, gerbils, fish. (One year my dad filled the swimming pool with trout. They used to come to the side of the pool if you tapped and would eat out of your hand. When winter came, we had to let them all go in a stream in the mountains, because we were so attached to them that we couldn't bear to eat them.)<br />
<br />
So what I'm saying is that being surrounded by other life is good for kids and it's good for adults. It teaches them responsibility, empathy, compassion. It makes them richer people, and expands their knowledge. They learn that pets aren't disposable, that they are other beings to be taken care of, that there are commitments you make that you can't break just because it's more convenient for you . It makes them more aware of the wonders of the world around them. I know my children are better people for it. So, yes, I currently live with four dogs, 2 cats, a goat, two hermit crabs and 2 aquatic turtles. And they enrich all our lives immeasurably. /gets off soapbox.<br />
<br />
-What is the best way to tell someone you're not talking to them without talking to them? Is it just ignoring them? This is a terrible dilemma for someone who always has one more thing to say......<br />
<br />
-Had a PET scan. The doctor looked like Jensen Ackles, only taller, and cuter. Way cuter. Yeah. Which only proves what the kids have said, that somehow I got signed up for Handsome Doctor of the Month club. It's like central casting out there. NOT THAT I AM COMPLAINING. But, damn. It makes you want to become a hypochondriac. (If you will remember my adventures with Handsome Doctor Who Should Just Take His Shirt Off; Handsome Doctor With Whom I Want to Run Away To Tahiti With; and Handsome Doctor Are You Sure You're Old Enough to Be a Surgeon?) And I just realized I said Doctor Who. It would be much more awesome if my doctor was actually The Doctor (preferably the Ninth, Tenth or Eleventh). And, yeah I'm one of those people who likes the Eleventh Doctor slightly better than the Tenth Doctor, so shut up. <br />
<br />
-Have finally come to terms with the fact that I quit smoking and it ain't coming back. It's been long enough now under enough stressful situations (UNDERSTATEMENT) that I'm confident. I have quit for long periods of time often, but whenever stress got too much I would fall off the wagon. I think mostly it was rebellion. It was a "You can't control ME," kind of thing. And I'm just realizing now that there has been A LOT of that in my life. So detaching your motives makes something more controllable. If you understand the patterns, it's easier to get rid of what you want to get rid of. (I do have a Vapor Pen that I can pull out if I get really stressed. But it's so NOT a cigarette that it helps get rid of the familiarity and comfort. And it helps get rid of the Nicotine addiction without freaking out about it. Also, no smell, no ash, which is the biggest plus.) Dr. Sunnydale was very pleased, and stopped giving me the disapproving look he gave me last year. (not his real name, but damned if he doesn't look like Armin Shimerman, who was principal of Sunnydale High on Buffy. Hence he is not a member of Handsome Doctor of the Month club, but I really like him anyway, even when he gives me the concerned look.) So yeah, my smoking habit is dead as a Norwegian Blue. And I'm finally glad.<br />
<br />
-Realized it was time for lunch and there is nothing I want in the house. Not even fizzy water. Dammit, I am not driving to Amite. It will be overripe bananas and almond milk for the second day in a row.<br />
<br />
-Kid coming home from New Mexico soon. Despite him being an angst-ridden, sarcastic, teenage know-it-all, I really miss the little monster. Well, he's not so little, but still.<br />
<br />
And this is long enough, and too me-centric. Back soon and it will be all about how much I miss Justified, Hockey, and how fascinating hermit crabs are. Just Kidding. It will be cogent and more fascinating than a hermit crab. Maybe.<br />
<br />Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-4499430366174375712015-04-30T09:44:00.000-07:002015-04-30T10:14:04.605-07:00Random Thoughts Before May DayI miss Justified. I mean like a missing limb miss. It's hard to believe I will never see those people again. In the store the other day my phone rang. I had forgotten that I'd changed Kid #1's ringtone to the Justified theme. For a minute I thought I would burst into tears. Yes, I am a pathetic fangirl. I feel like running down the road at the end of <i>Shane</i>, yelling "Come back, Boyd! Come back!" Sigh. <br />
<br />
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<br />
I think the counter guy at the post office is annoyed with people who come in to buy one stamp.<br />
<br />
The Minnesota Wild have the worst fans in the league. (Sorry, Minnesota fans who aren't absolute dicks -- you must be out there somewhere.) You don't cheer when a player from the other teams goes down on the ice with an injury. You sit there respectfully and hope he's okay, and when he does get taken off the ice, you cheer. There are rules, people!<br />
<br />
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<br />
I have a black hole somewhere on my desk. Things go missing and I never find them again. Most recently it was a bottle of Lorazepam. Some days the only thing standing me between me and the abyss is a lorazepam. I try to take them as seldomly as possible, and save them for the big panic attacks, but the last week has been extremely trying. So, hey, gremlins or space men or whoever or whatever keeps hiding things, BRING THEM BACK. (I heard if you stand in the room where a thing is lost and say that loudly and sternly, you'll quickly find the object. And you know what, I did it for a set of keys once, and I walked out of the room and walked back in and found the keys. Whether it's a psychological cue that helps you remember where something is, or you're actually talking to some inter-dimensional being from a pocket universe, I don't know. I just report the facts.)<br />
<br />
Speaking of keys, my key arrangement is huge and unwieldy, the better not to lose. I have an Avalanche lanyard, with a bunch of stuff on it: a Volvo emblem that spins, a pin from Buffy the Vampire slayer, a pewter Avalanche key ring, and three keys. A key to the Volvo, a key to the house, and a skeleton key that has extreme sentimental value (you don't need the details on that one....). Anyway, I lose the damned things EVERY SINGLE DAY and spend hours looking for them. That's one of the worst things about my cognizant deficit: never being able to find anything. BAH.<br />
<br />
The other bad things about the brain problem are (in no particular order): not being able to spell anything anymore; sometimes being totally unable to text, because I can't even make the corrections; substituting a word I can't manage with a word that is definitely not the same thing; being unable to park the car -- I'm either too far out, too far in, or not anywhere close to being between the lines. I apparently currently have no depth perception. Also too many loud noises make me all jangly, I've developed some form of agoraphobia, and I can't listen to anyone talk while I'm thinking, which I used to do with ease. This is not as fun and exciting as it sounds.<br />
<br />
Fun Fur and spray adhesive are dangerous in the wrong hands.<br />
<br />
It should be illegal to play music in supermarkets. It's like a time bomb. You never know when some song will be played that sends you into emotional distress. And then you can't escape it, because it looks odd to drop everything and run out of the store with your hands over your ears. Thanks, Barry Manilow. <br />
<br />
Why is Pokemon still a thing?<br />
<br />
Yesterday I listened to a Billy Joel song all the way through. In fact, I turned it up loud and sat in my car in the parking lot and sang it at the top of my lungs. Big step, because Billy Joel, again, has great sentimental value to me. And sure it was Only the Good Die Young (I'll probably never be able to listen to And So It Goes again, and the whole Stormfront album is probably out of reach), but it was progress.<br />
<br />
And I like Billy Joel. And Sting. And Barry Manilow. And the Barenaked Ladies. And that one song by the Backstreet Boys. So shut up. (We will not discuss my long-ago tween obsession with the Bay City Rollers. Hey, they were guys with accents wearing kilts. 'Nuff said.)<br />
<br />
Have you ever been victim of a drive-by text? It's that thing where you are bopping along, maybe standing in line at the grocery store trying to block out the music wafting down from the hidden speakers, and your text alert goes off. It's someone hysterically screaming IN ALL CAPS ABOUT SOME INVISIBLE RULE THAT YOU BROKE THAT YOU DIDN'T KNOW EXISTED, AND EVEN IF IT DID EXIST YOU DIDN'T BREAK IT IN THE FIRST PLACE. The worst thing is that you can't even text effectively enough to say "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG NOW?" without having to make eleventy-billion corrections. Clearly I need to hire someone to accomplish my texting, and weed out the crazy before it reaches me.<br />
<br />
And this thing that didn't happen was obviously some cog in my Nefarious Master Plan. Apparently I have a Nefarious Master Plan that is so secret I don't even know about it. So clue me in, will you? I don't have the time for a Nefarious Master Plan right now, because I am busy working 12 hour days again, providing a normal life for my children after the horrorshow the last year became, trying to deal with the destruction of everything I thought was true and safe, looking at a mountain of bills, having to fit an unending stream of doctor and therapy appointments into days that are already so full of other things that they are running off the side of my trusty calendar, AND trying to find the time to write. Maybe I need a Nefarious Master Plan planner who can take care of the details for me. Maybe I should give up the glamorous and fun life I am now living to become a Nefarious Master Plan planner. Apparently I would be very good at it.<br />
<br />
Have you ever looked at someone and immediately thought, "Does your hair look like that intentionally? Or was it some unfortunate industrial accident?" I would provide an illustration, but that would be impolite.<br />
<br />
There should be a rescue league for archaic words. I can't do it all myself. Discomfited. That's a good word you never hear any more. Example: I am discomfited by the current turn of events. Sometimes I wish the house was taller so I could effectively defenestrate myself.<br />
<br />
I use the word "apparently" too much.<br />
<br />
A DVR is a dangerous thing, especially when it starts filling up with things you just can't bear to watch anymore because it's too upsetting. I have whole seasons of Castle, Major Crimes, and Mad Men. Yes, I need more therapy. The thing about PSTD is there are so many fucking triggers everywhere. I had to put all of it in a separate folder that I don't open.<br />
<br />
The best thing about the end of the month is that all the bills are paid. The worst thing about the end of the month is that all bills start over again, usually on the first of the month. ("Hello, Mortgage, Health Care Premium, Emergency Loan and Private School Tuition! I have missed you so much!" she said sarcastically.<br />
<br />
Have you ever had so many overdue hospital and specialist bills that you just want to see a giant cage match, the winner of which you will actually be able to pay? In my head I just see a bunch of lower middle management drones whacking each other with briefcases and stabbing each other with sharpened paper clips.<br />
<br />
Speaking of lower middle management, did you know it's not the same as being a "top executive"? Strange, but true. Embroidery is a hallmark of crippling insecurity.<br />
<br />
Did you ever get an email that you couldn't delete fast enough because it makes you start considering a tri-state killing spree? I just did. There are certain people I would happily forget the existence of if they would just fucking stay out of my line of vision, lest they fall victim to my Nefarious Master Plan. <br />
<br />
And speaking of email, the overflowing email box calls. It's like an impossible task that starts over every day. Like Sisiphus or the guy who got his eyes pecked out over and over again. <br />
<br />
I plan to return with thoughts on the end of Justified, the destruction of everything you thought was true and safe, and complaints about various stuff and things. And maybe the unveiling of my Nefarious Master Plan!<br />
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In the meantime, remember: There are fucking rules, people!<br />
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<br />Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-36086580595955261782015-04-15T19:09:00.000-07:002015-04-15T19:09:45.828-07:00The Journey of a Thousand Miles Usually Ends Up as another Journey of a Thousand Miles.....I've hit a rough patch. Everyone I've told about this rough patch says, "Oh, you should write a book!" Nurses, doctors, people at the bank, clients, all manner of people. It certainly would make a compelling story. But I've been reluctant to start. One reason is because it feels awkward talking about myself. Another reason is because it's painful to relive some things, and painful to relive things that you did that were wrong or careless or hurtful. And sometimes it's hard to come to terms with what the people you love have done, because you still love them and you don't want bad things about them to be true. So I've been pretty "good," except in the eyes of the people who watch my every move and parse my every utterance to manufacture their own outrage and help themselves feel better about the guilt they may be carrying. <br />
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I've pushed it all down, for so long, I've been cooperative and helpful and bit my tongue and made sacrifices and concessions while getting nothing in return expect lies. Last night was the final straw, the last kick in the ribs, the insult briskly stirred in with the injury. I'm done with being Ms. Nice Girl, and I'm not ashamed to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And names are not being changes to protect the guilty. Remember, kids, it's not slander or libel is everything you say is true.<br />
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I am nobody's whipping girl. And the minute you come after my children, you are going to end up in a bad way. Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-67245289031522805312014-12-19T15:18:00.000-08:002014-12-19T15:21:36.849-08:00It's (Not) A Wonderful LifeI've always loved <i>It's a Wonderful Life</i>. I mean, seriously, like always. Of course I was one of those nerdy kids who loved old movies from the time I could turn on a TV and even at six or seven -- like the darling lil insomniac I've always been - would stay up all night watching the old black-&-whites on Channel 2 from Denver, where in the good old days they would play classic movies all night long (you could sometimes catch four in a night) until they started up with <i>The Little Rascals</i> or <i>The Abbot and Costello Show</i> about the time the sun came up. Eleanor Powell dancing to Begin the Beguine with Fred Astaire in <i>Broadway Melody of 1940</i>, where it looked like they were flitting across a floor made of stars. (Oh how I wanted to be Eleanor Powell for a time -- or Kim Novak in<i> Bell, Book, and Candl</i>e, or Veronica Lake in <i>My Favorite Witch</i>. Yeah, I was a weird kid.) I love Fred Astaire, and I loved Ingrid Bergman. But there were always the big three: Cary Grant, Katherine Hepburn, and Jimmy Stewart. So, given that, there were certain movies that were favorites of mine -- heavy on the screwball, the sophistication, and the schmaltz: <i>The Philadelphia Story,</i> <i>Bringing Up Baby</i>, <i>Arsenic and Old Lace</i>, and, of course, <i>It's a Wonderful Life</i>. <br />
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So, it being the holiday season and all, and this holiday season in particular, that movie has been on my mind. <br />
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For anybody who has lived in a cave their whole lives and is scared by moving pictures, this is the plot in a nutshell:<br />
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Everyman George Bailey lives in the All-American hamlet of Bedford Falls, where he runs the family savings and loan, having given up his dreams to travel and do what-not because of various things that have happened and he, being the sincere, responsible, Jimmy-Stewart-everyman that he is, has put off everything to take care of whatever needed taking care of. And life happened to George Bailey -- he married and had children and bought a drafty old house that he couldn't pay to fix up, because being selfless tends to keep you from being rich, unlike Old Man Potter, who is the opposite of George Bailey and, being the scurvy spider that Old Man Potter is, hates George Bailey and all the schmaltzy, sweet, idealistic things he stands for.<br />
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And so it comes to pass that on Christmas Eve, George Bailey finds himself in crisis -- his life didn't turn out like his dreams, he really doesn't care for his job, his children are in need of constant attention (as children are wont to be), and his wife sometimes snaps at him because she has just as much to deal with as he does. And now he's found that because of a series of mistakes/happenstances, the old building and loan is going to fail. So George sees himself as a failure, and in his despair, goes to throw himself off a bridge because he figures he's worth more dead than alive. George Bailey has had enough.<br />
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But, because this is a magical place, this sweet, 1940s hamlet of Bedford Falls, an angel stops George and shows him all the terrible things that would have happened had he not been who he was, had he not been there at all. And by the time Clarence the Angel is done -- and he has quite the job, does old Clarence, because George Bailey has really had quite enough -- George realizes that, indeed, he did have a wonderful life, because he was kind and thoughtful and responsible and had ended up with the things that are the most important: the love of his family and friends and the respect of those around him. And so George Bailey -- praying that it's not too late -- goes home and finds that all the people have rallied around him, because George Bailey didn't realize how much he was loved, and how much he had touched everyone's lives. And he's still in the drafty old house with the decrepit bannister, and he still has a passel of kids that need constant attention, and his boring old wife who is busy with keeping the family running, and he still has his plain old job at the good old building and loan, which is not fun or glamorous or exciting or any of those things.<br />
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And I still cry when George finds Zuzu's petals in his pocket, and when Harry raises a glass to "my brother George Bailey, the richest man in town." (Just as I still cry when the Grinch hears the Whos down in Whoville singing and his heart grows three sizes, just as I still cry when Linus tells Charlie Brown that "it's not such a bad little tree.") I cry because those things are woven into me, despite my years as a card-carrying cynic -- and I was a pretty good cynic even at age 7-- because, especially in this season of goodwill towards men, and magic, and belief, I believe. I always have. <br />
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And I am crying as I type this, because all those other things that could have happened to George didn't: he didn't throw himself off that bridge, he didn't carry on with Violet, he didn't leave Mary and the kids in that drafty old house and run off to a quiet and uncomplicated shack in Potter's field. And, yes, maybe I'm as heavy-handed as old Frank Capra, but it irks me when people are shallow and facile and selfish, and they pretend they understand what these things mean. <br />
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And I get up in the mornings these days, and I try to be George Bailey, even though I have come more than passing close to throwing myself off a bridge into the inky blackness below a few times lately. Because, despite it all, I have had a wonderful life in the important aspects: I have four bright, kind, marvelous children; I have spent the last almost-20 years with a man I adore, who has almost always been George Bailey himself; I have rescued my share of critters and given them their own wonderful lives; I have created things of beauty, or at least honesty; and I have tried my best to be kind and faithful and true and brave.<br />
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So this post serves as my Annual Christmas Post -- which has usually been about how fortunate I am. Because right now my wonderful life is pretty much a smouldering ruin, or at least feels like one, and I am daily fighting the cynic and trying to hang on to my belief. There are a few Old Man Potters around me, who seem to hate me just because I am not like them, and I do my best to ignore them. They're used to winning, because it's easy to win when you're selfish and thoughtless and shallow. But still....the Whos keep on singing, and Charlie Brown's friends wave their hands and uncover the beauty of the sad, little tree, and somewhere, George Bailey finds Zuzu's petals in his pocket and realizes it's not too late.<br />
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So happy season of belief to all my friends and those I love -- may you find your own wonderful life, and even when it's darkest, may there be a light you follow to guide you home. Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-50525273354237948182014-12-18T12:43:00.000-08:002014-12-18T12:43:03.676-08:00Embracing My Inner Lorne MalvoThis is a test. This is only a test. If this wasn't a test, it would say something pithy or interesting. Maybe.<br />
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Ringing out the old, ringing in the new.Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-56176298345853912592014-10-28T14:49:00.000-07:002014-10-28T14:49:44.700-07:00Time Machine Does Not Give Change<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-77795857746155795622014-10-26T17:50:00.001-07:002014-10-26T18:34:46.012-07:00@#$%^$#@#$%^&*(^%#$Today has been a stupid day.<br />
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I am tired and feeling the effects (I think) of the hyperparathyroidism, which include diminished fine motor skills and some cognitive difficulties. This is not helpful at all, seeing as I work with my brain and my hands. They say it all goes away with surgery. I sure hope so, because otherwise I'm slowly grinding to a halt.<br />
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I'm trying to get so much work out to clients, but nothing will attach in email. No matter how small the file. The glorious effects of living in an internet black hole. I need to bill people, but it's impossible if I can't deliver any files because THEY WON'T FREAKING ATTACH.<br />
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Avs lost in overtime. Again. On paper our offense should be explosive. In reality, not so much. YET. (I DO have a sincere pumpkin patch. Maybe the most sincerest.) Sigh. This has been a tremendously depressing hockey season so far. Also, I think the Jets had an illegal force field around their net. <br />
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Was reminded today why I make sure I'm always with my kids. Some people just can't help themselves, no matter how many times they have been expressly told to STOP DOING SOMETHING THAT HURTS PEOPLE. Kids are mad, and now I'm mad, and I am tremendously exhausted by all the times I've been forced to be mad. STILL MAD EVEN THINKING ABOUT IT. (Stupidity or Evil? Why not both?)<br />
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It's become rather inconvenient having to unplug the fridge and plug in the washer every time we need to wash clothes. We either need to stop eating anything refrigerated or start throwing out our clothes when they get dirty. <br />
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Forgot I had another doctor's appointment tomorrow, 45 minutes away, in the middle of the day. (This is that whole cognitive difficulties thing.) Going to doctors 4-5 times a week is really meddling with my freaking work schedule, at the time when I can't really afford it. And by "afford it," I mean I HAVE NO MONEY. I can't work when I'm at the doctors, and I can't bill for the work I have done, because NOTHING WILL ATTACH TO EMAIL.<br />
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In the words of Nathan Fillion as Sheriff Bill Pardy, "My easygoing nature is being sorely fucking tested." Amen.<br />
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Update: files won't even upload if I use Google Docs or Box.com. I'm going to have to trap some carrier pigeons and equip them with snap drives. And some of my clients live very, very far away. Like Europe and Australia. I'm not sure carrier pigeons can even make that trip unless they find a wormhole.<br />
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So, yeah, a little shouty and a little stabby today. Hopefully Walking Dead tonight will be as good as the last two episodes. (LESS EUGENE PLEASE.) When I go to bed tonight, I'm going to erase this day from my memory, and start over fresh. (Does electroshock therapy help with that? With the wiring in the house, I could probably arrange a home treatment for myself. )<br />
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In short *grumble grumble grumble, yell, grumble grumble grumble*<br />
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You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming, which is hopefully not an Avalanche game or an episode of The Walking Dead featuring any Eugene. <br />
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<br />Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-30583854658249504262014-10-23T15:28:00.000-07:002014-10-23T15:28:44.539-07:00Where Every Day Is An Adventure. Man, am I getting tired of being all complainy. I really try hard to look at the positives, which is sometimes quite difficult, being the normally gloomy pessimist that I was born. But things do just keep getting better and better (she said sarcastically).<br />
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Needed labwork yesterday to check on the worrisome hypercalcimia and to make sure my white count, platelet count, and hematocrit weren't taking a dive. Went to the lab bright and early -- well, at 10:00 -- and there was a room full of people. The tech said, "Sorry, Ma'am, we're closed," which seemed odd because there was obviously a room full of people and it was, after all, only 10:00 in the morning. I must have looked non-plussed, because she further explained, "After I see all these clients, I'm closing up." It seemed perfectly normal for me to ask when she would reopen. She replied, "I have no way of knowing, Sometime this afternoon, but you'll have to check back to find out the afternoon hours." This struck me as a very shoddy way to run a business. Still, I had little choice.<br />
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We took fancy take-out lunch to one kid (well, as fancy at Taco Bell gets -- for some reason the kids think it's haute cuisine) because he was having a particularly rough time and I hoped it would make him feel better. Then we walked around Walgreens for 45 minutes, because, why not? We drove back to the lab, found out they would be open again at 1:00, so did defensive driving maneuvers in the parking lot for a half an hour, just in case a zombie apocalypse broke out while we were inside. You never know.<br />
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Blood taken, went home, just in time to go back and start picking up kids. Another day shot! Dropped one kid off at drama and took the other kid to get some Taco Bell for dinner -- important rule: if one kid gets Taco Bell, the other kid must also get Taco Bell within 24 hours or there is a rip in the space/time continuum. Or as Nicky calls it, a rip in the space/time condominium.<br />
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Got kid back from drama, came home, opened the fridge. The fridge was not on. Checked around, found the breaker for that part of the kitchen (stove and fridge) was tripped. Switched it back, it tripped again. Once more, with the same result. Pulled up info from the interwebs which said, "If a tripped breaker immediately trips again, DO NOT TRY TO FLIP IT BACK ON." Oops. Clearly said to call an electrician immediately before your house burns down and you all die. This was alarming. Not as alarming of as the smell of smoke in the hallway, though. It turned out to be from a power strip in the boys' room which was kind of scorched. Yeah, no idea. Unplugged it and threw it away. By this time the alarmed feeling was definitely increasing. Unplugged fridge and stove. Tried to calm kids down. Debated whether we could all fit in the car, along with the dogs and cats, overnight in case the house did decide to burn down. This seemed unworkable. No help from any quarter. Didn't want the food to go bad, so took the extension cord that runs the washer (the laundry room outlet that regularly runs the washer had shorted out about 18 months ago -- and there's also a shorted out outlet in one of the bathrooms -- yes, the house was apparently wired by meth-addled woodchucks and is probably a deathtrap in ways I haven't even considered) and found that if I plugged that in in a different hallway, we could alternate plugging appliances in. So most of the time we'll run the refrigerator off the extension cord, only unplugging it when we have to do laundry. And we can unplug that if we have to plug in the oven, or simply only eat things that can be heated in a microwave or eaten cold.)<br />
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And, yes, you're asking why I haven't called an electrician. Well, like doctors, electricians like to charge for their skills. Unfortunately doctors have already taken up all the money, and there is currently none left over for electricians. (Which is also why we have no working heater in the house -- hoping for a mild winter!) Come to think of it, though, if we lived totally without any utilities for a while, we might be able to afford to choose one item to get repaired! Maybe we can score a reality show about people who live like pioneers, or possibly cavemen! Really, there's opportunity everywhere you look.<br />
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Also, went back to the oncologist today to check yesterday's labwork. My WBC, RBC, Platelets, and Hematocrit all look good. So no expensive Neulasta shots to boost my immune system. Yay! But -- and there's always a but anymore -- the high blood calcium is yet higher and and the parathyroid hormone analyte is also way high The good news is that doesn't indicate any kind of cancer. The bad news is that it does indicate a wonky set of parathyroid glands. This, unfortunately, necessitates seeing an endocrinologist that is located over an hour away (because that's the only endocrinologist anywhere within driving distance that is covered under my insurance). It also means another surgery to remove my parathyroid glands. Yippee! The trifecta. I asked if this was something that needed to be done soon. My oncologist replied, "Well, soon-ish. Within the next two months." I asked because, even though I have already hit my out of pocket insurance limit with copays alone, it's all happened so fast that nothing is showing up on my insurance yet. And being that they won't take my word for it in any fine doctoring establishments that I am currently frequenting, I'm still paying hundreds of dollars in copays every week, with no end in sight. The copay well has run dry. After this week, it will be a choice between copays or eating food or defaulting on all the household bills. I'm supposed to be on a conference call with my insurance company case worker and the benefits department tomorrow to see if we can get all the claims expedited, but, honestly, at this point, I don't hold out much hope. Maybe they'll take an organ in exchange for enough money to pay for the next chemo round. Although I'm starting to get low on the organ front. I think most of the ones I still have left are pretty vital. So we'll see.<br />
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I was recently told that my health problems are "very convenient" and quite burdensome to the delicate sensibilities of certain people. Something about making me too sympathetic for some people's tastes. To which I say: Why, yes, this is all very convenient! Just as I planned it. Muhahahahahahaha. Even I can't understand my own evil genius.<br />
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So there, I groused about it, and now I go forward. I don't think people are bound to feeling sympathetic to me, because as bad as things are, there are tons of people who have it worse. Lots of people who have things that are waaaaay worse. Things I probably couldn't even imagine dealing with. And there are people who suck, and have to live with the fact that they suck, while at least I feel pretty good about myself 90% of the time. (And of course there are people too self-involved to realize how much they suck, but what are you going to do? Live and let live. I'll worry about myself, thanks.) In some respects, I'm quite, quite fortunate, and don't think I'm not grateful for that. <br />
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Message for the day? I don't think I have one. I've expended a lot of words in a lot of different mediums lately -- should that be media? I dunno anymore. And for all I say, a lot of times it just feels like messages in a bottle or scraps thrown into a wind storm. But at least saying things gets them out of my head. It's the only way I have left to deal with things, because every other avenue has been blocked off or bricked over or shunted into another dimension. Every signpost I relied on for the past 20 years to show me the way to safety has been systematically dismantled and burned until there aren't even any ashed left. So maybe the message is, as usual lately, to do your best. Do what you need to get by, to stay sane, to protect yourself and those you love. Sometimes it's a little to much to try to save everyone or help everyone, especially those who see your help as a hindrance (or an evil plan). Do what you can, when you can. Pick your battles. Decided which hill is the one you're bound to die one, the one that is truly worth it, and make that one count. Think good thoughts for those who have it tougher than you, no matter how tough you have it. Because no matter how tough you have it, there's ALWAYS somebody who has it tougher. Understanding that helps you keep your perspective and stalls the little pity-party that sometimes springs up. It's all right to feel sorry for yourself. To feel pissed off. To rail at the unfairness of something. To scream at someone that this, this right here, is the final straw. To want someone to hold you or take your side or just make you feel that everything isn't an unmitigated disaster, to make you feel safe, to tell you everything is going to be okay and make you believe it. But sometimes all you've got is you, and it seems like that's just not going to be enough. So you cry or fall apart a little, or even a lot. And after you've got that out of your system, go forward. There's no other direction that's going to take you anywhere good or anywhere worth being. . Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-13177824332058419432014-10-21T11:27:00.000-07:002014-10-21T11:27:54.451-07:00Victory! Sort Of. So, chemotherapy kind of kicked my ass. Not the first day or the second day. But the third day was pretty brutal. Feeling like crap intensified my pre-existing soul-crushing depression issue. (Health care providers keep asking me if my depression is related to my cancer diagnosis -- which is apparently pretty common -- and I keep telling them, "No, trust me, finding out I had cancer was NOT the worst thing that happened to me this summer." And then I explain the situation and everybody feels bad. Right now I am the opposite of whatever a ray of sunshine is, spreading darkness and gloom wherever I go.)<br />
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So this weekend I mostly tried to make myself eat, vomited repeatedly -- in the parking lot at the SLU homecoming game, once so violently that I vomited blood, every time I thought about ingesting anything -- and randomly burst into tears. It wasn't so much physical nausea as the trauma-induced anorexia I've been fighting with since July, so the anti-nausea meds aren't really helping, because it's mostly in my head. Oh, and the body aches. The heating pad was not large enough to cover everything that hurt. The dogs all got up on the bed and cuddled me, because even as dumb as they are I think the realized how pathetic I was, and that helped some, but still.<br />
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So Monday it was back to my GP, who prescribed a new drug to add to the regimen to help with the anxiety, insomnia, and anorexia. And some great news -- other than the crippling sadness and cancer, I'm really, really healthy! So last night I took the new pill along with my regular anti-depressant, and within an hour I was asleep. I didn't have any disturbing dreams -- in fact I had a rather affirming dream. And I didn't pop awake at 3 AM or 4 AM. I did however sleep through the first and second alarms, and only woke up when it was 10 minutes before the kids had to leave for school. (It seems Nickolas kept helpfully hitting the snooze bar....) But I got lunches and snacks made and got them dressed, kitted up, and brushed and combed in time for them to make it. I went back to bed for a bit, because I was still a little groggy, and didn't get back up till 9:00. So either I've got to take the pill earlier or try cutting it in half. I feel enough like a zombie right now that I don't need any chemical zombie enhancement.<br />
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When I did get up, I managed to go shopping without feeling too nauseous -- even seeing food in the store is a bit too much lately -- and also managed to make three phone calls. Then I managed to eat a chicken strip, a snack cake, and a quart of skim milk. An hour after that, I also had a package of oatmeal/brown sugar/nut granola (thanks to my daughter who is trying desperately to supply me with snacks I can eat) and a cranberry Sprite. And, so far, knock wood, I haven't thrown up! So, yay, me.<br />
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And there was something else I realized this weekend, when I was laying there feeling like hell. Sometimes the only way is through. Sometimes you have to have a whole lot of patience. You definitely have to have a lot of faith. And if you do your best, keep your faith, and try to be true to the things that are most important to you, there is always hope, no matter how hopeless things may temporarily seem. And while it's really tempting to rise to the bait that some people of bad intention throw out, that only sinks you to their level, and there is nothing to be gained there, so it's best to just walk on by and not give them the satisfaction of screwing up the universe any more than they already have. I've been told by several people lately that karma works, sometimes it just works really, really, almost glacially slowly. That there is a righting of things. And while things seem so unworkable and hard and terrifying and heartbreaking right now, in the end I do have complete and utter faith that it's going to be okay. Someone I love very, very, very much once told me that certain things are fate, that there is no explaining them. And sometimes those things that are most important to us become temporarily lost -- through carelessness, through a passing lack of faith, through a web of circumstance that seems impossible to navigate back to through to where you're supposed to be. A lot of people give up, cut their losses, shut down a piece of their heart, and crawl away. But that is not in my nature. And so, despite the transient moments of despair, I will not give up. I will repair whatever needs repairing, do my best to replace anger with love, and always be there for the people who need me, whether they notice it or not. And I won't succeed every day -- in fact, I imagine there will be days that I feel like I can't succeed at all and I'll fall prey to worst things in my nature. But I will remind myself that this too shall pass, and with every setback I'll learn something. And when it comes down to it, I have nothing but time. And with enough love, faith, and time, nothing is truly lost and nothing is impossible. <br />
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So yeah, a chicken strip and some orange juice is a victory of sorts. Getting out of bed and making a phone call is a victory. Helping your kid with a tough piece homework is a victory. Cuddling your kid when he feels like his world has fallen apart and making him believe that things will be better is a victory. Celebrating with your kid when she accomplishes something that seemed so intimidating is a victory. Telling someone how much you love them is a victory. Holding your tongue when you are tempted to say something petty or hurtful is a victory. Remembering the good things in the midst of all the bad is a victory. String enough of those things together, and you've gotten through a day, a week, a month, a year. String enough of those things together and you've gotten back to where you were supposed to be. Be truthful and faithful and do your best to make the world a little better whenever you have the opportunity. Don't beat yourself up when you fail to match up to your own ideals, but try harder next time. Admit when you are wrong, apologize to those you harm or hurt. It's the small victories that will get you through to where you need to be. I know where I need to be, and I'm not stopping until I get there. Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-30002354046856916952014-10-16T17:39:00.000-07:002014-10-16T17:51:33.842-07:00Either This Wallpaper Goes Or I Do So, today was the first chemotherapy session. I entered with a lot of trepidation, and it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it might be. (Portions of this narrative have been redacted to avoid any pearl-clutching or fainting couch usage. Thanks, William Vitka! You're my hero. Fill in the blanks with whatever your heart desires. It'll probably be funnier than what actually happened. Also, remember that the visible length of the redacted portions has little relation to actual length of the un-redacted original, because math is hard and hockey is coming on. So make your answers as elaborate as you like!)<br />
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Woke up this morning at 5:15, gave up on sleep. I've been having really vivid dreams that wake me like a bucket of cold water, both good dreams and bad, bad ones. The other night I had a dream where I found a lovely old Victorian I wanted to buy, but there was already someone in it refusing to leave. A squatter, if you will. Eventually the remaining members of SAMCRO and Raylan Givens and Boyd Crowder came to take care of the problem -- and if you watch those programs you can guess how the problem was taken care of. Let's just say, the person left. Maybe in several pieces. So that was a bad dread that turned into the type of dream that might disturb some people who don't regularly watch the full FX lineup. Do you know why they don't schedule anything important next to Sons of Anarchy? The gunfire is bound to spill over into other timeslots and kill a lot of innocent TV bystanders. So this morning I had a dream about <span style="background-color: red;">REDACTED </span>, which I guess was a good dream, but still left me awake.<br />
<br />
Got kids up and dressed for school. Went and got them up again and told them to brush their teeth. Went and got them up again and told them NOT TO LAY BACK DOWN IN BED. Eventually they were out the door. <span style="background-color: red;">REDACTED</span>, which was nice, and left me in a better mood. Then I went to get some biscuits from Piggly Wiggly, where I noticed they had a case of expired meat. Yay! I came home with six biscuits and $40 worth of expired meat. (For those of you not familiar with the expired meat trade, that's a lot of meat.)<br />
<br />
Finally, at the doctor's. Amazingly on the way there we didn't see any <span style="background-color: red;"> REDACTED</span> which I was beginning to think was unavoidable. So I didn't have to pull out any of my embarrassing "rollin' in my Volvo" moves, which will probably someday get me arrested.<br />
<br />
At the oncologist there was weight (Minus two more pounds since last week, which will make Doctor Davis hit me with her clipboard), blood pressure, temperature and then a visit with Doctor Davis to go over labs. She asked me questions and then gave me a concerned face, the kind of face Doctor Handsome (that's not his real name, but that's how I remember him) gave me whenever he had to talk to me in the hospital and tell me something worrisome. Seems my blood calcium is high -- for those playing at home that's hypercalcemia. She looked back and saw that my blood calcium had been high for quite a while, and wondered why no one had ever mentioned it. I'm thinking with the giant <span style="background-color: red;">REDACTED</span> tumor, they were probably thinking a little extra calcium was the least of my problems. But she said we need to figure out why (bone cancer (highly unlikely) a problem with my parathyroid glands, or good old-fashioned dehydration). She also said that if we can't resolve it, she'll need to refer me to an endocrinologist, at which point the voice in my head went to Bill-Paxton-In-Aliens-Game-Over-Man mode, because if add one more doctor to my posse I will be able to field a freaking baseball team -- not a good one, mind you, unless we can bring Doctor Handsome in as a ringer -- but a team, nevertheless. (And you should hear some things the voice in my head says -- if you get agitated by anything I say, just remember the things that get caught in the filters are so, so much worse and so much more plentiful.)<br />
<br />
Finally it was time for the chemo. Now, I had read up on "what to bring to chemo" so I had a bag with two novels -- both Neil Gaimen, a bottle of water, carmex, socks, a sleeve of Fig Newtons, a Milky Way bar, and a cold Mango Madness Snapple from the Dollar Store, where they always hide one behind the fruit punch and strawberry-kiwi and you have to dig for it. I also brought my squishy pillow in it's festive, happy, dancing Dio des las Meurtes skeletons pillow case and a blanket. They told me to pick a chair so I picked one in the corner, and then the nurse came to hook me up. First, I told her that I was having an allergic reaction to the steri strips and they were itching like crazy, so she pulled a couple of them off in the middle, uncovering some decent-sized blisters. She trimmed the others down to the bare minimum, which helped a lot. Then she cleaned the area with alcohol.<br />
<br />
I screamed. Loudly. I managed not to blurt out any colorful expletives like <span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-color: red;">REDACTED REDACTED</span></span>, which I picked up from The Bridge -- ON FX. (I see a pattern here -- and trust me, you don't want me to say that one out loud.) You know what, if you ever want to go all Jack-Bauer on me, all you need is a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a papercut. The alcohol in that fresh incision hurt like a <span style="background-color: red;">REDACTED</span>. A few rounds of that and I would break like a dry twig. <br />
<br />
Then she put the butterfly needle/valve thing in --which didn't hurt, but felt creepy -- and started the pre-chemo drugs, which take about 20 minutes to infuse. So there I was, and it hadn't been so bad. Then the guy across and down started talking about <span style="background-color: red;">REDACTED</span> and <span style="background-color: red;"><span style="background-color: red;"><span></span></span>REDACTED</span>, which upset me to the point that I did use some choice expletives possibly just within hearing. In my head I immediately dubbed him Racist Gerald McRaney, because he looked like Gerald McRaney (no offense to Gerald McRaney, I was a huge fan of Simon and Simon!) He tried to engage me in conversation at some point, at which time I feigned sleep. Eventually I was no longer feigning, and when I woke up they started 3 hours of Taxol. Note to self: bring headphones, because even if you're not listening to anything, people will still not try to engage you in unacceptable conversations that might cause you to become a little stabby, and will eventually escalate into something untoward. <br />
<br />
So now the lines of chairs were starting to fill up. I was the youngest person in there by about 25 years. I was also the only person in there with hair, which made me feel guilty when I took my scrunchy off and shook out my hair so I could get the tendrils back up, and realized I was swinging my hair around like a girl from a '70s Breck commercial. (Do you remember the Breck Girls? I also remember Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific, which my children refuse to believe is actually a product name, because it just seems like an open invitation to stalkers and pedophiles.) Anyway, it felt kind of like telling an anti-Semetic joke in the Catskills, where everyone just looked at me in silence. I quickly put my hair back up. Anyway, the joke's on me, because all my hair is going to fall out soon anyway. <br />
<br />
Also, everyone in there was dressed like it was a Polka Festival in 1978 Des Moines, Iowa. Very popular were track suits. You know the kind, a little shiny and baggy with white racing stripes and a zippy little jacket, the kind now only worn by white rappers, mid-level Russian mobsters, and elementary school PE teachers who don't realize that 1983 HAS LEFT THE BUILDING. I always think they should hand out an enormous clock necklace with those things. Or at least several gold chains. (Once <span style="background-color: red;"> REDACTED</span> and I went to a wedding reception where there was a cadre of guests in those track suits and we spent an amusing hour mocking them and wondering what failed heist they were going to pull when they left all hopped up on Blue Hawaiian daquiries.) But I digress. Suffice to say that I -- in my scoop neck black tank top, fashionably old Levis, black suede mocs and hoodie -- was positively stylin'. Also, note to others, even Dr. Dre doesn't wear a track suit anymore. Give it up. It is not hip, in fact, it's whatever the opposite of hip is. (Hey, maybe I can get Dr. Dre on my all-doc fantasy baseball team. If I can add Dr. Pepper and Doctor Who -- we'll be unstoppable!)<br />
<br />
Also, I sat lotus style the whole time, even when I slept, because that's how I always sit. Apparently I was bucking the flow there. The lady across from me whispered to nurse about how could I sit like that? She commented that she couldn't even bend her legs like that, let alone sleep. So now everything was falling into the normal rhythm. I was the weird girl in the corner, with all the hair and no track suit, sitting funny, pretending she didn't hear Racist Gerald McRaney trying to start a conversation, nibbling her snooty Fig Newtons and sipping her West Coast Mango Madness Snapple, with her skeleton pillow. Then my son brought me a chocolate malt from Sonic, which I think the woman across from me found a little quease-inducining, in the vain attempt that Doctor Davis wouldn't berate me for not eating. But I ate five Fig Newtons, most of the chocolate malt, half a junior cheeseburger, and my Snapple. So that's a win in my book. I guess I'll save the Milky Way for next time. <br />
<br />
The time came when I decided I was too hot instead of too cold, so I attempted to remove the hoodie. I had not realized that the nurse had taped the infusion line to the hoodie, which led to me wrapping both the hoodie and the infusion line around my head, and trying to signal the nurse with my one free hand to come help me before I pulled the port right out of the not-quite-healed incision, for dog's sake, because now I'm like a toddler who has his underwear on his head and can't quite get the snowsuit on over them. Eventually I was untangled and retaped and all was right with the world. I texted for a couple of hours, which made me realize that I need a full-size keyboard attached to my phone to text adequately, because it took me forever to get all the corrections, especially since the "A" is right next to the Shift, so every letter ends up a capital A, and the BACKSPACE it next to the M, so every M ends up erasing the letter that preceded it. I could always do the thing where I speak into the phone, but then people could hear what I was saying, and nothing good would come of that. Really. But the texting was really good and calming despite the corrections. <span style="background-color: red;">REDACTED</span> It kept me occupied and made me happy. <br />
<br />
The rest of the session was uneventful, and after only 5.5 hours, I was unhooked and allowed to leave racist Gerald McRaney and his track-suited minions behind, with a bright blue Scooby Doo bandaid over the hole in my chest. Luckily it was just in time to get one kid from school and take him to speech, get the other kid from another school and take him shopping for the cookie guts he needs to make two dozen cookies for Robotics class tomorrow, go back and pick up the first kid again, and get home to bake said cookies, finish a science poster, and whatever else I'm sure I forgot. Luckily the older kids have really stepped up and are taking on driving, cookie-baking, and poster-finalizing with only some input from me, so it'll be okay. <br />
<br />
I don't feel too bad, just a lil tired, but the nurse said any bad fatigue and nausea will probably hit Saturday, so there's that to look forward to. Still it's not worse than learning Varly has gone on IR for a non-specific groin injury, the fact that they haven't renewed The Bridge yet, and <span style="background-color: black;"><span style="background-color: red;">REDACTED REDACTED<span style="background-color: red;"><span></span></span></span></span>. Oh, and I think the heater has decided not to participate in warming the house anymore. I think it's in cahoots with the washer, where you have to use a safety pin to pop the button out to make it work. I tell you, watch it, once the appliances become sentient, we're all doomed.......<br />
<br />
And don't get me wrong, especially after today I know how lucky, lucky, lucky I am that this is a temporary blip on my screen. Six months is nothing. I can do six months standing on my head. Well, maybe not actually standing on my head, but you get the idea. I'm Steve McQeen, underneath your radar screen. I'm the Cooler King, Baby, and it's all going to be copasetic. Just a little patience.....<br />
<br />
<br />Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-51590238826509657202014-10-07T20:44:00.003-07:002014-10-07T20:44:36.042-07:00BlarghI'm going to finish my thrilling hospital tale, I promise. I've just been busy rearranging my entire personal and financial life and all that entails, getting back to work, and suddenly having six doctor's and other professional appointments every couple of days. Add the kid stuff, and it's exhausting. So I haven't had much to say that wouldn't just be depressing, and I figure there's enough depressing out there already. I'm trying to regain my sense of humor, but it may be temporarily in hibernation. <br />
<br />
So in the meantime, be kind to each other. Tell someone you love them. Hug your kids, just because. Play a little extra fetch with your dogs. Do something good for yourself that you've been putting off. Time is short, and it goes by so fast -- make those moments count. Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-71265100134991221392014-10-04T21:42:00.000-07:002014-10-04T21:42:01.133-07:0017<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/BOrs-yAteZs" width="420"></iframe><br />Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-37562432459634047892014-09-26T08:32:00.000-07:002014-09-26T08:32:00.722-07:00Friday EarwormI have entered the post-operative stage called "permanent nausea." Doctor says it'll get better...eventually. I should "eat smaller meals," although I don't know how much smaller than "one freezer pop three times a day" I'm going to get. Blargh. Don't get me wrong, I'm tremendously grateful for how well things are going, but still.... <br />
<br />
Before I go barf again, here's the latest song playing constantly in my head. Heard it first on the local college station, and now it's all over in that Levi's ad. Catchy.<br />
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<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/T-K2BohOav8" width="560"></iframe><br />Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-91118523252307495842014-09-24T08:39:00.000-07:002014-09-24T08:39:27.718-07:00The Rumors of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated (Part Deux)(When last we left our plucky heroine --<a href="http://spectralobelisk.blogspot.com/2014/09/the-rumors-of-my-death-have-been.html"> Part I</a> -- she was busy being slapped and wanting to pee, and terribly disappointed at the lack of a Machine That Goes PING. )<br />
<br />
As the afternoon wore on, I spent the time mumbling and pushing The Button. They hooked some more things to me -- enough electrode adhesives that I resembled a hyperactive 3-year-old's sticker booklet, a telemetry machine that apparently did something, but did not go PING. Eventually I was introduced to Dr. Napier, who would be my on-call physician overnight. (Of course the first thing I asked Dr. Napier was if he was related to Charles Napier. He looked at me quizzically. "The Blues Brothers?" I said. "Bob's Country Bunker?" Nothing. I gave up.)<br />
<br />
If you looked up "tall, dark, and handsome" in a dictionary, there would be a picture of Dr. Napier. He was like a cross between the George Clooney and Johnny Depp of on-call physicians. I imagine that Dr. Napier is tremendously popular with all the nurses and patients, even the semi-conscious ones. Hell, maybe even the unconscious ones. When I talked to one of the nurses about something Dr. Napier had said, she replied, "Oh, yes, Dr. Napier, he's really...nice." Emphasizing "nice" in that way that made it clear that Dr. Napier would be even nicer if he'd take his shirt off. But I digress. He seemed very knowledgeable and competent and sharp, which is the important thing. Mostly. <br />
<br />
Dr. Napier took a look at the Foley catheter receptacle and said, "This concerns me." It seems the bag was still mostly empty. If he was concerned, I was concerned. If he had told me they were going to sell me off for medical experimentation, I would have said, "Sure, whatever you want." He then listed a number of steps they would take to address his concerns, something about a bolus of fluids, lasix, and an abdominal CT. He said this all very calmly. They hooked me up to a machine that takes your blood pressure every 10 minutes. After a couple of cycles, he looked even more concerned. "Let's get that CT scan," he said.<br />
<br />
They weren't about to have me try to stand up again after the last fiasco, so in some manner involving a sheet they transferred me to a gurney. I don't remember much of that, except the disconcerting feeling that if they weren't careful my abdomen was going to burst open like a pinata and it wouldn't be candy that would come spilling out. We went through a series of doors and elevators and hallways while the theme music from "Get Smart" played in my head. They has sent me with the assistant-assistant nurse, probably so that if
anything happened to me on the way, they would have plausible
deniability. Finally we ended up at the CT scanner place, which seemed to be somewhere in the bowels of the hospital. It was dark and quiet and soothing, and the scanner was manned by three very pleasant young men in scrubs. <br />
<br />
They transferred me to the Scanner Gurney (or whatever it's called) and ran me through a couple times, telling me to put my arms up over my head and hold my breath. When they seemed satisfied, they stopped. One of the scanner guys asked me to sit up. I said, "I don't think that's a good idea." He said it would only be for a minute. What could it hurt?<br />
<br />
I was right, and it was a very bad idea. As soon as I was upright, I felt an intense wave of nausea. I barely had time to register the thought that, "Boy, am I nauseated," before I projectile vomited all over the CT scanner and the pleasant young man standing next to it. And when I say "projectile vomited," I mean Saturday-Night-Live-Will-Ferrell-Parody projectile vomiting. I mean Linda-Blair-Exorcist projectile vomiting. I mean six-foot-distance-several-quarts-of-fluorescent-yellow-goo projectile vomiting. <br />
<br />
There was a slight pause. Then I vomited again. And again. Everyone was rushing around trying to find something for me to vomit in. First try was a partial cardboard box, which proved inadequate. Then there was something like a plastic sleeve, which proved even less adequate than the cardboard box. Finally somebody emptied some kind of a container full of something that made a clattering noise when it hit the floor. I hope it wasn't expensive. Eventually I stopped vomiting. I apologized profusely to the pleasant young man now covered in fluorescent yellow goo. He said, "Don't worry, it's not the worst thing that's happened to me," but he sounded like he was lying. <br />
<br />
Next thing I remember, I'm back up in my room, and Dr. Napier is still looking concerned. He's also looking very disapprovingly at the numbers on the blood pressure machine. I eventually learned that was because numbers that low are considered "incompatible with life." Yikes. Turns out the CT scan had showed I had a large hematoma in my abdomen that had collapsed my bladder, and that event had followed backward up the chain of command until it was throwing my whole system off. Add to that the fact that I was very probably overly dehydrated when I went into surgery (thanks to the bowel prep stuff I drank on Sunday), and the fact that I had spent 20 minutes vomiting on everything, and it was a perfect storm, but not the kind where William Fitchner has the Southie accent. <br />
<br />
For a while, it was just fluids, blood pressure readouts where they called out numbers like a really boring game of bingo, a parade of phlebotomists tasked to draw blood every hour, and lots of people looking very concerned. At least until the spiders.....<br />
<br />
(This is turning out much longer than I had anticipated. I blame Stephen King. To be continued....)Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-13130065446386967722014-09-23T20:40:00.000-07:002014-09-23T20:40:22.310-07:00The Rumors of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated (Part I)This should be the penultimate of the giant tumor updates, in which I detail the removal of the giant tumor and all that came after it. It's funny now, mainly because I didn't die. What I don't specifically remember, I'm filling in with things other observers have told me. Think of it as a shoddily made documentary related by numerous unreliable narrators.....<br />
<br />
On the morning of the 15th, I went to the hospital, arriving promptly at about 5:30 AM for a scheduled surgery at 7:00. I changed into a gown and handed over my clothes to the SO to be kept in a plastic bag until such time as I might need them again. It was pretty boring for a while, interspersed with some drawing of labs, placing of IVs, etcetera, and a final pass by my doctor, who explained I would not be receiving the robot surgery (BOO!), but would have a full laparotomy because she doubted she'd be able to actually remove the tumor unless I had a HUGE incision. I reluctantly agreed. Then the nurse asked me to hand over my glasses to the SO for safekeeping, and explained she was going to give me a little Versed to relax me. That's the last thing I remember, although I'm told I did say, "I feel a little woozy...." <br />
<br />
Flash forward some hours later -- I'm not sure how many hours, because a lot of Monday is just strobe-lit images and vague sensations, and not a lot was really clear until much later in the day. I'm told I said a lot of nonsensical things, to which I replied, "And how would that be different than any other day?"<br />
<br />
Anyway, at some point I woke up in the room. My mom and oldest son were there, along with a nurse and assistant nurse. (Apparently you get a doctor, a nurse, an assistant nurse and an assistant-assistant nurse assigned to you, which makes you feel special and important until you realize that all of these people will be constantly poking you with various sharp and dull implements for as long as you're there.) It was probably sometime in the early afternoon. I was hooked up to all manner of machines and tubes: oxygen, blood pressure, pulse ox, fluids, pain killer drip, foley catheter. It had taken me longer than anticipated to come out of anesthesia, so there was mild concern and I was being carefully monitored. I asked questions about how the surgery had gone, and then asked those same questions several times more because I immediately forgot what the answers were. Apparently my doctor was "positive" and "upbeat" and "90% sure" that the surgery would take care of the cancer. They had removed cervix/uterus/ovaries/fallopian tubes and, as a special bonus, my appendix. Apparently with this kind of cancer, the appendix acts as some kind sleeper agent, waiting until you're not paying attention and then going all crazy like a mole in an old episode of "24," so it's best to dispense with it early.<br />
<br />
So the surgery was deemed a great success and the hard part was over, now all I had to do was rest, and I might even get released late the next day or early on Wednesday if I could jump through all the pre-release hoops that are set up. You have to perform a number of tricks before they'll let you go, to make sure you're not going to expire in the parking lot and make them look bad. Easy-peasy. I was encouraged to push my painkiller button as often as I wanted to, which I certainly intended to do.<br />
<br />
At some point my daughter arrived, and everybody just camped out waiting for me to do something unintentionally hilarious or embarrassing that they could mock me with later. Be careful what you wish for.<br />
<br />
I was pretty doped up, but I had this terrible sensation of needing to pee. Most of you, especially women who have been pregnant, will understand the extremely uncomfortable, overwhelming desire to empty your bladder. If you are forced to wait, it becomes incredibley painful and nearly unbearable. I didn't want to be a problem, but I finally told the nurse that she needed to do something. She told me not to worry, that sensation was just a sensation, and that there was no way my bladder would become distended because the Foley catheter would take care of that. I heard what she was saying, but the agony in my lower pelvis was not buying it. I became a little agitated. Time went by and I became more agitated. It was getting no better. <br />
<br />
Finally someone looked at the collection bag for the Foley catheter. (I'm assuming nobody had looked at it before.) It was distinctly lacking urine. "Well," the nurse said, in that way that indicates the words following "well" are not going to be good. I'm a little fuzzy on the exact next chain of events, but it involved clearing the room and calling in additional personnel and at my best count, four different people tried 3 different catheters. (I think this has something to do with the lemon-sized dark-purple bruise somewhere very uncomfortable). Whatever occurred, it did not produce a satisfactory result for anyone. I believe I am partially to blame for what happened next, because by that point I was in considerable pain AND was "hopped up on goofballs," as they used to say in the 1950s teen crime dramas, and I may have overtly threatened someone that if I wasn't allowed to pee RIGHT NOW bloodshed would ensue.<br />
<br />
So, against their better judgement and probably out of extreme frustration that my bladder seemed to have adopted a "no catheter" policy, the nurses agreed to help me to the bathroom so that I could actually pee like a normal person. Sitting up in the bed went well, and I think I managed to take an actual step before I uttered the famous last words I had uttered once already that morning: "I feel a little woozy...." That's the last thing I remember until I woke up to this:<br />
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<br />
There were literally doctors and nurses standing on the furniture and spilling out the doorway. Various health care personnel kept slapping me and asking if I was awake. I was very annoyed that so many people kept slapping me and asking me stupid questions. Really, like six different people slapped me, as if I'd opened up a slapping booth at a local fair and was having a two-for-one happy hour -- a slappy hour, if you will. Various crowd estimates have come in so that as best I can figure there were between 15-22 hospital employees shoved into my room in the space of a few minutes. Unbeknownst to me, at the exact moment they had called the rapid response code on me, my SO and the two smaller children had just stepped off the elevator to visit. This apparently led to some consternation, especially on the part of the 9-year-old, who burst into tears, causing his sister to burst into tears. Or so I'm told. I was busy being slapped. At one point I distinctly remember requesting "The machine that goes PING," and being upset that no one laughed. At that point I was only talking in movie quotes, which may have made them worry I was not getting enough oxygen. Other than that, I was semi-conscious, which is probably good because at some point someone put in another Foley catheter, and I'm sure there was a sternly-worded admonition not to get up to any further shenanigans. Time passed, slapping me lost its novelty, and most everyone shuffled out to find entertainment elsewhere. Which is a shame, because that was only the opening act.....<br />
<br />
(To Be Continued, because I can only sit in the desk chair for so long before I need a pill to combat the numerous throbbing bruises....)<br />
<br />Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-45191498070306303882014-09-11T20:30:00.000-07:002014-09-11T20:30:04.324-07:00Friday Earworm -- Just a Tad EarlyBeen working like a dog. Well, not my dogs. They mostly lay on the bed, unless the ice maker goes off, and then they run to defend me, barking furiously.<br />
<br />
Here's the earworm around our house right now, and the song we sing really loudly in the car. (Well, when I get the boys to stop singing Billy Joel -- today it was "Moving Out.")<br />
<br />
Meghan Trainor is pretty adorable. Dare you not to dance.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/7PCkvCPvDXk" width="560"></iframe><br />Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-67844117811814501952014-09-09T11:24:00.000-07:002014-09-09T11:24:21.207-07:00Seriously?Pre-op check-in went fine. I guess. My EKG was good, and they took more blood, nose swabs, and a chest x-ray. They have a nifty red binder all about me, so hopefully I won't wake up missing a kidney instead a large, creepy mass. I will say that every healthcare professional I have dealt with since I first went to a GP to treat my depression about five weeks ago (and this whole merry-go-round started) has been really good.<br />
<br />
Various people spent various length of time telling me various things, like I can't take a bath after Friday -- showers only. Chicken noodle soup is NOT the same thing as clear broth. They were going to try to make me drink apple juice, but relented when I insisted on cranberry. Blah, blah, blah. Paperwork.<br />
<br />
Finally after about 3 hours of being shuffled from one cube to another, I was released, and got on the highway to come back to town.<br />
<br />
Anybody who wants to guess what happened next may form a polite line and raise their hand.<br />
<br />
The clutch on the Vibe started to slip. Not on every gear, just third and fifth. And not all the time. It only did it every time I decided it wasn't going to do it again and was just an aberration. (If you would care to read more of my adventures with the Vibe, see this post --<br />
<br />
<a href="http://spectralobelisk.blogspot.com/2011/01/bad-vibrations.html#links">http://spectralobelisk.blogspot.com/2011/01/bad-vibrations.html#links</a><br />
Some have said it's one of my finest rants.)<br />
<br />
I was near a panic attack when I pulled into the Sonic to get a drink. I might have freaked the girl who bought the tray out just a little, because by the time the order was up, I was really crying.<br />
<br />
Because, seriously, that's exactly what I need at this exact moment. I really, really need the car to break down, necessitating a costly repair that I REALLY can't afford since A) I just had to find a small fortune to pay my medical bills, and B) I'm supposed to be taking a week or two off work after surgery. (And the bad thing about being your own boss is that there is no one to pay you when you don't work....)<br />
<br />
So, seriously, whoever is in charge of handing out catastrophes, FUCK YOU. I'm going to find where you live, and when I do, I will not be playing anymore. I. WILL. NOT. BE. PLAYING.<br />
<br />
I'm calmer now, and I suppose I will deal with this when I have to, just like I've dealt with all the other bullshit that has been shoveled my way this summer. Because I'm not stopping now. Nope. Although I don't promise I won't come out of surgery, put on a serape and start roaming the countryside seeking vengeance like The Man With No Name. Or put on a track suit and some Tiger tennies, and grab a samurai sword. No, I don't promise that at all. <br />
<br />
And with those pleasant thoughts, I will leave you with a one of my favorite movie clips of all time. (Coincidentally from the director who brought you the awesome Guardians of the Galaxy). As it usually does, this pretty much sums up my innermost thoughts and feelings. Enjoy.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/nr56yZbzkZ0" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-48270425354187729872014-09-08T22:05:00.000-07:002014-09-08T23:35:56.257-07:00I Wanna Get Better It's been a rough couple of weeks. There has been some good news, some bad news, and some things that are unclassifiable because they're just so far outside of what you expect to happen that there is really no way to handle them or even fully process them. <br />
<br />
Tomorrow I go for my pre-op check-in. I've been informed of the costs I will incur to have the cancer cut out of me, and I've found a way to pay for it. I have some trepidation about the surgery, because I don't know exactly what they're going to do or exactly what they're going to find. It could be great news and it could be dire news. But I am eager to have it over with. By noon on Monday, I expect to know my final prognosis.<br />
<br />
I did not think a few months ago that at this point of my existence I would be at a terrifying, life-altering crossroads, and that I would be standing at the crossroads alone. And I know I'm not totally alone. I have my mom, my brother and sister-in-law, my kids, my friends -- both my RL friends and my on-line friends, clients, and fellow writers. And I am grateful beyond words to all the people who have been so wonderful and supportive during the darkest period of my life. Still, inside my heart, I am alone. <br />
<br />
I understand now what has happened, and have a name for the thing. That gives me a certain power, because the naming of things is powerful. It has allowed me to let go of the concepts of blame and regret, because those are useless and only cause more harm in a situation that has harmed everyone enough. I know now that what happened had nothing to do with me, and there is nothing I could have done to prevent it. There is nothing I can do now to change it, although I'm told that it changes on its own, given time. But the important thing is that I can't count on the change or when it will come, I can only get on with my life. I know that the reason there is such hatred for me at the moment is because there was such love for me for so long and I am so fortunate to have had that, because love like that is not guaranteed to anyone. Even knowing what I know now, I would not change one moment of the joy and love I have known. I know that the worst aspects of the situation will burn themselves out, sooner or later, because that's the only future of things born of bitterness, fear, confusion, and sorrow. There is an abstract comfort in knowing how the most troublesome aspects will end, but sometimes abstract comfort is no comfort at all.<br />
<br />
I have found some peace with what has happened. But it is a delicate and uneasy peace, and sometimes it seems to dearly cost me. Sometimes it is so damn hard. <br />
<br />
One of my favorite bits of poetry is an American proverb:<br />
<br />
For every evil under the sun,<br />
There is a cure or there is none.<br />
If there is one, then find it.<br />
If there is none, then never mind it.<br />
<br />
I would give almost anything I have or will have to have the person I love most in this world return for just one day, the one day that seems the fulcrum on which my past and future balance. I feel I am owed that by fate, but some debts are never paid, and we grow old and bitter waiting for recompense.<br />
<br />
Still, my love is bruised, but undiminished. I will lock it away and keep it
safe, in case it's ever needed again. I will be faithful. I will be
forgiving. I will try and repair the things in me that need repairing,
and hope that the rest takes care of itself. I will try and be generous
in thought and deed, and charitable to those who need care. If the phone rings in the middle of the night, I will pick it up and I will listen. I will
stumble and I will fall short, but I will be strong and true, and never
give up.<br />
<br />
I am leaving my bitterness behind me. I will find the cure for the things I can cure, and never mind the things I can't. I will tell myself this when I am alone in the dark, or when I feel a cresting wave of despair or anger. I will tell myself this when I am faced with the memory of what is lost, and the fear the future holds. I will tell myself this when I am in a situation where grace is the only thing that will serve me. I will tell myself this when the people who would harm me seem so callous or careless that I feel I will break into pieces. I will tell myself this when I do what I know is right, regardless of what it costs me.<br />
<br />
I will tell myself this until I believe it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-24561278917825963802014-09-05T12:04:00.001-07:002014-09-05T14:12:09.387-07:00Random Thoughts 9.5.14(Disclaimer -- these random thoughts are all my own. Therefore they may occasionally be totally nonsensical. But I swear there are no secret codes contained in anything that could conceivably fuel any conspiracy theories. They should not be taken out of context, despite the fact there is no context. And I do not know the Yellow King and have never been to Carcosa. You may proceed.) <br />
<br />
I forgot how good listening to Al Green makes you feel.<br />
<br />
Binge watching FX's Fargo this week. It's awesomely bizarre and darkly hilarious. Not least because there are several characters named Knutson. How about some hot dish, eh?<br />
<br />
I've been watching videos of robotic abdominal surgery, since that might be what I'm getting next week. This is both awesome and a little scary, because the robot looks like a giant gleaming spider covered in plastic. I imagine somewhere in my brain that image is being filed away to be produced in some far less appealing context in the middle of the night.<br />
<br />
If I could teach the cats to answer my emails, I would be roughly 150% more productive. <br />
<br />
Although it is annoying, it's also funny when someone parses my every utterance to see if I've said something to upset them. Of course, even if I didn't, they'd make something up. But, still, the power of words, baby! Apparently I have the most awesomely terrifying intellect in the country. I wish that paid better. <br />
<br />
Kids told me last night that Orlando Bloom punched Justin Bieber. I'd buy that for a dollar. <br />
<br />
Do the people on Facebook know that if they comment on somebody else's post that it will show up on the timeline of anyone they're friends with, even if the original poster is not friends with them? I don't think everyone does. Or else the world would be a much less interesting place....<br />
<br />
Speaking of Facebook, you know how they have Throwback Thursday? I think they should institute Fuck You Friday, where you're allowed to grouse about anyone who is currently pissing you off. And then they can't get mad at you, because it's, like, a meme. <br />
<br />
(Warning -- The Bridge spoilers ahead. Skip to the next paragraph if you did not watch this week's episode) Watched The Bridge this week (did I mention how much I love that show?) I was tremendously upset that Fausto Galvan's men shot both Cesar and Hank, although apparently neither Cesar or Hank is dead yet. DO NOT KILL CESAR OR HANK. Also, too, despite the fact that Marco saved her at the last minute from either being shot by a contract killer, bitten by a rattlesnake, or dying of heat prostration (depending on which came first) Sonja is still disappointed in Marco. Because Sonja is disappointed by everything and everyone. Soon Sonja will run out of people on the show to be disappointed in and will break the fourth wall and be disappointed in random viewers. Mark my words, it's coming. <br />
<br />
Three (three!) days without a panic attack. I'm thinking about making a workplace-injury type of sign to post by my desk.<br />
<br />
The new trailer for Sons of Anarchy is insane. And adds to my belief that everyone on the show will be dead by around episode seven and the remaining episodes will just be a live cam of Kurt Sutter snoozing in a hammock or sipping a drink with a little umbrella in it. <br />
<br />
It is very annoying that, due to the fact that I live in an Internet black hole, I can't play a YouTube video and attach a file to email at the same time. The wonders of technology (she said sarcastically).<br />
<br />
Maybe I should add (she said sarcastically) to everything I say. <br />
<br />
Certain things are not a good look on certain people. Said people rarely recognize this, and hence are unaware of the people either quietly laughing or sadly shaking their heads behind certain people's backs. But pretty soon everyone is thinking the same thing, and they tell you they're thinking the same thing, because it's too much not to share, and then it stops being pathetic and starts being really funny. <br />
<br />
Kids believe that I have bought so much almost-expired meat from the Piggly-Wiggly bargain bin that we are all now immune to any zombie virus that might pop up. <br />
<br />
I feel a little guilty, but, yes, it is satisfying when you find incontrovertible proof that someone is as dumb as you thought they were. <br />
<br />
Nicky's joke from last night: "You know if you go to jail in Canada, they only feed you maple syrup. No waffles." Of course it was much more adorable and hilarious if you saw him say it. <br />
<br />
While I would not recommend my weight loss regimen of stunning heartbreak and cancer diagnosis, I have lost 40 pounds in two months and this morning drove the kids to school wearing my next, next smallest pair of jeans. At this rate, by Halloween I'll weigh less than when I started high school. Oh, and I have a great idea for a costume, but don't know if I have the guts to do it. But it would be hilarious.<br />
<br />
I imagine all my random thoughts are being said in a Jack Handy voice. <br />
<br />
I think I may be entering a manic phase of manic depression. I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing. Or perhaps the result of the anti-depressants I'm taking interacting with the almost-expired meat I've been eating. Maybe soon I will exhibit another superpower besides sarcasm. <br />
<br />
There is a great relief in knowing that a wide sampling of people you talk to share your opinion about something contentious. It makes you feel like you're not crazy or unreasonable, even when that accusation has been thrown around. Repeatedly. <br />
<br />
I still do not know who all the Russian visitors to my blog are. If you are a Russian visitor to my blog, please leave a comment. Although you probably shouldn't leave it in Russian, because I can't read Russian. (Or as Yakov Smirnoff would say, "In Russia, comment leaves you!) Seriously, despite the whole Putin thing, I love Russians. So, say hi or something. <br />
<br />
Cankles will never go away, no matter how much you exercise. Luckily I was genetically blessed with the feet and ankles of a foot model. So I have that going for me. <br />
<br />
Okay, I have run out of things to say. Until I post this. Then I will immediately think of something else. Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-47054065673688408552014-09-04T07:59:00.000-07:002014-09-04T08:08:08.764-07:00Yes, I Suffer From Clinical DepressionYou ever have that feeling that you're stuck in limbo, like maybe you're in some hyper-realistic dream that should end at any moment, and you'll wake up and everything will be normal and mundane and you'll kind of laugh to yourself about the crazy thoughts that must have bubbled up from your subconscious? But it would be a nervous laugh, because sometimes the lines get really thin and move unexpectedly and you end up in uncharted territory, and you don't wake up, you never wake up, and eventually that surreal, dream-like feeling of unease, of holding-your-breath-waiting-for-things-to-be-okay is all you have.<br />
<br />
Sometimes the things you know with absolute certainty turn out to be untrue. Sometimes the people closest to you turn into strangers. Sometimes you are weighted down with a knowledge or a burden or a bright slice of pain that feels like a weight you can't find a way to be free of, something tethered to you so fast that you'll never become untangled from it before it takes you down where the light doesn't shine and you drown.<br />
<br />
Jeez, but that sound morose. Which doesn't make it any less real. Today is the National Alliance on Mental Illness Day of Action. A commenter on a blog I frequent put out a call for people to spread the word.<br />
<br />
So, let me tell you something. I suffer from Clinical Depression and Adjustment Anxiety Disorder. It's relatively new to me, just a couple of months. Of course time has become frustratingly elastic and those months seem impossibly long, with the time ahead seeming impossibly longer still. Right now I'm not seeing any light at the end of the tunnel, even though I keep trying to squint hard enough to make it out. People tell me it's there. Sometimes I even believe it's there. Most times, though, it is all pain and darkness, and dragging myself from one minute to the next, distracting myself with work, with helping the kids, with doing the everyday things that need to be done for us to keep functioning.<br />
<br />
I'm seeing a doctor and a therapist. I'm taking an anti-depressant and I have something to take when the acute panic attacks blot out everything but the pain and I squeeze my eyes shut so hard because I just can't stand to look at anything, because everything is bad and wrong and agonizing and impossible to bear even one second longer. The feeling passes, but the specter of it hovers over me often, and I feel the beginnings of it creeping toward me, and I never know what might set it off again, because my world is full right now of hidden pits filled with sharp sticks, so well-hidden that I can't always see them and then suddenly I am falling. <br />
<br />
The story of how I got here doesn't really matter much. Some people know some of it. A few people know all of it. In short, something really awful happened -- unbelievably awful -- which was quickly followed up by something else slightly less awful. And neither of these were just events -- like the unexpected death of someone you love, or a singular traumatic occurrence. These are ongoing things that I'm carefully trying to negotiate, sometimes with people who are not negotiating in good faith with me. So each day brings something new and hurtful and callous and unexpected. I suspect I am becoming somewhat numb, because numbness may be all that's left as my defense. I suspect that someday I'll just write it all out, every bit of it, because I'll have nothing left to lose, and keeping it inside may be part of what is poisoning me.<br />
<br />
Someday I may get better.<br />
<br />
Why am I saying any of this today? Because, like so many "unpleasant" things, depression and other forms of mental illness are kept in the shadows. Lied about and covered up. Ignored. Looked down upon. Too much for certain people to deal with, and so they abandon those who need them most. I had a specific life experience that led to my depression, but many people don't have something that they can point to -- it just is.<br />
<br />
And if you are feeling that way, or know someone who is, you are not alone. It is not your fault. Keep trying to help yourself, in whatever way you can. Seek out others who can help you. Don't be afraid to be open and tell people how you feel and what you need. Don't give up.<br />
<br />
Someday you may get better. <br />
<br />
Don't give up.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://act4mentalhealth.tumblr.com/about?utm_source=September+2014&utm_campaign=July2014+Newsletter&utm_medium=email">For more information about NAMI and #act4mental health click here</a><br />
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<br />Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-74113034183740712692014-09-03T06:27:00.000-07:002014-09-03T08:08:55.237-07:00Random Thoughts (Now with more Harvey Specter) + HOCKEYThis is the best website I've found lately. Just a simple thing.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.howmanydaysuntilhockey.com/">How Many Days Until Hockey</a><br />
<br />
Which will tell you how many days until opening day, how many days until preseason, and if you choose a team, how many days until certain events for that team. This is helpful because I often forget what day and, occasionally, what month it is. And if you're interested, right now it's 35 Days Until Hockey, or more importantly 36 Days Until the First Avalanche Game. <br />
<br />
<br />
Just finished binge watching <i>Rectify</i> on the Sundance channel. If you haven't seen it, you really should. Watched the Season Two finale last night, and found that I was actually holding my breath for the last couple of minutes of Daniel's "debrief." It was mesmerizing. Admittedly, it not the feel-good show of the season, but it's a really elegant, gorgeous, well-acted thing. Thankfully it's been renewed for Season Three, because it was a real cliffhanger, with all the little plot threads from the past two seasons suddenly woven into what feels like a noose. Also, it's got to have the most interesting and apropos soundtrack of any show on television, which is saying something. <br />
<br />
I am still pissed off that Rick Hoffman did not get even an Emmy nomination for his role of Louis Litt in <i>Suits. </i>And if I could figure out how to do it, I would have Gabriel Macht as Harvey Specter saying "What have you done?" as my ringtone for every single incoming call. It's got just the right note of incredulous exasperation that is so, so familiar.<br />
<br />
Speaking of TV: <i>The Bridge</i> is a show I would watch every single day. I especially enjoyed Mexican drug lord Fausto Galvan's "Have you ever been to Norway? The fjords look relaxing." I think I'm going to make a t-shirt logo for that. And I'll have to find a recipe for Monte P. Flaggman's (Lyle Lovett's) three-bean casserole. The show is actually bursting with so much really bizarre yet somehow compelling STUFF, that it's hard to focus on any one thing.<br />
<br />
The kids and I are also enjoying <i>The Strain</i>, especially Kevin Durand as Vasily Fet, the Russian exterminator, and the always excellent David Bradley (<i>Broadchurch</i> and <i>Game of Thrones</i>) as Abraham Setrakian, who knows everything about the creatures. Of course he keeps telling the hapless CDC protagonists what he knows and they keep not believing him, because they are idiots. And so he says, kind of in the Harvey-Specter-exasperated-tone, "I've been right about everything so far, so why do you stupid people not believe me?" The stupid people have no answer for that, because they are stupid. I feel his pain. <br />
<br />
Excited that <i>Sons of Anarchy</i> starts next week, but sad that there's only 13 episodes left. Of course at the rate that Kurt Sutter kills off characters, we may just be looking at an empty chair by the time the last episode rolls around. And, really, after last season, I'm wondering what bit of envelope there is left to push. I am very happy that we'll see the return of Venus Van Dam, because Walton Goggins is maybe the best thing on TV.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
Not TV-related: Pete is the worst cat in the world. He is the cat that, if he feels you are not paying attention to him, will jump on the highest shelf and begin batting down whatever looks breakable. He will also perch on the back of my desk chair and bite my head if his food bowl is empty. But he is extra soft to make up for the extra evil.<br />
<br />
My comma splices are a style choice. So sue me. <br />
<br />
Some people make other people worse people just by being in proximity to them. They're like plague carriers. The terrible thing is, these people often seem like perfectly nice people until you scrape away the surface and see the ugly stuff that lies beneath. Like Twinkies filled with poison fungus instead of cream filling. But there are always people who only see the spongy outer cake covering, either because they are invested in only seeing the outer spongy cake covering, or because they just haven't really bit down hard enough yet. There should be a warning label, or maybe if you get close enough, a Harvey Specter voice intoning the dire consequences of allowing these people near you. In fact, Harvey Specter should just narrate everything.<br />
<br />
In closing, if you are having a bad day, think to yourself, "What Would Harvey Specter Do?" Or maybe visit Norway. I hear the fjords are relaxing. Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7794312414707965734.post-25488959857522592022014-09-02T17:27:00.000-07:002014-09-02T17:27:12.974-07:00Giant Tumor Update and Rant of the DayToday was another one of those days. You ever get blamed for something you didn't do, or were even aware of? It's exhausting. And maybe you start to think, "Hey, if I'm getting blamed, I might as well get some satisfaction by actually doing something." But then someone will see you had that thought and then preemptively blame you for something that hasn't even occurred yet. (Oh, yes, I'm being blamed for things that will happen in the future, because I'm actually the first female Doctor and I've disguised my TARDIS as a desk chair.) So I guess there is no winning. And you know what, I'm so freaking tired from working 14-hour days and dealing with anxiety attacks and dealing with the kids' anxiety attacks and having this giant freaking tumor that I don't have time for half the shenanigans someone would blame me for anyway. And so I say to all the special snowflakes out there: there are things in the universe that do not pertain to you and, in fact, have nothing to do with you, regardless of how earnestly you believe that everything revolves around your very, very special snowflakeness. YOU. ARE. JUST. NOT. THAT. IMPORTANT. /end rant<br />
<br />
Now that that's out of the way. I saw the oncologist today -- and I really, really like her. Both the tests for cancer markers (CA 125 and HEP4) came back within normal range, and although the tumor is a complex cyst, it's possible that the nodules are confined to the inside of the capsule since there's no outright evidence that the cancer has spread. She said that bigger means it's more likely to be benign or low-malignancy, because if it was a carcinoma this large there would likely be other areas of obvious cancer. She also said that radiologists love to jump the gun and she would smack the radiologist who read my CT in the head if she every met him/her. <br />
<br />
So tomorrow I'll set up surgery for some time next week, at which point they will scoop out anything I'm not using anymore. There's a chance they'll be able to do the surgery with endoscopy and a robot -- which would be really cool, and also not nearly as invasive, but it's a long shot. I'll probably still have to have a full laporotomy. So I've consented to both procedures and she'll decide once she does the endoscopy. They'll see if it's malignant during the surgery, and if so, stage the cancer and do biopsies on whatever organs and lymph nodes are handy. But there's fair chance it may be benign or an enclosed low-malignancy cancer that will be cured just by removal. So that's what I'll go in thinking.<br />
<br />
And for all my writer friends -- I've stocked up on books for my hospital/bed rest: the Stephen King JFK time travel book (which is huge and I can't be bothered to remember the actual title right now), the new Jonathan Kellerman, two James Lee Burke Dave Robichaux novels that I somehow missed, and Neverwhere and American Gods by Neil Gaiman, which are books I was meaning to read anyway. So I shall be in fine company, even if I end up alone.<br />
<br />
That's all the news that's fit to print and probably more than most people wanted to know about the bad Lifetime movie my life has become. And now I have to go back to work, because I still have 20 client projects unfinished that need to BE finished before I hit the hospital, and those 14-hour days don't work themselves. <br />
<br />
Thanks again to everyone who has been so swell and supportive during the recent troubles. It means more than I can say. <br />
<br />
Keri Knutsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04346851320878170235noreply@blogger.com4