Revealed in stillness...

Tuesday, after blogging, I spent the evening hours mostly napping because working on the front steps (oh, how I wish they were finished!) felled me.  I have been so bloody exhausted and my arms in such pain.

Wednesday, after sleeping until late afternoon, Amos and I enjoyed the airing porch for a couple of hours, whilst there was a break in the rain.  The upper roof overhang allows a space to keep the cushion dry, and I used a towel to wipe down the steamer lounge chair.  When it began to rain again, I went ahead and folded the chair up against the house, but I think I won't worry about doing that often.  Maybe when it snows.

It was a bit nippy outside, but I bundled up in hat, scarf, and gloves and then used a quilt on my legs, so Amos had a soft spot to curl upon.  You can't see them, but I'm wearing my braids.  BLISS.

Yesterday, I went ahead and screwed together the firewood rack, since it has only had the pieces all slipped together (though I do need Firewood Man's drill to finish driving in the screws).  I am hoping to have it filled in the next few weeks ... whenever Firewood Man is well again.  Lord have mercy upon him.

I also added the larger furniture slides to the stand-alone closet in the basement living space to raise it up off the floor a half inch (the ones I bought when I bought the table legs), which involved slowly lowering the heavy thing to the floor so I could access its bottom.  I finished editing a newsletter and started a draft of an eBlast for my bartering partner.  I emptied the dishwasher.  I studiously avoided polishing the silver.  And I napped ... twice.

I had that spate of activity because I grow distressed and despairing when I am so exhausted that even the thought of moving is too overwhelming.  The worst is when my legs do not work well, especially my right knee.  [I've had to wear my brace for several days now.]  That's when I know I've gotten myself in trouble.  Still, I wanted some productivity.

Last night, I went back out to the airing porch, since all I could do was huddle with Amos whist streaming something.  I watched Captain America and The Avengers.  I do not watch cartoons or animated movies.  I thought the Marvel movies were not anything I'd be interested in watching.  But I have been watching the Marvel's Agents of Shield television series and was curious about the back story I've obviously missed.  Captain America was soooooooo sad.  To me, it was.

Being rather nauseous, I nibbled on saltines and sipped Ginger Ale.  Doing the latter, made me need to go inside and tend to my own business.  However, I couldn't get the new latch on the screen door to open.  With my need becoming most dire, I started to panic.  I couldn't ask my neighbor to come rescue me, because I lock both the front and back doors when I am up on the airing porch and she didn't have keys.  [She does now.]  And I knew that she didn't have a ladder.  The windows in the solarium are all covered in storm windows.  So, the only way to recuse myself that I could think of was to try and break through the screen panel of the door (one panel is glass).  But the door to the airing porch is smaller and so the storm door, though rather aged, would be a special order (which means lots and lots and lots of extra money).

In a panic, I finally called Firewood Man, to see if he had any ideas about how to jiggle the new latch open.  With him laughing at me on the phone (I forgave him that) just touching the door to attempt his suggestion caused it to swing open.  It was a blooming miracle.  There I was, stuck for more than half an hour, not wanting to just go ahead and wet my pants because the decking had not been sealed yet, and a mere phone call to Tim makes it magically open.

SIGH.

Watching YouTube videos trying to figure out how to use a spray bottle to figure out if the pressure treated wood was dry enough was such a failure.  Then, in the middle of the night last night, I woke finally remembering why it was I was keeping those pieces of wood on the airing porch.  I fetched one of the pieces of deck board, stumbled to the basement, slapped on a single coat of sealer, and went back to bed.  When I woke for fresh ice packs and to feed Amos at 6:30 AM, I saw that the sealer had been absorbed. Having already checked my weather app, I already knew I had a 12-hour window of no rain ahead of me and the temperature high enough for application.  I had a mission.

At 10:45 AM, I rolled out of bed and slapped on (carefully applied) two coats of sealer to the airing porch decking.  Given how dry it was about two hours after I finally finished, I think I should have applied a third coat, but I don't mind doing this again next year if need be.  Now, I'm covered if Amos or I have any "accidents" out there.

[Please ignore the heavy patch about a quarter of the way from the far end marching across the boards.]

Last week, when I was working on applying the sealer to the underside of the table, I shook up the can not knowing that I had forgotten to hammer the lid tight the night before.  I wept.  I wept over having to clean up the mess (and damaging the carpet) and I wept over the fact that six months I would never have failed to properly close the can.

Today, when I was working on applying the sealer to the airing porch deck boards, I knocked over the  full can of sealer I had just opened.  All over me, my small plastic drop cloth, and over the boards.  I wept.  I wept over having to clean up another mess and I wept over how clumsy I've become.  Part of the cleaning up meant pulling off my hoodie, pants, and socks and tossing them over the railing—Firewood Man was constantly tossing things over the railing whilst he was working up there—and finishing the job in just my t-shirt and bike shorts.

[Yes, my feet turned terribly blue before I finished.]

Next week there is a window (currently) of two days of temperatures in the paint application range and no rain in the forecast.  It is my most fervent hope that that window remains as it is and that I can figure out a way to paint the railing by sticking my hands through the balusters to get at the back side.  [I don't think I should be up on a ladder trying to paint.]  I plan to use the bonding primer, which cures in 45 minutes and then two coats of that special stair/deck paint I discovered in the white that matches the garage.

Firewood Man had an impacted tooth, the infection from which has killed off three of his teeth or the roots.  Sadly, this is the second time this has happened to such a merciful young man.  Because of the cost of sedation alone to have those three teeth pulled is so much and because he will have to have two additional teeth pulled (ones that will no longer remain in place without the bad teeth) when the dental appliance being made is finished, which means more sedation, Tim is living with the deadened teeth until everything can be done at once.  Antibiotics, pain meds, and misery is why there's been no more work on my back porch.

Not to be political, but this is still considered a dental problem, so even though he's being treated by an oral surgeon, so his insurance is not covering anything, not even the medications.  I cannot fathom what it is like to be so young and to be loosing your teeth like that, but to also have to go into deep debt just to get well ... I ache for him.  And, frankly, what IDIOT thinks that healthy teeth are not part of medical health???

Tonight, he texted to see if I was out on the airing porch again, so I told him about sealing it.  He immediately knew why I jumped on that task.  And twitted me.  And laughed.  Then he said that some of the pain was better because the nerves are dead or something like that.  So, if the weather holds and the surgery is not scheduled, he was going to try and come over here next week.

I really, really, really want Firewood Man to finish.
I really, really, really want Firewood Man stay home and rest up for round 1,001 of his dental ordeal.

Meanwhile, I'll be resting up to try and tackle painting the railing.  And avoiding polishing the silver.  And avoiding fetching and applying the third can of paint stripper to the front steps.

And I'll be recovering from the trauma of finding this GINORMOUS BEAST on my garage.  This would be a beloved companion to my friend Celia.  To me, it is something to be ... brought to an early demise.  Only it's far, far, far too large for me to approach.

[Please ignore the peeling paint.  That is going to be scraped, primed, and painted some time in the future my someone not me.  Somehow.  Some way.]

All that time on the airing porch has me thinking that I should put tiny legs on the wine crate to raise it up a bit.  Of course, then I have fantasies about pulling down some plywood from the garage rafters, cutting out a rectangle, then buying two sheets of those tiny mosaic tiles and make a top for the box.  Wouldn't that be cool to have a crafty sort of side table up there ... one high enough to put the computer on so I didn't have to hold it whilst streaming shows and movies???  Of course, not being a crafty sort of person, I would totally need someone else to make the table top.

I did go down to the utility closet and pick amongst the remaining baskets one to carry things out on the porch.  You see, I need a quilt and ice packs and my phone and my computer and something to drink and a Baby and a chew bone for Amos.  Getting ready to hang out up there is exhausting, but actually lounging up in the fresh air instead of being inside all the time has been mostly lovely.

That basket makes things easier.
Sometimes I marvel at just how many things are different in my home to make things easier.
So many patterns and specific places and signs and alarms and lists and instructions and sundry helps.

SIGH.

I do have a fearful fluff ball puppy dog who makes my life better, if not easier.  So accommodating is he.  Do you think he needs a scarf and hat, too, if he's going to be keeping me company on the airing porch??

I have been, to be honest, struggling rather mightily ever since that wretched non-evaluation appointment with that wretched neurologist.  Today's post from my favorite Dysautonomia blog (the one I received via email) talked a bit about being felled by a medical appointment.  Wretched medical appointments really ought to be a symptom of Dysautonomia, so common the experience.  I was a tad heartened to be reminded, once again, what large company I'm in with regard to the trials and travails of Dysautonomia.  Perhaps not so much in Fort Wayne, but world wide.

I was unaware of just how overwhelmed I've been by a maelstrom of disappointment and frustration with myself over getting my hopes up.  For I did that.  I looked up the most common medications for memory loss and checked out both my current formulary and the one for next year.  Three are covered, two as generics.  I could have started getting some help with the forgetting for a mere $10 a month.  I was most certain the medication would be expensive like Theophylline or Celebrex, and, therefore, out of my reach.  When I discovered taking the medically was financially possible, I started to hope.  Even though I know better.

And his ... blatant dismissal of me, his disregard ... well, that hurt.  Deeply.

It was when I was still—the stillness that comes from doing something like slowly swiping a brush back and forth across wood whilst sealing it, the stillness that shuts out the world at large and the world within—that I realized just how distressed I've been.  I could have done without the spilling of sealer and (once more) stripping off clothing whilst out of doors, but I am thankful for being locked out last light.  Thankful for a window of opportunity in the weather.  Thankful to have work that quieted my being.  Even if I do not know how to ease the distress, I think it is helpful to realize what was at the center of my mind when all else fell away.

You know, I was warned not to take the tilt table test, the results of which were in the medicals records I brought to the appointment, the results of which were in the medical records he had access to before my appointment.  I was warned not to take it.  Sharply.  Harshly.  I was called foolish.  And worse.  Yet that is a most definitive, albeit dangerous, test.  [Having cardiac resuscitation paddles taped to your chest before the test is begun in case your heart stops from the test is a bit discomfiting ... and something many think make the test not worth the risk.]  The tilt table test provides objective data that shows a failure of an autonomic process and is gold standard, if you will, for dysautonomia diagnosis.  Hearing that neurologist say that I didn't have dysautonomia was like hearing someone tell me that I had not been abused (words actually spoken to me).

Both are devastating things to have in your life.
The denial of them deepens, widens their wounds in your person.
And greatly magnifies the loneliness of your condition.