The back side...

After a ten-question quiz with a nurse who told me she had never administered it before and about a 20 minute consultation, the neurologist said that I was neurologically fine and had no signs of cognitive problems.  He also said that, after taking 3 steps, that I walked fine and didn't need cane nor wheelchair.  And he said I didn't have dysautonomia since my blood pressure was fine.  That was my two-hour initial consult for which I was charged a $50 co-pay.

I am used to the brush off, but I was stunned and devastated and completely and utterly frustrated. I worked so hard to bring all the records he would need for a review, expected new testing and at least blood work and a CT, MRI, or PET scan.  No review of my medications or anything.  Just very little exam and those ten questions.

Part of the quiz is to remember three words.  I was never asked about the words.  Because, you know, it's just stress.  And, as noted, I have a "history" of sexual abuse, so that's why I "might" be having "some" problems.

Oh, yes, I also apparently don't need to be on disability and should go out and get a job.

SIGH.

If I could have strung two thoughts together, I would have pointed out that I am on a medication that raises my blood pressure and heart rate.  But I do not think it would matter.  He wasn't listening to me or looking at all the test results in his hand.

I wept.
And went to Panera.
And wept some more.

There is this part of me that wants to stop all my medication and the extra sodium intake and just let myself fall apart just to ... prove something.  But I would only be punishing myself.  And, as my GP said recently, I should be thankful the erythromycin is still working and take it as long as I can.  After all, research on gastroparesis and erythromycin is that the latter loses its efficacy after a period of time.  I've doubled that window, thus far.

Another part of me wants to skip my GP appointment next week and hide from the world until my decaying body is found by someone curious about the overgrown grass.

One comfort I have clung to is that I have read several entries on Living with Bob and comments on the entries wherein being treated as an hysterical female or as someone who just needs to try harder are par for the course with folk battling autonomic nervous system dysfunction who seek out treatment.  I thought about the mother who posted on Facebook that her young son was diagnosed with dysautonomia finally, but he had to endure several years of doctors telling her little boy to stop faking it ... even when he was fainting!  Being doubted and ignored by those who are either unwilling to deal with complex problems (without a cure) or unknowledgeable about dysautonomia probably should be listed among its symptoms.

SIGH.

I very, very, very carefully carried the rocking chair to the back porch (holding it by the bottom of the seat).  I sure do wish I could sit on it.

After receiving criticism ... quite strong criticism ... about switching the firewood location with the grill, I moved everything back late last night.  Even before I wrangled the grill back on the far side of the porch, I didn't care for how the chair and grill looked together.  So, an hour later, I was back out there lugging the grill from one side to the other, lugging the firewood rack from one side to the other, and working really hard not to hit the rocking chair as I did so.

SIGH.

Yesterday as almost as bad as today.  You see, there was sunshine, so I went out and painted the first coat on the other side of the boards.  Make-Myrtle-sweat sunshine.  Then, when I came inside to have some black bean soup, I heard a strange noise.  It was a BLOODY MONSOON!  All my carefully applied first coat work was being severely compromised.

Then, later, there was more sunshine.  LOTS and LOTS and LOTS of sunshine.  The boards were streaked, but dry.  So, I went out to paint a second coat (knowing I'd probably need a third).  Then, as I leaned over to close the can of paint with the hammer, the sun disappeared.  Before I could quite comprehend what was happening, we had another BLOODY MONSOON!

I raced to make temporary sawhorses and began transferring the boards one by one into the garage.  Dripping red boards in the BLOODY MONSOON.  Once I had one of the set of sawhorses emptied, I moved those into the garage and transferred the other five boards.  We will NOT discuss the red paint water that dripped onto my garage floor.  We will also NOT discuss the definition of insanity that is probably going through your mind at the moment.

By the time I had everything in the garage, I was soak to the skin, shivering and miserable.  I came inside and sniffed. What is that smell???  THAT smell was a wet puppy dog who had been running around in the sunshine and getting all sweaty himself.  A wet sweaty puppy dog smells horrible.

I took a shower.
I gave Amos a bath.
And we huddled together on the couch recovering from the red paint trauma.

Then, I very carefully worked to pull together all the records that the neurologist office would need to copy, collated all the copies of the disability neuro-psych and cognitive exams, and finished my bulleted list of the changes in my mind I have been struggling with this past year that I have been drafting for a long, long while.

All of that didn't matter.

After wallowing in Panera that I had no business buying, I came home and girded my loins to tackle the I-Hope-They-Are-Dry-By-Now-Herbs.

Decades later, the first rack of herbs is all jarred up.  From left to right, I have sage (lots of it), rosemary, oregano, thyme, and basil (most of my basil is frozen in cubes with a bit of olive oil.

Then I went outside and harvested more rosemary.

Chopped it all up.  Harvested a bit more.  And made two batches of rosemary butter.

Since no amount of scraping the sides could get all the butter out of the bowl, I warmed up the Panera roll and used it to "clean" the mixing bowl.  My, oh my!  Rosemary butter is really, really, really good stuff.  I still have to harvest from the other bush and might just make up some more.

I figured out that the cubes are there tablespoons.  That means two batches is 7 sticks of butter and a ginormous amount of minced fresh rosemary, which gives me 18 cubes of rosemary butter.  I was thinking that, should I be pressed into sharing again, another batch (or two) would mean that there would be enough to share before summer comes back around.  Right??

I didn't share with Amos.
His feelings were hurt.
I told him that I was practicing tough love.

It would be nice to have my laundry rack back, but I do want to go ahead and harvest the rest of the herbs in the bed and dry them, too.  Although, I haven't really found anyone who wanted some and I am fairly certain that what I have dried already will serve me through to next summer.  I really would like some assistance planning out the raised bed for next summer so that I have less abundance and more varied sufficiency.

I checked on the monsoon-ed boards.  After much thinking about today and how hard everything is for me to do the first time, I told Firewood Man that I was going to take a sharpie and draw a line down the rain-smeared side of the boards.  That way, he would know which was the "back" side of the board ... which side to attach to the house.

Doesn't having a "back" side to the boards seem a good solution for my painting failure??