Phew! I had a CT on Wednesday and an appointment with a neurologist yesterday and the neurologist is 98% sure I have BPV. .........
Why do they do that? All these initials?
MI, STD, BPV, IV.............geesh!
I'm a nurse and I have to admit even I wasn't too sure what BPV was.....at first all panicky that it was an STD or some sort of CVA or latent symptoms from the MVA I had a few years back. So I asked him about the CT and he mumbled " it was normal" , almost with a "pfft, relax!" tone of voice.
Relax????? Buddy, I had brain tumor on the brain for 2 1/2 weeks!! I have to admit though that I had a few really good scenarios going through my head....kinda of similar to "Beaches" or "Terms of Endearment". Ya, in my little "mind movies" people were really, really nice to me and some were soooooo sorry for how they treated me in the past!! In one I went to Greece with a bunch of girlfriends......my hubby and kids were looked after by the whole community while I was gone so I needn't worry.
So really I guess despite thinking I had a brain tumor I'm a positive thinker. Never in my brain tumor mind movies was I actually very sick ( nor did I look sick other than the 20lbs I lost which is actually a good thing, I looked great!). I mean, I went to Greece with a bunch of girlfriends and sang the entire Mama Mia soundtrack running up and down cliffs! I gave speeches at schools about living life to the fullest. I was busy helping my fellow nurses on the chemo ward ( a model patient). Never was I sick, in pain or looking anything but the best! So ya, I was a positive thinker. I WAS scared but didn't let my fear get the best of me!
So what's BPV you ask? It's Benign Positional Vertigo cause by some particles moving around my inner ear that aren't supposed to be moving around that part of my inner ear. Those particles are telling my brain that I'm spinning when all I'm actually doing is lying down trying to sleep, or tilting my head really far to the side while trying to read titles of books in a library......when that happens I grab my husband so I don't fall off the rapidly spinning bed or I grab at the book shelf, toppling over several books annoying the librarian and embarrassing my kids .
So that he's 100% sure I am booked for an MRI in a couple of weeks. What else could it be?????? CVA? MS? IIP? HPV? hee hee hee.......
Friday, August 29, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Feelin' the buzz....
So, I've been experiencing a wierd vertigo thing for about 8 days now. Not necessarily a "bad" feeling mind you. Sort of like the good BC bud I experimented with in my younger years without the hysterical laughter and munchies. Good for my waistline, bad for doing my job!
It all started , like I said, 8 days ago with me getting up to go pee in the morning and finding myself half running, half stumbling sharply to the left!
The rest of the day wasn't so sharply shifted yet still spent in bed, a spinning bed, feeling , well....high and very very tired. It's eased off a bit, but am still dizzy and clumsy.
Now, remember, I'm a nurse and kinda know stuff so of course I did a little "reasearch" of my own and kinda sorta had myself a little freaked out by MS. Well I went to the Dr yesterday and after explaining my symptoms.....I might add that I mentioned the BC bud feeling and was met with a blank stare ( nerdy med school type!), she ruled out MS. Something to do with my age and having the first every symptoms....like I was WAY tooo OLD to be having the first symptoms!!!! Thanks, I think!?
So now I have to go see a neurologist and have a head and neck CT!!! A couple of bad things really. First of all head CT can mean they're looking for a brain tumor!!!! Another bad thing is my neurologist just may be a terrorist......Al Hussain..... That's his name!!!! ( I know, I know....soooooo politically incorrect but I kinda thought it would get a chuckle!!)
Anyway, I'm sure I got some wierd virus from my recent foreign travel to .....Vancouver when I was there in July..........or......my other exotic trip to Saskatchewan so I'm only slightly nervous......and maybe a little paranoid.......due to that BC bud again!! So, I'll keep ya posted and if anyone has any good and funny " stoned" stories they'd like to share please do so!!!
It all started , like I said, 8 days ago with me getting up to go pee in the morning and finding myself half running, half stumbling sharply to the left!
The rest of the day wasn't so sharply shifted yet still spent in bed, a spinning bed, feeling , well....high and very very tired. It's eased off a bit, but am still dizzy and clumsy.
Now, remember, I'm a nurse and kinda know stuff so of course I did a little "reasearch" of my own and kinda sorta had myself a little freaked out by MS. Well I went to the Dr yesterday and after explaining my symptoms.....I might add that I mentioned the BC bud feeling and was met with a blank stare ( nerdy med school type!), she ruled out MS. Something to do with my age and having the first every symptoms....like I was WAY tooo OLD to be having the first symptoms!!!! Thanks, I think!?
So now I have to go see a neurologist and have a head and neck CT!!! A couple of bad things really. First of all head CT can mean they're looking for a brain tumor!!!! Another bad thing is my neurologist just may be a terrorist......Al Hussain..... That's his name!!!! ( I know, I know....soooooo politically incorrect but I kinda thought it would get a chuckle!!)
Anyway, I'm sure I got some wierd virus from my recent foreign travel to .....Vancouver when I was there in July..........or......my other exotic trip to Saskatchewan so I'm only slightly nervous......and maybe a little paranoid.......due to that BC bud again!! So, I'll keep ya posted and if anyone has any good and funny " stoned" stories they'd like to share please do so!!!
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Oh, if only SHE'D blog- revisited
Alas! Another response to my email from yet another " non-blogger" who should definitely blog!!
I guess I should thank them for not having a blog- I have material!!
This one is especially funny for those who grew up in Edmonton and have visited our so called zoo over the years.
Enjoy!
Now – as for your inability to blog the intimate details of your life – would you consider an anonymous memoir, instead? Something like “The Sordid Affairs of ‘K’.” Because really, it’s just selfish to keep the hilarity of your observations under wraps. My personal stuff is much less riveting, more dull and domestic. IF I was writing a blog this week, it would perhaps be something like this:
THE DAY THEY MADE US GO TO THE ZOO – PART DEUX
Okay...for all of you who are not Barbara...there’s a prologue. Several years ago, seeking some functional balance of visiting and responsibly caring for my children (only Steven and Grace, at the time), Barbara and I decided that we would go to the zoo. There, we reasoned, the kids would be enchanted by the poo-flinging primates while we could stand behind the stroller, chatting happily as we tend to do. It didn’t quite work out. It was drizzling just a little, if I remember correctly. Sort of chilly. Grace, at the tender age of about two, had already mastered the art of full-frontal-bitchery. Steven was no match, but still a game competitor, bringing his whiny little ass technique to the playing field. Barbara and I did not, therefore, achieve the pleasant visit that we set out to have. What we did get out of the deal was a photo of the two kids, posing in the mouth of the concrete whale sculpture, wearing soggy rain jackets and grim expressions that captured the misery of the outing. We titled it “The Day They Made Us Go to the Zoo.”
But time heals all wounds. Or wounds all heels. Or, at the very least, makes you forget the lessons that you swore you’d never forget. And so, a few weeks back, I mentioned to Barbara that I was planning on taking the kids to the zoo. “Your kids hate the zoo...remember?” she said, helpful friend that she is. I did remember, then, but thought that things would be different now. They are older. More thoughtful. More interested in animals that aren’t animated. So we picked a nice day when there was no rain in sight...just a nice, oppressive, 30 degrees and a blazing sun hanging in the sky...and WE WENT TO THE ZOO. AGAIN.
It is my theory that Valley Zoo started losing its charm the day they took “Storyland” out of its name. It has since been like a poem without a theme, or a balloon without air. Pointless, at best; soulless, at its worst. This is obvious the minute you walk through the gate and face what was once the “Three Little Pigs” scene and is now...a gerbil ranch. Seriously, it’s a couple bales of hay, a few pieces of PVC pipe for rambunctious games of hide-and-seek, and about a hundred rodents. “What’s wrong with that one?” asked William, pointing to a grotesquely pregnant female. I looked around and noticed that several other loose-lady gerbils were in similar shape. The sign on the fence that informs people of each animal’s status (extinct in the wild/endangered/etc.) classified them as “thriving.” No shit. We moved on.
We saw porcupines. We saw ducks. We saw roughly 2,000 lemurs. They actually have a habitat for the oh-so-exotic “crow.” Perhaps they should look at renaming to something along the lines of “The Quotidian Valley Zoo.” Or, “The Prosaic Valley Zoo.” I wanted to find the habitats for “The Common Household Mouse,” and the “Garbage-Eating Magpie,” but the kids wanted to go to the petting zoo. So we went. It was there that I really bemoaned the fact that I had forgotten my camera at home (alas, there will be no follow-up photo in the whale’s mouth). Eagerly awaiting your child’s petting at the zoo are roughly a half-dozen insane-looking chickens and two goats. One stood by the far fence, rolling a threatening, glassy eye in the direction of any child brave enough to approach. Few did. They were all opting for goat-number-two, who could have passed for dead, save the slight, tell-tale rise and fall of respiration. That shallow in-and-out, that was the only sign of life in this goat, who lay limply on its side in the middle of the dirt yard, assaulted by eager-to-pet children and the crazy, wandering chickens. As Natalie went bouncing over to maul this sad creature, Dennis looked worried about the kind of diseases that jump species. He asked if I thought it had expired. “No,” I said. “It’s just given up its soul.”
We moved on.
We discovered that the train, the highlight of every visit to the zoo since I was nine years old, is gone, baby, gone. The tracks are torn up, there’s a new building housing a few hundred of the ubiquitous lemurs built right over where the tracks used to be. So it looks pretty permanent. In its place, they offer “the new, ELECTRIC train!” which is roughly the size of a Tonka truck and wouldn’t amuse anyone over the age of two. But we bought ride tickets on the way in, and would be fucked if we didn’t get our money’s worth. So we forced Grace and the twins onto the merry-go-round. We would have made Steven suffer as well, because we’re all about fair treatment, but they won’t let you on the damn thing if you’re “taller than this line.” And he was. So we watched William and Natalie, bored but willing to endure the few minutes that it took, and Grace, who was clearly in HELL. Again, I itched for my camera, because the expression on her face was just about beyond description. It was rage, and humiliation, and fear of being spotted by someone she knew, all rolled up into one big facial stew. Her body language said, I am so cool, and so far above this. In fact, I am above everyone. It is criminal that I am forced to be with these people, let alone on this childish contraption. But it was a hard pose to pull off as she went up-and-down-up-and-down on her little pink horsie.
We moved on.
It was decided that the rest of the ride tickets would be used to let Will and Nat ride ponies until they puked. So we set off in search of the pony rides, situated in a far, far corner of the property that you just about need a pony ride to get to. On the way there, William finally saw something that excited him. “Hey!” he yelled. “It’s a Coke machine!!!” He actually went up and stroked it. We are mean parents who wouldn’t give the kids any change to plug into the thing (if only it had accepted ride tickets...), but we did all stop for a moment to marvel over the logistics of a big machine that was really just by a path in the midst of a field, apparently wired into Mother Earth herself. Then we saw other man-made structures jutting out of the meadow. “Bathrooms!” someone yelled, as we happened upon a row of ominously leaning porta-potties. “Sshhhh!” said Steven, “I’m going to pet it!” And he made a big show of sneaking up on the potty’s blind side, then reaching out, in a real Mutual of Omaha moment, to gently stroke it. Finally, we made it to the pony rides, where the twins each took two turns on a beaten-looking nag named “Sage.” I spent almost the entire time considering the posted rules sign, wondering why they wouldn’t let you ride a horse if you were wearing a thong. Eventually, at the end, I realized that they were referring to flip-flops.
I am telling you all of this because you are my memory-keepers. There is no photographic proof, this time...so I thought that a detailed written account was in order. In a couple of years, when I say, “Hey, wouldn’t it be fun to take the kids to the zoo?” I now expect seven emails or phone calls in response. “Remember...your kids hate the zoo,” is what you have to say.
Of course, I’ll probably go anyway.
Jo-Anne
I guess I should thank them for not having a blog- I have material!!
This one is especially funny for those who grew up in Edmonton and have visited our so called zoo over the years.
Enjoy!
Now – as for your inability to blog the intimate details of your life – would you consider an anonymous memoir, instead? Something like “The Sordid Affairs of ‘K’.” Because really, it’s just selfish to keep the hilarity of your observations under wraps. My personal stuff is much less riveting, more dull and domestic. IF I was writing a blog this week, it would perhaps be something like this:
THE DAY THEY MADE US GO TO THE ZOO – PART DEUX
Okay...for all of you who are not Barbara...there’s a prologue. Several years ago, seeking some functional balance of visiting and responsibly caring for my children (only Steven and Grace, at the time), Barbara and I decided that we would go to the zoo. There, we reasoned, the kids would be enchanted by the poo-flinging primates while we could stand behind the stroller, chatting happily as we tend to do. It didn’t quite work out. It was drizzling just a little, if I remember correctly. Sort of chilly. Grace, at the tender age of about two, had already mastered the art of full-frontal-bitchery. Steven was no match, but still a game competitor, bringing his whiny little ass technique to the playing field. Barbara and I did not, therefore, achieve the pleasant visit that we set out to have. What we did get out of the deal was a photo of the two kids, posing in the mouth of the concrete whale sculpture, wearing soggy rain jackets and grim expressions that captured the misery of the outing. We titled it “The Day They Made Us Go to the Zoo.”
But time heals all wounds. Or wounds all heels. Or, at the very least, makes you forget the lessons that you swore you’d never forget. And so, a few weeks back, I mentioned to Barbara that I was planning on taking the kids to the zoo. “Your kids hate the zoo...remember?” she said, helpful friend that she is. I did remember, then, but thought that things would be different now. They are older. More thoughtful. More interested in animals that aren’t animated. So we picked a nice day when there was no rain in sight...just a nice, oppressive, 30 degrees and a blazing sun hanging in the sky...and WE WENT TO THE ZOO. AGAIN.
It is my theory that Valley Zoo started losing its charm the day they took “Storyland” out of its name. It has since been like a poem without a theme, or a balloon without air. Pointless, at best; soulless, at its worst. This is obvious the minute you walk through the gate and face what was once the “Three Little Pigs” scene and is now...a gerbil ranch. Seriously, it’s a couple bales of hay, a few pieces of PVC pipe for rambunctious games of hide-and-seek, and about a hundred rodents. “What’s wrong with that one?” asked William, pointing to a grotesquely pregnant female. I looked around and noticed that several other loose-lady gerbils were in similar shape. The sign on the fence that informs people of each animal’s status (extinct in the wild/endangered/etc.) classified them as “thriving.” No shit. We moved on.
We saw porcupines. We saw ducks. We saw roughly 2,000 lemurs. They actually have a habitat for the oh-so-exotic “crow.” Perhaps they should look at renaming to something along the lines of “The Quotidian Valley Zoo.” Or, “The Prosaic Valley Zoo.” I wanted to find the habitats for “The Common Household Mouse,” and the “Garbage-Eating Magpie,” but the kids wanted to go to the petting zoo. So we went. It was there that I really bemoaned the fact that I had forgotten my camera at home (alas, there will be no follow-up photo in the whale’s mouth). Eagerly awaiting your child’s petting at the zoo are roughly a half-dozen insane-looking chickens and two goats. One stood by the far fence, rolling a threatening, glassy eye in the direction of any child brave enough to approach. Few did. They were all opting for goat-number-two, who could have passed for dead, save the slight, tell-tale rise and fall of respiration. That shallow in-and-out, that was the only sign of life in this goat, who lay limply on its side in the middle of the dirt yard, assaulted by eager-to-pet children and the crazy, wandering chickens. As Natalie went bouncing over to maul this sad creature, Dennis looked worried about the kind of diseases that jump species. He asked if I thought it had expired. “No,” I said. “It’s just given up its soul.”
We moved on.
We discovered that the train, the highlight of every visit to the zoo since I was nine years old, is gone, baby, gone. The tracks are torn up, there’s a new building housing a few hundred of the ubiquitous lemurs built right over where the tracks used to be. So it looks pretty permanent. In its place, they offer “the new, ELECTRIC train!” which is roughly the size of a Tonka truck and wouldn’t amuse anyone over the age of two. But we bought ride tickets on the way in, and would be fucked if we didn’t get our money’s worth. So we forced Grace and the twins onto the merry-go-round. We would have made Steven suffer as well, because we’re all about fair treatment, but they won’t let you on the damn thing if you’re “taller than this line.” And he was. So we watched William and Natalie, bored but willing to endure the few minutes that it took, and Grace, who was clearly in HELL. Again, I itched for my camera, because the expression on her face was just about beyond description. It was rage, and humiliation, and fear of being spotted by someone she knew, all rolled up into one big facial stew. Her body language said, I am so cool, and so far above this. In fact, I am above everyone. It is criminal that I am forced to be with these people, let alone on this childish contraption. But it was a hard pose to pull off as she went up-and-down-up-and-down on her little pink horsie.
We moved on.
It was decided that the rest of the ride tickets would be used to let Will and Nat ride ponies until they puked. So we set off in search of the pony rides, situated in a far, far corner of the property that you just about need a pony ride to get to. On the way there, William finally saw something that excited him. “Hey!” he yelled. “It’s a Coke machine!!!” He actually went up and stroked it. We are mean parents who wouldn’t give the kids any change to plug into the thing (if only it had accepted ride tickets...), but we did all stop for a moment to marvel over the logistics of a big machine that was really just by a path in the midst of a field, apparently wired into Mother Earth herself. Then we saw other man-made structures jutting out of the meadow. “Bathrooms!” someone yelled, as we happened upon a row of ominously leaning porta-potties. “Sshhhh!” said Steven, “I’m going to pet it!” And he made a big show of sneaking up on the potty’s blind side, then reaching out, in a real Mutual of Omaha moment, to gently stroke it. Finally, we made it to the pony rides, where the twins each took two turns on a beaten-looking nag named “Sage.” I spent almost the entire time considering the posted rules sign, wondering why they wouldn’t let you ride a horse if you were wearing a thong. Eventually, at the end, I realized that they were referring to flip-flops.
I am telling you all of this because you are my memory-keepers. There is no photographic proof, this time...so I thought that a detailed written account was in order. In a couple of years, when I say, “Hey, wouldn’t it be fun to take the kids to the zoo?” I now expect seven emails or phone calls in response. “Remember...your kids hate the zoo,” is what you have to say.
Of course, I’ll probably go anyway.
Jo-Anne
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Oh if only she'd blog!
I've been trying to convince some good friends of mine to blog. I recently sent them all an email with links to good blogs and plenty of encouragement to join in the fun. This is a response from one of my friends .....I HAD to share.
My dear Dilys, et al
The reason why I cannot write a blog is that I do not want my kids or parents to know what kind of stuff I think about. This is, I think, something you could more fully appreciate if I revealed to you the mental email I was composing to you yesterday morning. It was about Drunken Sex.
I'll spare you the details, but the gist of it was that I woke up the next morning (at my house, thank you very much!) with the worst hangover I can remember since I was in my 20s. The TV remote was on the floor in the bathroom. The few inches of wine I hadn't managed to consume were drying in my glass on the kitchen counter, the wine bottle itself laying on its side like it died of exhaustion. There was an unnatural amount of candle wax spilled on the deck by the hot tub. I can't explain the bird feathers. Worse, there was a large puddle that looked like blood. For one full second, I thought we sacrificed a goat. But it was just clothes. From the neighbour's across the alley.
Kidding. The clothes were Wayne's and mine. I don't recall shedding them. My last clear thought is coming from dinner with Barb (where we consumed a bottle of wine) to discover the back yard completely lit with tea candles. They outlined the edge of the patio, went up both sides of the steps to the hot tub, and lined the ledge of the tub itself. There were candles on the patio table, and on the lawnchair side table. It was beautiful. Magical. Wayne had a glass of wine poured for me, ready. Music played. He looked very handsome.
So I decided I could allow myself to take a recess from being magnanimously distant. This was my most recent response to his latest screw-up. (As Wounded Wife responses go, it is pretty good: lets you talk and behave very politely, while you are letting him know superior you are.) I think another release factor was that, at dinner earlier, I had become Benign Buddha Karen. Loving all life, filled with compassion, profound spiritual awareness--you know the mood. Two glasses of wine, and Benign Buddha tells Wounded Wife to let the past be past, and become One with the present. Three glasses of wine and candles look like glowing love fairies.
Why is it that you wake up earliest on the days you feel worst? My theory is that your cosmically connected Inner Self wants to take advantage of the teaching moment. As I wandered around the house that morning, I really felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. It surprises me now to think how reasonable it seemed--even for a moment--that we had sacrificed a goat. Reason asserting itself was not that we would never have done such a thing, but that we didn't own a goat.
These are things my parents and children need never know. But if I was blogging, I would entitle the whole thing "Why You Should Eat Lunch Before Having Wine with Dinner". It's always ultimately about food, if you ask me.
xxoo
Karen
P.S. Does anyone know how to get massage oil stains out of carpet?
My dear Dilys, et al
The reason why I cannot write a blog is that I do not want my kids or parents to know what kind of stuff I think about. This is, I think, something you could more fully appreciate if I revealed to you the mental email I was composing to you yesterday morning. It was about Drunken Sex.
I'll spare you the details, but the gist of it was that I woke up the next morning (at my house, thank you very much!) with the worst hangover I can remember since I was in my 20s. The TV remote was on the floor in the bathroom. The few inches of wine I hadn't managed to consume were drying in my glass on the kitchen counter, the wine bottle itself laying on its side like it died of exhaustion. There was an unnatural amount of candle wax spilled on the deck by the hot tub. I can't explain the bird feathers. Worse, there was a large puddle that looked like blood. For one full second, I thought we sacrificed a goat. But it was just clothes. From the neighbour's across the alley.
Kidding. The clothes were Wayne's and mine. I don't recall shedding them. My last clear thought is coming from dinner with Barb (where we consumed a bottle of wine) to discover the back yard completely lit with tea candles. They outlined the edge of the patio, went up both sides of the steps to the hot tub, and lined the ledge of the tub itself. There were candles on the patio table, and on the lawnchair side table. It was beautiful. Magical. Wayne had a glass of wine poured for me, ready. Music played. He looked very handsome.
So I decided I could allow myself to take a recess from being magnanimously distant. This was my most recent response to his latest screw-up. (As Wounded Wife responses go, it is pretty good: lets you talk and behave very politely, while you are letting him know superior you are.) I think another release factor was that, at dinner earlier, I had become Benign Buddha Karen. Loving all life, filled with compassion, profound spiritual awareness--you know the mood. Two glasses of wine, and Benign Buddha tells Wounded Wife to let the past be past, and become One with the present. Three glasses of wine and candles look like glowing love fairies.
Why is it that you wake up earliest on the days you feel worst? My theory is that your cosmically connected Inner Self wants to take advantage of the teaching moment. As I wandered around the house that morning, I really felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. It surprises me now to think how reasonable it seemed--even for a moment--that we had sacrificed a goat. Reason asserting itself was not that we would never have done such a thing, but that we didn't own a goat.
These are things my parents and children need never know. But if I was blogging, I would entitle the whole thing "Why You Should Eat Lunch Before Having Wine with Dinner". It's always ultimately about food, if you ask me.
xxoo
Karen
P.S. Does anyone know how to get massage oil stains out of carpet?
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