Spring and the CFIDS "on/off" Phenomenon...

Our baby weeping cherry tree made it through the non-winter.

It's spring and that alone puts me into the best of moods.  My legs are killing me and I am thrilled about it!  Why?  Well, this past week I made myself run out (metaphorically speaking, of course - I actually practically crawled down the stairs) to take a few pictures with my iPod of the bulbs coming up.  Oh what freedom!!!  I've not been out of the house for weeks - months even, canceling doctors' appointments right and left - and then worried I'll be dropped by my doctors for being so "irresponsible and/or for wreaking havoc on their schedules.

It had to have been funny for any neighbors looking out and seeing me getting down on the ground for some close shots, in something looking suspiciously close to a nightgown.   Actually, it must have been interesting to see me at all. I am the "phantom neighbor," sort of like during my kids' high school years, by which time this horrid illness had become so severe that I became the "phantom mom."  There were rumors that I existed but no one was REALLY sure.

Anyway, the next day after my "photography" adventure, I happened to glance out the window (I should try to do that more often) and noticed that the trees were in bloom and hoped against hope I'd be able to "run out" again for ten minutes within the next day or so, before all the blossoms disappeared.  Three days later, I was ever so pleased with myself because I was able to do so and even stick to my strict limit of ten minutes and no more.

And wouldn't you know it, but just as I laid down on the ground, hubby dearest arrived home - in the middle of the day, for just long enough to cut the grass and run back to work. This NEVER happens!  I was, simply put, BUSTED!   Fortunately, my red face made hubby refrain from lecturing, though since then every once in a while he mutters "ten minutes, huh?" -  just loud enough for me to hear.

My family laughs that my life is either "off" or "on," with no in between and I'm beginning to see that they are right.   "On" means going on for hours, though it rarely happens anymore.   But there are at least two reasons for this "on/off" phenomenon.

First, it is really hard to change gears with this DD, CFIDS, CFS, ME and/or fibromyalgia with all its complications including migraines, SEVERE insomnia, nausea, eye vision problems, falling down, ulcers in the mouth which often make it impossible to even swallow water, speech impairment, memory loss that is more like amnesia than just bad memory, swollen lumpy nodes.  When you are finally well enough - angels singing Hallelujah! - to take a bath you then stay in way too long and pay for that for the next few weeks - if you're lucky.  When you're lucky enough to start to wash your face you start with soap, then a cleanser, then an exfoliant, then throw in a facial mask treatment for good measure and keep going because who knows when you'll be able to wash your face again?  You start a book and just can't put it down - because you can't change gears and because tomorrow you won't remember anything read the day before.  You play a mind game and force yourself to dust and declutter your nightstand and soon you're dusting everything in sight.  Your adrenaline has kicked in to assist the painkillers and if they happen to FINALLY work and vertigo doesn't start in, nausea, along with a dozen other possibilities, you become unstoppable.

Your cautious, "know-it-all" mind tells you to stop because IT knows perfectly well the price that will be paid, but your brain is damaged and can't turn off. If someone interrupts,something weird happens to your head, your blood sugar, your momentum and you are startled so badly that a migraine starts. The crazy list goes on and on, of examples and consequences.

Secondly, I've learned that pacing myself simply doesn't work - for me, that is.   Everyone is different.  It really doesn't matter if I spend five minutes doing something or five hours doing something - the end result is the same - and that is, that you'll always be in worse shape the next day or the third day after, for however long the fates have slated, I suppose.  That is why I so often go "all out" if I can manage to drag my body out of bed. And as long as I'm not standing still (because my BP plummets even lower and very quickly) but moving or sitting down on a stool I keep inching along - I become the Tasmanian devil.

I rarely disclose any of this because...drum roll, please...I am sick and tired of the "advice" I get from people who really have no clue, including doctors, about how I need to learn to pace myself, or I must make an effort to push myself,or I must learn how to NOT push myself, etc.  I rarely hear what I need to hear, what pretty much all of us need to hear: listen to your body and LEARN FROM YOUR BODY what's best for you.

So, getting back to my capturing pictures of my garden, I did the mature thing and took 10 minutes worth, washed off and got back into bed.

But now I'm too exhausted and in too much fibro pain, shaking, fighting off a migraine, with blues that are felt down to my very ankles from the awfulness I feel, unable to understand the simple concept of even how to wash my hands with Dove, much less wash my face. There are other symptoms which I'm not really registering, being so good about denial.  Pain killers are no help.  This is disheartening because washing my face at least once a day is one of my New Year's resolutions and I'm doing the best I've done in at least 15 years.  I'm ticked off that I didn't work out there until I dropped.   At least something would gotten accomplished - more than neighbors seeing the mystery woman ambulances appear for every once in a while. (LOL!??)

However, now my thighs are killing me too and I'm LOVING that!  This is the thing to have happened to me in ages:  the wonderful hurt a normal person gets after a period of slacking off and then doing a good work-out. It hurts but it's the "good" kind of hurt that I remember from 37 years ago, which so rarely happens anymore.  And who knows...I might even be able to add riding on my exercise bike for two minutes every few days soon.  I've still not given up my dream of going back to taking very elementary horseback riding lessons, though I fear I've jinxed myself by revealing that dream here. (And yes, of course I've knocked on wood and done the "Tphoo! Tphoo! Tphoo!" bit. I'm a supertitious Russian/Ukie by blood after all!)   But I am definitely going to TRY to keep up my attempt to record my garden's progression.   We all do so much better when pretty things surround us and we all feel much better when we see that we've actually achieved or accomplished something, be we sick OR healthy.  I know, clichés, but true and very well worth keeping in mind.

Happy Spring, everyone,
Upa (aka "Ира")

Crying from my sickbed about another senseless CFIDS death....

Today I'm mourning the death of yet another victim of this monstrous and all too often fatal "syndrome" which too many doctors, health professionals and even friends and family are simply ignoring and/or, perhaps worse, refusing to believe in.  I did not intend to make this blog a place for downright preaching, perhaps because it turns so many people off of a topic that is often way too hard to stomach, and most definitely hard to understand and believe.  Today I'm crying because I've just learned about the death of a young woman whom I never knew, never even knew she existed, but have since learned how much she was able to accomplish in her short and tortured life: and make no mistake, she, as well as well as thousands, some suspect millions, are living a life of torture, for that IS what CFIDS/CFS/ME/Fibro is, "TORTURE." And yet she managed to somehow accomplish so very much in her short life, volunteering from her sickbed for the youth who have this illness as well as writing a guide to this illness for sufferers, a book which was well-received.  

After crying earlier in the day, I got angry.  I'm angry that this illness is still marginalized and I'm angry that funding is barely available for research and that the allocated funds in the past have also been "misdirected" to other places and mired in scandal.  It is disgusting.  Period.  Criminal.  Period.  Immoral.  Period.  Tragic.

Emily's family asked that the last letter she typed into her smartphone over a period of weeks when she still had strength be posted by anyone who cares about this illness.  Her words are so eloquent that I am proud to be able to place them here on my blog.  I am sorry for those of you who are uncomfortable with the "dirty" part of this illness, but this is one day that simply cannot be left to laughter.  

For those who would like to learn more about this brilliant young woman, the link I have here should give you more information:  
http://www.meassociation.org.uk/?p=10880

And now for Emily's so eloquent appeal:

"My name is Emily. I developed the neurological condition Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME) when I was 6 years old. In April 2011 I turned 30. I still have ME. 

ME coloured every aspect of my childhood; it painfully restricted my teens and it completely destroyed my twenties. Now, as I move into the next decade of my life, I am more crippled than ever by this horrific disease. 

My doctors tell me that I have been pushed to the greatest extremes of suffering that illness can ever push a person. I have come very close to dying on more than one occasion. If you met me you may well think I was about to die now - it's like that every single day. After all these years I still struggle to understand how it's possible to feel so ill so relentlessly. 

My reaction to small exertions and sensory stimulation is extreme. Voices wafting up from downstairs, a brief doctor's visit, a little light, all can leave me with surging pain, on the verge of vomiting, struggling with each breath and feeling I'll go mad with the suffering. Of course it can also be as bad as this for no particular reason - and often is. I cannot be washed, cannot raise my head, cannot have company, cannot be lifted from bed, cannot look out of the window, cannot be touched, cannot watch television or listen to music - the list is long. ME has made my body an agonising prison. 

My days and nights are filled with restless sleep interspersed with injections, needle changes (for a syringe driver), nappy changes (as well as experiencing transient paralysis and at times being blind and mute, I am doubly incontinent) and medicines/fluid being pumped into my stomach through a tube. My life could be better if I had a Hickman line (line which goes into a major vein and sits in the heart) for IV drugs and fluids, but such a thing would likely kill me. I'm on a huge cocktail of strong medications which help, yet still most days the suffering is incomprehensible. During the worst hours I may go without the extra morphine I need as I feel so ill that the thought of my mother coming near to administer it is intolerable - this despite pain levels so high that I hallucinate. 

I live in constant fear of a crisis driving me into hospital; our hospitals have shown such lack of consideration for the special needs of patients like me that time spent in hospital is torture (eased only by the incredible kindness shown by some nurses and doctors) and invariably causes further deterioration. 

Many days I feel utter despair. 

But, unlike some sufferers, over the long years in which I've had severe ME (the illness began mildly and has taken a progressive course) I have at least had periods of respite from the absolute worst of it. During those periods I was still very ill, but it was possible to enjoy something of life. So in these dark days I know there is a real chance of better times ahead and that keeps me going. 

My entire future, and the greatly improved health I so long for, however, currently hinges on luck alone. This is wrong. As I lie here, wishing and hoping and simply trying to survive, I (and the thousands like me - severe ME is not rare) should at least have the comfort of knowing that there are many, many well-funded scientists and doctors who are pulling out all the stops in the quest to find a treatment which may restore my health and that the NHS is doing all possible to care for me as I need to be cared for - but I don't. This wretched, ugly disease is made all the more so through the scandalous lack of research into its most severe form and the lack of necessary, appropriate support for those suffering from it. This is something that must change. 

And that is why I tell my story; why I fight my painfully debilitated body to type this out on a smartphone one difficult sentence at a time and to make my appeal to governments, funders, medical experts and others: 

Please put an end to the abandonment of people with severe ME and give us all real reason to hope." 

How many more deaths will it take before something is done about this "syndrome?" Too many have already died and yet it continues... Царство тебе небесное...may you rest in peace, Emily.  (1981-2012)

Finding needles in haystacks while dieting.

Eating my way through England in the late '80's.

If ever any of my three (charming) kids to look at this post, a massive cry would arise, I just know it.  You see, they already think that I'm an eating well/healthy eating crusader, as well as a believer that food will cure all. Well, I'm not - not really.

...Although there IS my constant threat/dream to start a demonstration in front of every supermarket in the US with young women, mothers, grandmothers of the world united, carrying placards that declared that 95% of the food in said stores is dangerous to our health.  Hugely dangerous!  But I'm coming perilously close to digressing, and that's for another post, so on with it!  

I'm always amazed at how much healthier I feel after I've been eating well.  Actually, perhaps not "healthy," but instead how much cruddier I feel after eating "well" for a while, then sneaking in one of my "forbidden" foods and suddenly feeling incredibly worse...migraines, brain fog, huge pain, and the myriad of other symptoms and problems which then come out in spades and/or are intensified.  

I suppose the first time I really and truly noticed this was back in the early '90's.  I'd gone on a diet determined to lose the fat and poundage I'd put on after seeing a CFIDS specialist (one of a few already and one of many to come) who thought regular steroids would be the answer.  I'd made peace with the decision and since I was already bathed, dressed, made up and out of bed, hubby and I decided to stop by a department store on our trip home in order to buy some clothes that would fit me once I put on the inevitable at-the-very-least 20-pound weight gain I have always gotten from just one shot of steroids, as in the occasional bout with poison ivy or other nasty thing deserving steroids.  

Well, to make a long story short, my CFIDS, ME/CFS, fibromyalgia, migraines, insomnia, and so forth, symptoms got no better.  In fact, I would say that they got much worse.  And I did not have a 20-pound gain but a 40-plus pound weight gain.  Putting on all that weigh made it even harder to move around, the pain got much worse.  The migraines were so bad, in fact, that I was in the ER just about every week.  

In those days, the "best" treatment for migraines was a DHE-45 IV drip in the ER which took a couple of hours to administer.  It worked like a charm but was a pain because I have a phobia of needles and a good "stick" is hard to find.  But the ER docs got to the point where they could take one look at me, talk to hubby and immediately see if a quick Demerol shot would work or if I needed the dreaded DHE-45 infusion.  

I thought my migraines would be a cinch to deal with once Imitrex came out, in shot form.  Holy cow, was I ever wrong.  The migraine would go into stratospheric heights and knowing I sounded very crazy I nevertheless couldn't stop screaming from the worsening migraine that the Imitrex induced.  Then after about 6-8 hours, if I were lucky, the migraine would magically go away.  Too often, however, the migraine did not go away and I'd need a second shot, screaming, sweating, shaking, trembling...it was a sight out of "The Exorcist," minus the head turning. 

Back in the late '80's, the migraines had become so bad that my first lumbar puncture was done.  When elevated proteins were found in my spinal fluid, everyone scrambled about getting me scheduled for a CT scan, others were trying to figure out who would be doing a removal of my brain tumor because that's what an elevated protein level in the spinal fluid meant back then, whereas hubby worried how he'd miss his young wife and how he'd manage life with three little children who had no mother.  It was a scary 24 hours until everyone found out that there was, indeed, no tumor in my brain.  

On the other hand, when I was lucid enough to think, I was furious with everyone. I didn't have a diagnosis yet as to what was wrong with me, but I KNEW that something serious was going on.  How was it, I wondered, that the elevated spinal fluid would scare the heck out of doctors one day and not be a sign of anything wrong the next? Come on guys, use the brain God gave you, the logic college taught you, and the physician's training medical school gave you.  There IS some sort of problem.  It's not just a yes or a no!  

But everyone was happy, other than me, of course.  That was the infamous year when I spent more days in the hospital than at home, popping in and out of hospitals as if they were my home away from home.  Hospital dietitians particularly got on my nerves because they kept trying to trick me into diets I'd long ago surmised did not influence my health.  I'm sure there are exceptions to the rule, but one the whole, I've found that most hospital dietitians are the most ignorant group on God's good earth when it comes to food.  Think about hospital food for a moment and you'll understand what I mean.  

At any rate, getting back to the steroid fiasco, I stopped the shots and was determined to lose the 40 pounds I'd put on, not an easy feat.  For some reason, regular weight goes off rather well with determination, but steroid weight gain is almost an impossibility to get off.  It takes me at least a couple of YEARS to budge even 20 pounds.

But I heard about a new diet on one of those evening magazine shows and decided I had nothing to lose but weight, so why not try it?  

It was called "The Monignac Diet," "invented" by a Frenchman who worked in the US for an extended period of time, had a history of extra poundage he wanted to lose, and was horrified by French young ladies who spent time in the US and came home fat.  Nutritionists and dietitians around the world were divided on the efficacy of the diet, most very much against this new-fangled concept of a glycemic index, but given my opinion of nutritionists and dietitians, I thought that was reason enough to try it.  

The diet basically divided meals into ones which were fat/protein or carbs.  Never could the two groups meet. Furthermore, carbs were divided into "good" carbs and "bad" carbs.  There were also some "no-no's," such as sugar, corn products, potatoes (a killer for me since I consider potatoes "Russian/Ukrainian penicillin").  This is all a simplistic explanation, of course.  This was also my first venture into the low-glycemic world.  In fact, Montignac is now, after his death, known as the "father" of the glycemic approach to diet, eating, weight gain/loss, health and so forth.

Well, it was a surprisingly easy diet to stay on.  I lost 20 pounds but then hit a plateau - a plateau I could not for the life of me get myself off of.  

One night, complaining about the darn plateau, observant hubby suddenly said, "you know, you haven't had a migraine since you started that French diet."  I looked at him as if he'd suddenly grown a monstrous second head but I often give him that sort of look.  

"Think about it," he said.  This time he got a dirty look.  One of my hobbies is thinking...was he actually telling me to think when he's always telling me to think LESS???

Suddenly I jumped out of bed and ran to the dresser where we kept all of my migraine meds, including the dreaded needles.  My supply of needles looked full.  I checked the date on the Imitrex - and it was expired.  WAY expired!  I looked at the rest of my migraine arsenal and everything was old. 

This was way too easy.  Hubby said, "I think you may have lost only 20 pounds but more importantly, you lost your migraines too."  That was such a corny statement that he got another, deserved, "look" from me.

Not wanting to leave things well enough alone and being a contrarian, or just a person who likes proof, I looked at him devilishly and said, "I want a burger."  You see, bread, a carb, and beef, fat/protein, mixed together were a definite no-no.  Hubby looked at me as if I were nuts but knew arguing would do no good.  I finally ate my hamburger with extreme relish and got my migraine, in spades.  Too bad I hadn't planned things out: the migraine was one of my better ones and because the meds at home were all expired, a run to the ER was needed.

It took me some time to accept the reality that I had hit a cure for my migraines.  This was really huge.  As a child I got bad headaches but my mom believed that children don't get headaches, they just caused them - in adults!  I learned great coping mechanisms, one of which was washing floors, de-waxing and waxing floors on my hands and knees whenever I had a "headache" coming on.  I didn't even realize I was doing this but always had incredibly sparkling floors. 

All of this denial came to an end, however, when I went blind in one eye for a few days while in my second pregnancy. It was a migraine equivalent seen at times with women who suffer severe migraines.  I argued with my neuro-opthomologist that I don't even get mild headaches when my hubby came out a state of shock and said, "You ALWAYS get headaches!" Was I complaining but not hearing nor registering those complaints? 

After challenging the "French Diet" a few times, I realized that for me, at least, this was one answer to my migraine problem.  I've had good years and bad years as to how well I stick to this way of eating.  At the moment I'm not doing too well because of too many reasons to bore you with at the moment.  

But how incredible was the luck that led us to this "cure"?  Had we not been using needles back then and had Imetrix not intensified my headaches before ridding me of them, the connection might not have been made. Today, with a medication in pill form that works like a charm, I'm not as invested about avoiding the foods and eating patterns that lead to a migraine.  Pop that pill and forget about what harm I may be causing myself due to side-effects not even yet imagined.  However, now that I've put this in writing and told so many about it, perhaps I've finally given myself the push I need to get back on the French diet band wagon.  

Goodbye to my wonderful potatoes, my wonderful Russian/Ukie cure-all for a while.  Perhaps I'll have some mashed ones tonight as a farewell, right before I have a piece of sugar-laden cake for my wonderful daughter's birthday.  It's tough to say goodbye to those "poisons."

About Fibro Brain...

Our first batch of hyacinths is making an appearance! 

Since we've had no winter this year, it seems that the beautiful bulbs my hubby and I planted will start coming up soon.  I've noticed others post lovely pictures of their flowers on their Facebook wall/albums, or on their blogs.  I thought I should give it a try because....

Well, first, let me back up here for a moment for the backstory.

I had ordered bulbs back in June/July for fall planting.  By ordering before a certain date you receive a huge discount (50%!) and I'm always up for that. My last massive planting was back in 1996, quite some time ago, I'd say.  Those bulbs lasted quite a while, though granted, each year we had fewer and fewer flowers coming up in the spring.  

Understand, our house needs some serious curb appeal since a contractor who took down our falling-apart front porch failed to ask me if I wanted to save any of some pretty wonderful landscaping I had. Oh, we needed some serious overhauling, and every one of the bushes was meant to be moved, but away, not forever.  I especially miss my white oak leaf hydrangeas which I'd planted as little more than twigs, well over fifteen years ago. Again I digress, but you get the idea. 

This year we had to do extensive remodeling (thankfully by another contractor) and since the work was and is still on-going, I thought bulbs would at least cheer up the front of the house - not to mention that they would delight our poor neighbors, I'm sure.

When I ordered the bulbs, however, I didn't take into account that my "gardening son," my "assistant," may very well be out of the country come bulb-planting season.  The bulbs were delivered to our doorstep by UPS in mid-September, but I put off planting them seemingly forever - thanks to the DD (code word for "Dreaded Disease," etc., if you recall).  But one day I bit the bullet, took up my gardening equipment which hubby had kindly put aside for me in a convenient spot, grabbed the bulbs and made my way to the front porch.  I wasn't exactly bouncing along, but at least I was up.  On the new porch, protected from the sun, I proceeded to line up the bulbs by color, type, height, growing time, color combinations.  It was truly a magnificent sight, all that coordination and organizing.  I was quite pleased with myself, I must admit.  I even took out a sketching pad and pencil and marked the places I'd put groups into and how many for each group, which would be in the front, which in circles, which scattered and naturalized - again, you get the picture.

That day, after about fifty bulbs, all my plans went kapooy!  Hubby came along and I snapped at him that I knew exactly what I was doing, thank you very much.  I noticed him grabbing a glimpse of me every thirty minutes or so, sure I was going to pass out before too long, or worse, fall and hurt myself and need a run to the ER for an X-ray....it's happened more than a few times before.  By nightfall, despite the many cold glasses of water I gulped down (to keep my blood pressure up), I was running out of steam and welcomed hubby's carefully worded offer to help clean up.  He looked at the bulbs still to planted and then at me and asked, "HOW many bulbs did you order?" Very matter-of-factly I answered, "oh, about a hundred and fifty."  Good thing I couldn't seen the eye roll because of the dark, otherwise, the MAN might've needed the ER.  (OK, I'm kidding about him and possibly needing an ER...somewhat!)

Well, the expected happened.  I paid for all my efforts the next day and the next and the next....  Can we all say, "post-exertional fatigue!", one of the hallmarks of this DD?  I could manage the pain this time, but the fatigue was now the real killer.  Hubby kept asking if he could help.  Through gritted teeth I kept informing him that I'd get out there and do it myself, thank you very much.

To make a long story short, a few weeks later hubby ended up planting the rest of the bulbs himself.  He planted another hundred and didn't make a dent.  Each day he'd rush home from work to plant as many as he could before the sun went down.  For the first time in my life, winter hours were my enemy and I wanted Daylight Savings Time with its extra hour of light - a definite sign of my desperation.  We kept trying to figure out new areas to plant the bulbs because the darned bulbs seemed to be mysteriously mutating and procreating.  Hubby started to use flashlights strategically placed around himself and any particular flowerbed he was working on.  We got to the point where it didn't even matter WHERE those bulbs would go.  We just wanted those suckers in the ground!  Eventually we tallied up each bag and how many were in each one.  It turned out that there were over five hundred bulbs, all for a lot not much bigger than a postage stamp.

The moral of the story: CFIDers and those with Fibro can't count nor should they be believed that they can overcome all obstacles.  We may think we can, even truly believe so, but nothing is further from the truth...we are all too often in serious denial, thinking we can do what we did before we became ill.

People, please take note.  I'll be discussing this further once I can get my wording correct, but there's a point I'd like to bring up at this point.

There IS a difference between depression and fibromyalgia, with depression on the one hand and CFIDS and Fibro on the other, contrary to what all too many doctors, as well as crazy psychiatrists and psychologists, seem to believe.  With depression people feel as if they can't do anything, they can't even begin anything, all because of the feelings of desperation, uselessness, and being overwhelmed. With CFIDS/CFS/ME and Fibro, on the other hand, we  all too often think we can do, as I said before, whatever we could do before we became ill.  When we can't do something despite every effort, we get angry, we cry, and/or become upset, a normal reaction. 

Now that's a HUGE difference, one to explore for another time.

In the meanwhile, I can't wait to see what kind of mishmash comes up this year in our garden.  Should be interesting!

Answers Found in the Oddest Ways

The Original Clarence

Just after Thanksgiving, I had a freak accident which resulted in two surgeries for acute compartment syndrome and me almost losing my arm and hand, and indeed my life.  I'm still not completely sure what happened - though I DO know that it had to do with complications due to the CFIDS/ME/CFS and fibromyalgia - since  hubby and my daughter have found it almost impossible to discuss, much less fill in the blanks.

The first memory I have of the whole incident is well into the second week of December, though I'm told I wouldn't stop talking, and evidently spent a lot of time speaking in French, of all things - a language I don't even know, other than the tiny bit recalled from high school, eons ago - and when I still had a functioning brain.  Even back then I was not the most talented in my attempts at the language.

Over the last few years, I've often thought that my guardian angel needs a name, especially after so many near-misses with me, but this incident took the cake.  So he's now called "Clarence," the name of the angel-in-training in "It's a Wonderful Life."  Coincidence?  I'm not sure, but "Clarence" it is. This near-death experience included near-kidney failure, fluid around all of my organs, near pancreatitis (jury's still out on that one) and a 50-lb weight gain within just a few days from the massive fast-flowing IV's and numerous other complications of which I'm blissfully unaware. I ended up looking remarkedly like the Pillsbury Doughboy and moving about as successfully as the poor tyke.  Luckily things started to turn around once they gave me a couple of blood transfusions, something I really didn't particularly want since I had a near-death experience with that back in '79. But there was no choice, really. The timing was right for oh so many things, a sort of "perfect storm."

I'd had the flu since before the darn accident and though I normally run a fever a couple of times a day, this was way beyond even MY norm. At one point, out of desperation, I started squirting water on my face. Yes, I know there are those who make fun of paying good money for water-in-a-can but pouring water in a plastic bottle with no aerosol accomplishes nothing and since I really have so little carbon foot printing, I figured, I'm due a few points.

I had a few days when my eyes burned a lot and suddenly I realized it had been ages since my eyes were even mildly dry.  I couldn't figure out the reason, but I was happy since no amount of eye drops have ever helped.  My (old) eye doctor could never understand it and kept giving me tips, none of which worked, frustrating all.   I became almost an obsession, each doctor getting hung up on this tiny piece of minutiae in the grand scheme of things. I actually thought about trying the eye drops advertised on TV, usually during the evening news, but thought that the woman had really weird eyes...no thank you, I have enough problems.

But today I saw another person on that commercial and backed up my TV to hear her spiel. Well, actually I wanted to see how crazy HER eyes looked.  I'd hoped they'd tweaked the formula.  As I listened to the woman doctor talking, I heard a word which went "Ping!" in my brain.  She talked about the inflammatory process of the eye and why the eyes can become so dry.

BINGO!  I'd been describing my eyes as hard as marbles, which no amount of drops could penetrate. Well, that's what this product is, an anti-inflammatory going right to the spot.

I've been on an anti-inflammatory since my compartment syndrome surgeries. And all this time I've been forcing myself to drink a good amount of water, down from the usual gallon or more a day I normally crave, which drives hubby up the proverbial wall, with him "threatening" to set up a faucet above my bed. 
What kind of CFIDS'er and Fibro was I?  We all seem to walk around carrying water.  In the beginning, CFIDS and Fibro docs caught on quickly that those patients holding onto their water bottles for dear life were the ones who had CFIDS and/or fibro. They knew our diagnoses before even talking to us as they noticed our red eyes (from dryness), along with chapped lips, and the inside of our mouths sticking to our teeth, making any discussion that much harder.

In other words, my eyes were inflamed to the point where no amount of drops put into them could penetrate and do any good. The same with the dry mouth - so inflamed that the thirst was never quenched.  Now with the anti-inflammatory, it appears that the moisture is getting through. The red eyes seem to be disappearing. Lip balm is actually working. 

Yee-ha!  So, one puzzle out of how many hundreds has been answered?  Clarence, you old rascal, you did GOOD! ;)  Bring on that mascara!

How do baby-boomers find fashion and beauty on line?

So, I'm over fifty and because I'm basically glued to this bed 24/7, I need to 
do whatever shopping hubby dearest can't do himself, on-line.  Thank goodness we 
now DO have that option.  I often think that these on-line stores could very 
well go out of business were people like me (us?) to stop ordering from them - 
the people who are just too ill to shop.

I have my books covered, drugstore needs, even "beauty" needs, thanks to 
drugstore.com, beauty. com, Sephora.  I can even keep up with any fancy-shmancy 
cooking, baking and dining needs when I add in Williams Sonoma and King Arthur's 
Flour, both on-line.

But the clothing situation is still a huge mystery and a way-too-expensive 
proposition.  

First of all, I think all of us who are over fifty have a bit of of a problem 
finding fashions which are just right.  The market seems to cater to those who 
are youngsters, a look that is pitiful on those of us who are, ahem, shall I use 
that word yet again, "mature"?  But "mature" doesn't mean "dowdy," and that's 
the look I often find...things my 80+ year old mom would wear - on a very bad 
day.

This is a situation that is particularly frustrating to the over-fifty crowd 
because we were spoiled all of our lives: we were the baby boomers and thus the 
demographic that the marketing world wanted ever so much.  No matter what our 
age was - be it fifteen and Noxema, nineteen and being revolutionary with 
pantsuits, thirty and disposable diapers for our babies, fifty and luxury cars - 
our buying habits, budgets and dollars were catered to.

I even thought that the trend to coddle to us would last well into our eighty's.  
How often have hubby and I looked at each other after a commercial and burst out 
laughing saying, "God, but it's good to be a baby-boomer...they just never stop 
trying to get our dollar!"

But it looks as if that ship has sailed, somewhat.  The beauty industry still 
wants us, as is evidenced by all the anti-aging and firming products out there.  
The pharms want us as is evidenced by all medication such as once-a-month 
calcium, cholesterol-lowering drugs, as well as the happy-in-bed market I won't 
name here.  

But the only industry that seems to have really given up on us is the fashion 
industry.  Look at the shoes alone.  The platform shoes out there today aren't 
really platform...they are simply a westernized version of the era in China when 
women were not meant to walk at all, just hobble along for a few steps.  

How crazy is it that the shoes of today have become so unnatural that there are 
places on YouTube that actually teach you how to walk in these crazy shoes?  I 
mean, hey, I'm all for high heels and suffering for beauty in general.  On the 
night of that infamous blind date with hubby, I came down with 13 blisters - 
yes, 13! I counted!  - because of my sexy brand new high-heeled sandals and 
future hubby's desire to find a certain restaurant in the Village, the only one 
where my friend could eat due to religious dietary restrictions.  We walked all 
over the place trying to find that tiny inconspicuous place. Well, I hobbled.  A 
month into our "courtship" I was finally dragged by future hubby to go shopping 
with him for my first pair of flat shoes since about the age of 16 when I 
received my learner's permit and no longer needed to walk.  But New York City: 
eek!  They walk!  

The fashions today?  I keep thinking they are very similar to the ones of the 
80's, the era before the football player size shoulder pads, an era when no one 
could get a handle on what was going on.  And how many dresses or looks today 
won't even allow a bra?  The fashion editor who guides the designers on "Project 
Runway: All Stars" finally got fed up last week when Michael's latest creation 
was yet another design which only lovely, young and very thin models could wear, 
not real women who actually buy said fashion. No bra?  It's a sorry sight for 
most women, much less those over 50.  Ouch!  Those dresses with the cinched 
waist and full skirt?  Uh, if you're into "I Love Lucy Shows," or worse Minnie 
Mouse.  Besides, the suggestion/advice is that if it was in style when you were 
young and it's now on its second time around, please do not buy that style...it 
won't suit!

I've shopped at Eddie Bauer, and Old Navy/Gap/Banana Republic.  They're good for 
some looks.  I've shopped on-line at Nordstrom and not been too overly happy.  
Most has to be returned and then you end up messing up your credit card balances 
with the returns that take forever with the credit card companies.   Everything 
is either too young or too old.  I've searched the Internet for fashion for 
women over fifty and am not getting good results.  Heck, even the couple of 
times I've been in a store in person at Macy's or Saks, I've had to dig to find 
anything suitable and usually end up buying something only out of desperation 
and not because I've fallen in love with said garment.  

Of course, why would I need clothes when I basically live only in long cotton 
nightgowns?  Well, a girl has to have something to wear to see her doctor or get 
her hair cut every few months.  I still have SOME standards.

Any suggestions for on-line shopping for the over-fifty's?  Let me know!  It's 
getting a bit tough to laugh about anything as serious as fashion. ;)

The THING About Waiting Rooms...

Legs in training....

Since I promised to bring survival tips for my hoped-for readers, here's one 
that may appear to be a bit unorthodox but a real winner for me.

Anyone with any sort of chronic illness is very susceptible to germs and viruses 
from everywhere.  Obviously.  Duh!   With CFIDS/CFS/ME, our immune systems are 
hinky, thus the "ID" in CFIDS, the "Immune Dysfunction" syndrome part.  Our 
immune systems are over-active and under-active, both at the same time, so very 
contradictory in an illness full of contradictions.

I need to meet about every month or so with my long-suffering GP, who of 
everyone I've ever seen in my plethora of doctors over the past 37 years, from 
New York City across the good old USA, has been the best and most successful 
help in my care.  We make a good team, actually, as we've together tackled 
research and question seemingly everything that comes our way.  Some years we're 
gung-ho about learning every new thing, other years we just throw up our hands, 
give up and go into survival mode.  A small-town GP, he's more than a bit 
understanding and has more patience than I could ever dredge up, which is not to 
say we agree on all, but just that he's one of the best things that's ever 
happened to me.  Oh, he does sometimes see me as a bit of sport and I just know 
the man often revs me up to hear what will come out of my mouth next.  But 
compassion when need be, it's there!

However, I hate the germs and viruses that I seem to bring home each and every 
time I see him...or my dentist for that matter.  With my dentist we've agreed 
any work that needs to be done can start around April, once flu season is over, 
but must end by September, before flu season begins.  And the best part, 
perhaps, is that he's enforced these parameters at times when I've thought to 
myself, "flu season be darned," crazily thinking I was just too careful.

I can't exactly not see my GP, however, for so long.  So after many years, which 
included two serious bouts of pneumonia, we've worked out a system that seems to 
be the answer to some of the problems of my funky immune system.  My 
long-suffering hubby goes to the office, as I stay behind in the car with a book 
or my Kindle, signs me in, takes care of whatever finances need to be addressed 
and actually SITS in the waiting room for the moment when my name is called.  He 
then quickly runs out to the car and we go in through a back door, thus avoiding 
as many sneezing and coughing people as possible.

How I wish we had some sort of system like that when the kids were little and 
you'd take your children in for a "well visit," only to bring home three kids 
laden with chicken pox or some of the other childhood illnesses lurking in the 
pediatrician's office!  But I digress....

To tell you the truth I am always tempted to take some sort of germ-killer in a 
can and spray it at all within my reach.  Despite many outrageous things I HAVE 
tried, Lycol'ing my way to an exam room is even too much for me, SO FAR.

Yes, I may sound like a diva, but here is an example of why this has become a 
necessity.  I came down with a common bug going around one winter and was sick 
as a dog for two solid years.  Just as I was in the home stretch something 
strange happened to my legs...they turned blotchy and mottled with lovely shades 
of purple and red.  They've stayed that way for the most part, unfortunately.  
They are of huge interest to my doctors...they seem to love looking at them and 
speculating as to how the heck THAT happened.  I'm not so easily amused.  And 
poor hubby - my legs were what he'd first fallen in love with, only later my 
sparkling personality!  <wink!>

So, if your immune system is really wacko and you know that a needed or required 
visit to your physician may cause you to come down with everything down to the 
seven plagues of Egypt, consider my strategy.  Granted, it may be difficult to find 
someone in your life who's willing to sit in a waiting room full of sniffles and 
sneezes but it's a heck of a lot harder to come down with a bug that can take 
months and months to rid yourself of.  Plus I find that with each "flare," we do 
get more permanent damage to our bodies.  Ask my legs.

Laughing from my sickbed about my profile....

One  bad day in the mid-80's: hubby's idea of lightening the mood, a gorilla-gram!  I love that I have a bracelet on even when sick.

If I had any idea whatsoever as to what the profile questions were about, I'd 
answer them, no problem!   I really don't mean to sound mysterious.

I'm a wife, a mom and, I hope, a good friend.  My "long-suffering" hubby and I 
have known each other for 37 years, meeting on, of all things, a blind date and 
falling in love at, just about, first sight.  My first reaction upon seeing the 
tall guy in front of me?  "S*^t!  THIS is what I've been waiting for all my 
life?" and proceeding to answer no more than "yes" and "no" for the entire 
evening.  We've been married for 36 years and have three fantastic kids, who 
love their mom and dad's story of how they met and tell everyone about it.  My 
best friend of all time and I have been BFF's for an unbelievable 41 years.  

For a long time I had no idea what the heck was "wrong" with me.  We kept making 
excuses for my seemingly sudden fatigue and brain fog and a host of other 
problems that were added to my "what's wrong with me?" list as the years went 
by.  Eventually, about fifteen years later, I was diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue 
Immune Dysfunction Syndrome (CFIDS) from a severe flu I got in grad school in 
1975, commonly known as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS), a term my fellow 
sufferers and I detest.  If anything, I prefer the British name for it, Myalgic 
Encephalopathy (ME).  The British ME shows that in England, at least, as well as 
Australia, they take this illness more seriously than we Americans do.

Over the years as I've become more and more sick I've worked hard on trying new 
tricks and ways of surviving this illness.  I've been extremely lucky in that my 
hubby and kids have been so supportive of me over the years - and fierce in 
their own fights to help make my life a bit easier to survive.  

But most of all, the thing that has helped our family stay together and fight 
this beast is our gift of laughter.  And it truly IS a gift.  We've had our 
"challenging" periods and were it not for laughter I just know we would not have 
survived this DD ("dreaded disease, "darn disease," etc., you get the drift).  

I have no idea if anyone is actually reading this blog.  It often feels a bit 
like when I catch myself talking to myself - a genetic thing, I tell myself, 
because I do remember my grandmother doing so!  But I certainly hope I develop a bit 
of a following because over these past 37 years I've been able to come up with 
various coping techniques and tips that may help those with CFIDS, Fibromyalgia, 
insomnia, and, indeed, anyone who suffers from chronic illness, be they totally 
bedridden, as basically I am now, or still struggling to hold down a job, or at 
least some semblance of a social life.  

So glad if you've been able to drop in and spend a bit of your time with me.  
Please leave comments if you're at all inclined to do so and/or subscribe.  I 
will answer any questions you may pose and will enjoy hearing from just about 
anyone...it'll be nice if and when I'm no longer talking to myself.

Loving my wonderful Kindle....

In front of Big Ben: badly centered!
Amazon.com has simply got to be one of the greatest places on-line, perhaps even on earth. And here I speak mostly about books, although as I get used to the 
idea that Amazon has expanded into almost everything short of booking (ha!) 
flights to the moon, I'm begrudgingly accepting the shared wall space with 
"other things" <snarl here, please> when I go to their main page. 
I've been in love with Amazon since the late '90's, feeling extremely guilty 
because our town has a truly wonderful independent bookstore, a dying breed. In 
fact, if I can, I really try to buy locally as much as possible across the line.  
And local independent bookstores should definitely be supported. 

Plus there's nothing like getting to know your indie bookseller. Talk about 
recommendations! I well remember the wonderful years when I took my Christmas 
list up to "Words and Music" and Alan, between other customers, spent most of 
the day helping me pick out the perfect book for each person on my list. One 
year his enthusiasm for Angela's Ashes, a brand new book no had heard of as of 
yet - for my very Irish fellow CFIDer from our St. Louis days - knew no bounds.  
It was a very hard sell, but he was HOW right?

As I've become sicker and sicker I turned to Amazon more and more often. And 
when you are a severe insomniac, it's great to be able to shop in the odd hours 
when the world sleeps. 

When Strand Bookstore in New York went on-line, I also ordered from them by the 
huge - and heavy - boxful. They have the most incredible stock. What an 
unbelievable bookseller - I have been known to be the last customer out, with 
sales personnel literally pushing me out the door while hubby pulled. I make NO 
apologies...the store is incredible and when you first walk in, there is so much 
there that your brain simply fries. You need to allot much time for Strand. It 
takes a while for your brain to come back to normal. My notebook of books 
already read is almost a necessity, I find, because my brain never quite makes 
it back to normal after walking in.  On-line is definitely the way to go.

But all along the way I've been falling more deeply in love with Amazon...it's a 
growing love affair.

So when the age of the Kindle came, I was extremely torn. To say I love books? 
Oh, I don't even know how to convey to anyone how much. But the house was 
getting squeezed by them and since I could never part with any books no matter 
how lousy, and because there were no more areas in the house to build more 
shelves, Kindle started being forced on me. It was a matter of "buy more books 
but get rid of the same number of books in order to have some semblance of an 
orderly house," or resort to Kindle. 

Heresy! I was very conflicted. But any time there was a discussion of the new 
Kindle from BookSpan to Charlie Rose to "Good Morning America," my ears were 
glued to what was being said. 

Another complication in this decision making was that anything mechanical, 
especially electrical, which includes clocks, watches and computers, seems to 
die on me, or at the very least constantly breaks down. Hubby still tells anyone 
who will listen about how Big Ben stopped for the first time ever on August 5, 
1976 on our honeymoon. Let's just say Big Ben was working when my new hubby and 
I sat down to have a late sandwich in a tiny square near Big Ben and fifteen 
minutes later he wasn't moving. 

I used to have three computers in my arsenal: one for in the shop being fixed, 
one ABOUT to go to into the shop to be fixed and one having arrived from the 
shop FINALLY fixed. My family will not allow me to even walk by their computers 
because suddenly their screens would start to do weird things. I've even seen my 
middle child see me coming, grab his laptop and flee. Putting the final touches 
on his PhD dissertation from our home, he was not about to risk losing precious 
data brought home from Australia. (Picky! Picky!)

So, why would a person with my history possibly want the hassle of a Kindle? 
Well, in order to keep buying and reading books, of course - silly! Our 
libraries here are very good and hubby makes frequent runs there weekly, but 
some books you just want to own and some books simply aren't instantly 
available. 

Furthermore, for many it is a wonderful way to go. Some of us have trouble 
holding a book, after all, and a Kindle really helps if you want to continue 
reading.

Thirdly, a real problem with CFIDS and Fibromyalgia is the cognitive problems we 
have. As much as I love to read - a wild understatement - I must admit that 
there have been times when I've forced myself to read, just in order to keep my 
mind from atrophying. I can't believe I'm admitting this, but there have been a 
couple of times when I resorted to harlequin romances...I needed to read because 
I love to and I needed to read to slow the brain deterioration process. 

I often call myself a "moody" reader but that's simply code for saying that 
there are times I can only handle this sort of book, other times I can only 
handle that sort. "Chick lit" one day, Nobel Prize or Pulitzer Prize winner the 
next. And when I read "Wolf Hall"? I love a really long book. But holding one, 
as I mentioned before, is a different story. Finally, being able to match a book 
to your mood in just an instant really helps that pesky "mood" problem.

Anyway, a few months into the second generation of my first Kindle, the 
inevitable happened. I didn't know whether to laugh, cry or get mad at myself. 
Instead, I finally called the Amazon Kindle number to talk to someone and a few 
minutes later, talking to a really, really polite and kind young man, we 
realized that my Kindle was really and truly dead. Since the year warranty was 
still in effect (what WAS I thinking when I didn't buy the extended warranty 
with my history?) I was sent a new Kindle, free of charge. I just had to 
remember to mail back the old one within 30 days, which is not as easy as it 
sounds when you can do nothing, nor remember anything, yet ridiculously easy for 
the rest of the world. They even set it up for me by entering my old books into 
it and the heading on the top of the Kindle read "Irene's 2nd Kindle." Sweet!

Were we all in a group I might stop here and ask how many know where this is 
going! You may be right.

You see, the other night I received "Irene's 5th Kindle." To tell you the truth 
I was a bit uncomfortable calling about this fifth one...in fact, the warranty 
had run out. I knew the warranty starts anew with each new Kindle but I was 
just too plain lazy ("too sick" and "too tired"...remember our code words here!) to 
call and explain the dying process of my fourth Kindle. 

Finally, with the warranty over, I now had to choose from quite an array of new 
Kindles. Did I mention I have a hard time making decisions - a very typical 
CFIDS problem?  Well, finally Kindle number four died absolutely and completely.  
I was going to order a new one after much hemming and hawwing. But I wasn't sure 
that I'd be able to handle the library transfer and registration parts, so I 
wanted to order one from an actual human being. Amazon has them, you see...I 
suspect they're there to be amused by the senior crowd who have no clue as to 
what they are doing. 

I finally got around to calling. And in less than five minutes I was informed 
that by paying $60 I could have a brand new Kindle, the very one I was ready to 
put real money into. How amazing is that?

I must say that the support woman was a bit....shocked?...when she realized this 
was my fifth Kindle. I refrained from telling her about my Big Ben incident.

And England: I'm so sorry. I really didn't mean to hurt Big Ben. It was a 
totally innocent and unintentional act!  My sincerest apologies to all.

Laughing from my sickbed about the new multi-tasking craze...

Oh my.  I have discovered an incredible new category of beauty products, the BB creams, which stand for "Blemish Balm" or "Blemish Base."  Actually, the names are pretty silly because controlling "blemishes" seems the very least of their tasks - if at all.  I wasn't sure exactly how long they'd been around but they seemed to be a wonderful idea for those of us who are a bit lazy when it comes to sun protection and beauty products, be they skincare of just makeup.

OK, OK.  I suppose I should explain my language. When I say, "lazy," I really mean, "too tired and sick."  "Lazy" just seems to make me feel more in control of my life, I suppose. 

Getting back to the BB creams.  I looked them up on Sephora and luckily for me, I didn't have to start pickin' and choosin'.  I am soooo indecisive.  Sephora had a package of a few BB creams just perfect for suckers like me.  Whoops!  Did I say "suckers"?   I meant "enthusiasts." I also had two separate samples from two different companies.  Wow!  I was in business.

The BB creams appear to be all-in-ones.  There are a few differences among them but all appear to be a combination of sunscreen and/or moisturizer/primer, a bit of color that is supposed to fit all and they usually include a skin treatment of one type or another.  You pick out the type you want by which properties you need, be that anti-aging, a  bucket load of anti-oxidants, skin lightening or brightening, and who knows what else!   Incredible.  Since I can never remember which comes first, a sunscreen or a serum, this whole BB cream concept is a no-brainer for me.

If it's at all possible that these creams work, then I'm all for them making my life a little bit easier. It's getting to be a bit difficult to use so very many products at once.  If I don't use sunscreen I'm a fool, if I don't use moisturizer I'll look like a prune, if I don't use a primer my foundation will slide off within an hour of application, and on and on it goes.  In many case I've stopped putting on makeup because it has become such a minefield of products.  And the expression "mutton dressed like lamb" comes to mind, too.

I started off with the Dr. Jart+ Premium Balm (there are two Dr. Jart+'s..why, I have no idea) and can't say how great it is or is not.  The packaging was so wonderfully elegant that I bored my hubby silly by making him examine it for himself.  Of the two of us, I was the person who won the enthusiasm award by a landslide.

Doing a bit of homework I discovered that Dr. Jart+ is evidently one of the first of the BB creams to come to the States from Asia.  Invented by a German dermatologist for patients undergoing laser treatment to sooth red sensitive skin, evidently the creams took South Korea by storm, spreading to the rest of Asia, and then to the US.  BB creams have been described as "an Asian cult favorite."

I have to give Dr. Jart+ another try but I didn't get a rash or break out or feel a burn from my first attempt, a huge plus.  I find that my skin really doesn't like extras, be it because of illness, medicines I'm taking or just plain me, I have no idea.  So, I believe my Dove soap - whoops, they call it a "beauty bar" now - may very well have found a sibling to join my family of must-have's.  I only have to work on figuring out which one I end up liking the most!  

I promise I'll let you know...after all, I'm here to help you live your life a little bit more easily...!

Laughing from my sickbed about my beloved Dove....

I began my last post with the words, "Color me lazy," because I've lived the 
vast majority of my life with little more than Dove soap.  But suddenly I 
realize that I'm not the only "lazy" person out there who's my age, from the era 
when we cared so much about makeup, but really did not worry too much about our 
skin.  

Thank heavens most of us were using Dove soap, now called Dove "beauty bar" in 
order to reach/grab the beauty business.  I've seen that it's now winning awards 
in "best of" lists for magazines such as InStyle.  But the dirty little secret 
here: the Dove we used back in the '60's and '70's is not the Dove of today.  
Believe or not, but our's was much better.  It's been reformulated over the 
years and that's just plain lousy!  Many of us old-timers are spending a lot of 
time lamenting the demise of the old Dove and get more than a bit upset when our 
hubbies accidentally bring home a huge lot of the wrong kind of Dove, like the 
new sensitive editions, exfoliating versions and so forth.  The newly 
reformulated Dove we can sort of live with but the new kinds out there?  Don't 
even get us started!  And what, we wonder, ever happened to the 1/4 moisturizing 
cream of the ads and commercials of yore?  Like I said, don't even get us 
started!

Dove has now spread out to dozens and dozens of products in an effort, I suppose, 
to stay in business with all the face cleansers out there today.  Around the 
time I was in eighth grade, Dove's only competitor seemed to be Noxema, and who 
even remembers Noxema today?  Pond's is still around but that seemed to be a 
product our moms used.  Oil of Olay was a competitor too and I remember using 
that lovely pale pink lotion in a glass bottle on my face for a while, loving 
the smell of it, buying it only when it was on sale because those were our salad 
years when hubby and I could barely manage the rent.  Sooo silly because I 
didn't really need it.  Dove took care of everything, and anything extra I put 
on my face usually caused a small bout of bumps of one sort or another to come 
out as if to warn me what would happen if I even thought of using anything but 
my beloved Dove.

When the Soviet Union fell apart, I flew to visit my cousin in '96, a time 
when Russia was suffering severe shortages of everything from basic aspirin to 
basic food.  Along with candy for her grandchildren I carried many, many bars of 
Dove as a treat for my cousin.  Can you tell I love the stuff?  (And yes, I did 
bring those precious medicines that they needed back then...I'm not completely 
superficial!)

In the hospital I once made the huge mistake of showering with the soap they had 
there - a reputable brand - and within five minutes I started to scratch all 
over.  By the time I called hubby to quickly bring over some Dove from home, 
rashes were setting in.  It was a nasty picture.  I'd never used anything but 
Dove even on my children as babies, having made many a convert to Dove over the 
decades, but from that hospital moment on, I haven't even traveled anywhere but 
with my Dove.  My cousin in Russia, I felt, deserved no less.

My BFF - a term I'm not overly fond of because visions of Paris Hilton and 
Nicole Ricci bounce in my head - and I so love Dove that when she went on her 
first big trip to Europe with her hubby she actually calculated exactly how much 
Dove she needed to bring with her to carry herself and her hubby through those 
weeks but not have any to bring back home with her either.  (And people wonder 
why we've been best friends for over 41 years?)  She knew Dove's properties so 
well that her calculations were right down to the very last day away from home.  
When we traveled to England and later to Paris, we just grabbed however much we 
thought we needed and then some.  By the time Linda went to Europe with her 
hubby, the airlines were cracking down on how much weight and how much luggage 
could be brought with us.  Such a shame!

As I'm discovering a whole world of new CATEGORIES of beauty products (more on 
that to come) I realize that we were so lucky to have had Dove.  It was an era 
of getting as tanned as could be, even if some of us (read pale-skinned me) 
couldn't tan but burn to lobster red.  Dove, which I still use religiously, I 
have a feeling will never be substituted, that is, if they more or less stick 
to their old formula.  My other products may come and go, but my Dove, I hope, 
will be here to stay.

Laughing from my sickbed about skin care.....

Can you tell my BFF picked out this picture for me?  I can!

Color me lazy.  I suppose I've been blessed by good DNA when it comes to wrinkles and such because I've basically lived with little more than good old Dove soap as just about my only skincare.  Oh, I bought LaMer, a ridiculously expensive cream worth every penny for my face too, but I can't say that it's helped a HUGE amount - only because I don't use it on a regular basis.  It's wonderful, wonderful.  I love it.  And its more expensive, but even more effective "The Concentrate," has helped me out of a few jams over the years when need be.  

But the new beauty thing these days seems to be about skinCARE!  Who even cared about skincare until about the last five years - or even less?  No one!  Well, perhaps a few hippies in California, but really, did they even count?  We had makeup, by golly, and we used it liberally.  There was a time NO one saw me without my war paint on, not even my ob/gyn when I delivered three ten-pound screamers.

It's truly amazing how much "paint" can accomplish.  About a year ago, I had a regular appointment with my GP and found that after my shower/bathing ordeal, I actually had a bit of time and, better yet, energy on my hands.  What to do?  I really, really hate to sit around.  Lie around is one thing, but sitting around takes precious ENERGY.

Well, I thought, let's put on some foundation.  And trust me, I really do need foundation. My freckles, let's face it, are, at fifty-plus, not freckles but age spots!  And I have always hidden them... well, once I reached college and was out of sight of my old-fashioned and very strict mom.

So I thought to myself, let's shake the heck out of my long-suffering GP.  He'd not seen me look anywhere near "good" in over a year.  A girl remembers these things, you know.  A little later, bored by the extra time, I thought I'd put on some eyeliner too.  That's getting towards the "big guns" and a real pain because the hand's not too steady any longer.  In fact, if hubby is helping me get ready and sees the eyeliner in my hand, he know to flee.  Nothing puts me into as foul a mood as putting on eyeliner.  It used to be something that took no more than two minutes, if I were having a bad day.  Now, darn it, the eyesight is going too, so that makes it an even harder job to accomplish.  Magnifying mirror is not enough...worse mood.

After about two hours of paint, rest, paint, rest, I was looking pret-ty dern good.  That Nars illuminator with the Bare Escentuals Radiance worked beautifully together but I know I'll never be able to reproduce the successful combination...sigh.  

I had my appointment and as I was leaving, my doctor said, "you are looking really good today!"  I've never, ever been able to take a compliment graciously - mostly because I'm looking for some sort of hidden smirk behind the compliment.  After muttering something inane about how it took me two hours to achieve this look (how embarrassing is THAT statement?) I suddenly remembered that there WAS something I forgot to mention, a new, big pain.  Understand I live in pain every day, but this was new.  OK.  I get new stuff all the time too, but this actually got MY attention, somewhat of a miracle, trust me!

Well, I looked so good that the doctor poo-poo'ed it and pointed out how much stress we were under lately...true.  I didn't think that explained the "new pain" but...hey, the man's been right on an occasion or two (ha!).

That day I also decided that the two almost year-old prescriptions for glasses I'd been carrying around could be filled at the one-hour place at the mall.  Yes siree, get me out of my bed and the sky's the limit.  Often my daughter will say, "so, shall we now drive up to Babushka's?"... her grandmother who lives eight hours away. Cute kid!  Very funny kid.

I was in an absolutely wonderful mood.  I actually picked out two frames I loved, a first.  My son and I sat down where he gobbled down his dinner and then ate mine too.  Good time as we walked around.  

My luck!  I picked up the glasses and tried them on.  Both prescriptions were wrong...WAY wrong.  The man, who HAD thought that they were an odd prescription, tried to talk me into liking the new "vision."  I informed him that IF my son were playing at the Super Bowl and IF I wanted to see if his nose were running, only THEN would I need the new prescription.  I had thought the new eye doctor might have been a bit off when I saw her...OK, I actually wondered if she was nipping from a bottle, but never did I expect a bad prescription.  The reading glasses were off too.  The poor optometrist at the one-hour place was about to go home but he was roped into checking my eyes.  I really did not want to come back.  Who knew WHEN I'd put makeup on again, much less get out of bed for a day...carpe diem, as my disgustingly optimistic hubby would say.  Seize the day!

Two new pairs of glasses had to be grinded.  My son looked at me and said, "things never do go quite smoothly for you, mom, do they?" Oh, as I've said once before, out of the mouth of babes!  An hour later, I was on my way home, happy that I'd picked out new glass frames to go with eyes which had on makeup.  The last time had been without eye makeup and it was a most unfortunate move.

But the next day, I had a really bad pain that nothing would help.  I finally woke up that eternally optimistic hubby of mine who took one look at me and said, "OK...off to the ER!"  There we had many tests and it turned out that this new pain was gall bladder stones!  Appointments for further testing were made.

So, the moral of my story?  Well, there are several morals but I'll only point out a few.

Ladies, do NOT throw your doctor off by putting on war paint when going for an appointment. It really threw my GP off his game.  Wow!  Was HE ever shocked! 

Secondly?  DO wear your eye makeup when picking out new eyeglass frames.  I hated every minute of the four years I wore the pair where I wore no makeup picking out the frames.  Sad.

Thirdly, if you think there's something wrong about a doctor...look into it, for heaven's sake.  That woman was nuts!  NOT to mention blind.

Fourthly: skincare is here to stay, girls!  Forget the big guns and paint.  Yes, the no-makeup look takes a lot of work but don't let anyone fool you...it's a lot easier to achieve if your skin is good to begin with.  I know, it's very time-consuming, but what can I say?  Sometimes it's a real pain being a woman.

Finally, if you go to the ER, you may want to consider washing your face off with bleach and detergent...you WANT to look bad and not radiant from the latest wonderful blush you bought.  Church: wear it all.  Hospital?  If you want to be taken seriously, don't even THINK about hydrating your face!