I whisper I need a new crayon

The husband and I were invited out to the boss' home for dinner. Seems his new girlfriend is preparing a meal of delicious things to eat. It is to be a spaghetti dinner straight from the avenues of Sicily. Sauce simmered for hours with the tastiest ingredients, a secret family dressing to marinate the vegies in a traditional salad, and caponata with crunchy crackers. A feast of the senses. Me. The one gluten intolerant and reactive to foods. I don't want to be sick or offend, what am I to do?

My husband stepped in, funny how he didn't do any of this when we went camping with his parents, and spoke for me. The girlfriend was ever so generous and prepared a spaghetti squash instead of wheat pasta (she even purchased rice spaghetti if that were my choice). My mouth waters with the remembrance of that squash and meaty sauce. She even bought me rice crackers for the hors’d’oeuvres. I had no immediate food reaction. None of that instant nausea when wheat or it's many derivatives hits the stomach, but today the fibromyalgia is knocking on the door.

To 'be nice' I did eat foods I knew I was going to react to. How could I not eat her lovely red sauce on the spaghetti squash even though it has pork in it? I don't want to be the Spanish inquisitor for every dish being served. I live in a world that is so very different from the norm. I often feel like a bubble girl. I can see out and my world is wide and spacious with a thin protective barrier surrounding me. When others look in they just see isolation with cramped borders. It is that thin protective layer that causes the misunderstanding.

My husband did not understand that it is two hours past my bedtime, a bedtime dictated not by need for sleep, but by the need to be asleep before the pain begins, and my husband is still visiting and the burning ache is in my legs, and the hips are screaming 'enough', and I am missing snippets of conversation because the words are drowned out by twinges, I can't focus on anything else and I want to be home so I can privately moan when it is too intense, to change gravity by stretching on the bed that makes my nighttime bearable.

Wishing so very much to be 'normal' and just be in the moment. A moment not crayoned in the silver of pain.

Contemplation on the Edge of Time

 
Tomorrow. I had a child out of wedlock. My parents made me (Then) give her up for adoption. The me (Now) would have not gone along so acquiescently. I remember avoiding the nursery since I knew she was not mine (Then). She was (Now). A few times I attempted to guess in which of the bassinets along the wall she lay. She started life in the back of the class. I should have asked to see her. She was of me, from me. Could-a, would-a, should-a.

The dilemma? I want to start a search. Unfortunately, the adoption was arranged in a 'closed records' state. I put contact info in her file years ago, but no strangers have knocked on the door. She is 37. Old enough to have unanswered questions. Maybe no one told her. What then?

As I have mentioned other times, I have poor memory. Perhaps it is a consequence of the fibromyalgia I struggle with most days. Perhaps it is a blessing from above to wake unhindered from past mistakes, regrets, and sorrows.

"Everybody needs his memories. They keep the wolf of insignificance from the door.  --Saul Bellow

Ah-OOO ooo oooo oo. I can hear them howling. Insignificance panting on the horizon. Poor memory made me struggle to remember the birth father's name, a boyfriend my junior year of high school. After a few hours of Internet searching, I found him. Facebook. Duh. He recently moved back to the scene of the crime. Also opened that Facebook account. Serendipity. So what now? Do I contact him? To what end? I am searching my motive. Time enough in the tomorrows.

Today. The spouse had the follow up appointment for his edema. We never got the results. His complaints started shortly after we arrived. The customary bitching about the appointment time is merely a suggestion for the doctor. Okay. I agreed, but that is reality. It was bla-bla-bitch all the time in the examining room. After two hours he said outta here and off we go. On the ride home, he says he better not be charged for this visit. Like it is my job to fix that! He did wonder if I would have any repercussions from his actions. Nope, I am not the one acting like an ass. My coworkers know my character. It did amuse me when he ranted the doctor could now call him at home with the results. If only...

Yesterday. I miss waking daily to see my daughter and grandboy. My trip east was restorative. I felt real. I returned to the facade. I want to be there, not here. *Howl*

A Six Word Day

Eat vegetables. Grow healthy. Become healed.

I watched a movie named "The Gerson Miracle". It examines many of the elements of the Gerson Therapy, explaining why we are so ill and how we have in our grasp the power to recover our health without expensive, toxic or mutilating treatments.

Could I overcome the pain and fatigue I live with daily?

Lazy Evening

I forgot to pack a T shirt in my gym bag. Rats. I knew I was going home and not back out tonight. Put a clean shirt in my bag for tomorrow. I am determined to continue the exercise to limit my pain this winter. Go Team.

Grandma's Knees

Ah, after a night of indulgence my knees remind me of the decades we have together. Time to replenish fluids and take some pain killers. Drinked, danced and was merry. Life is good.