Things Learned While Travelling Part 2

1. People do not know the rights Service Dogs have. Not even some legitimate Service Dog handlers.
2. My husband has a fantastic family whose love for each other is incredibly deep and will last lifetimes.
3. Travelling is one of the most exhausting things for a Spoonie to attempt to do.
4. It takes my husband being exhausted for four days in a row for him to start feeling the level of exhaustion I have after four hours of being awake.
5. Kennels are nice, but re-uniting with your puppy after a trip is better. (Jeph had a glorious time at his puppy summer camp.)
6. I will pay whoever I need to pay so that I never have to go to Texas ever again. Ugh. My apologies to anyone who loves Texas, but you're wrong.
7. Never admit to any American that you hate the song "God Bless the USA" (... and I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free...) (And I did just admit it here. Woops. That background track, though...Ew.)
8. There is actually not a site more inspiring and lovely than a bunch of families rushing to greet their loved ones they haven't seen in months.
9.  Jeph is a mix of Heeler and Alaskan Malamute. We saw a picture of those puppies and it was exactly him. Yes, this doesn't apply to anyone except us, but still. I learned this while travelling.
10. You're not drinking enough water. Go have a glass right now. You're welcome.

Things Learned While Travelling Part 1

Things I Have Learned By Travelling Part 1:

-People are mostly self-centered when in airports and will knock service dogs out of their way to get to their gates.

-McDonald's is good everywhere.

-I hate talking to people on planes.

-So many people refuse to read "Do Not Pet" signs.

-TSA agents are sweethearts who are usually dog lovers and who are doing a thankless job.

-DFW is the Devil. I have found Hell, and it is consistently located in the bowels of the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport.

-Any airport that claims to have services to accommodate disabilities really just means that they have an elevator somewhere and some dirty wheelchairs that don't actually function and maybe someone who doesn't communicate well to drive you to a random gate.

-Riley is one of the most well-behaved Service Dogs in an airport at any given time.

-People love Riley and will run me over to ask her how she is and if she is a good dog.

-People think that if someone has a Service Dog, it is okay to interrupt their private conversations to loudly inquire about said dog.

-My husband is still my hero and gets even more annoyed than I do with the stuff disabled travellers have to put up with.

-Chick-Fil-A will give you a plain grilled chicken patty for your dog if you ask (yes, you pay for it).

-We need more USO rooms in DFW. PLEASE.

-Travelling with people who know what they're doing or travelling by yourself are the best ways to travel. Unless you like stress and adults acting like tired toddlers. 

-Watching CNN while waiting to board does not help with travel stress (AAAAAAAAAAA).

-Always wear loose-fitting clothes and say "screw it" to bras and belts. Put a sweater or jacket on over that business and be comfy. You'll thank me later.

-Empty water bottles that can be filled up after security are invaluable unless you like paying outrageous amounts of money for airport water.

-Be prepared (Scar or Boy Scouts version).

-No one can pronounce my last name.

VETERANS DESERVE BETTER

Okay, so this is going to be a long post so buckle up because I am furious. I used to be one of you. I used to be like, "Don't the veterans have enough funding? Our military spending is out of control. Why is our government constantly asking for more money?" I did. I honestly did. I wish I could go back in time and smack myself. Anyone who thinks the state of veteran affairs in the USA is just fine should be forced to go to their local VA hospital for an emergency situation. But since y'all can't do that, I'll just describe some of the shit that people who fought and lost for us have to go through. I should also mention that I've never been a super hardcore patriot, and I really really really really hate war. I would be happy if there was never any need for a military and we all just got along. But since there is a need for one, the extremely brave men and women and others who fight to protect us NEED TO BE TAKEN CARE OF AND AT THE VERY LEAST TREATED LIKE HUMAN BEINGS WITH FEELINGS.
Right after I posted my previous post, I took a lovely bath. After the bath, I attempted to take a nap. Suddenly, my stomach cramps were horribly worse and the bleeding was seemingly out of control. I called my Primary Care Manager's office and the receptionist ordered me to go directly to the ER closest to me as soon as I could. Cue me calling my husband at work in a panic. Cue his superiors telling him to "go take care of her." Honestly, my husband has the best people in the world to work with. More on that later. The hospital connected to my Primary Care Manager's building seemed like the logical place to go, as it was the closest and it would eliminate insurance battles and confusing paperwork for some poor overworked Tricare representative (who are all extremely lovely humans).  It just so happened that the hospital connected with the medical unit my PCM works for is a VA hospital. I thought nothing about that at the time, as there was blood everywhere and I was expecting a normal ER experience. Poor, sad, naive little me.
We got to the VA hospital (I'll call it the VA from now on) and secured a parking place. We had left my service dog at home as we were in a blind panic and didn't think, "Hey, Abby has PTSD from many things but ESPECIALLY HOSPITALS so we should probably bring the one thing that helps with that."
The building was disgusting. Run down chairs. Gross floors. Confusing hallways. Old color scheme. Huge pamphlets that were misspelled lined the wall, advertising things like "Homless Shelter's" and "Funerall Service's." We were handed paperwork that asked a bunch of questions about my prior service. Of which I had none. Looking around the waiting area, I felt extremely uncomfortable. I asked my husband if he would ask if this was indeed where we were supposed to go. I did not want to take a bed or doctor away from an elderly veteran with an emergency, which is who the waiting room was filled with. My husband asked the desk clerk about this, was told that yes this was indeed the hospital that was connected with my PCM and we did the right thing. He was handed a new piece of paper that had him fill out a bunch of information about himself and me and our relationship and why and what else I don't know because I was bleeding and in pain. After about a half hour, we were "Triage'd." We saw a nurse and got asked all the intake questions and I got an EKG and some blood work in a creepy side room that if I looked hard enough at, I could see the dust on the walls. The poor overworked tech who took my blood and did my EKG did everything roughly and quickly. I actually have scars on the inside of my mouth from biting everything so hard to keep from screaming from the painful needle insertions. When I warned the tech that I have EDS and my veins would be hard to find, she acted like I was lying and was a huge setback in her otherwise perfect day. After she finished all my "tests," I was left alone in that creepy room for a while to lick my own wounds. My husband confessed to me he'd nearly thrown up six times watching everything happen to me. After this, we were shuttled back out to the creepy waiting area to wait for a bed. A huge TV was playing this awful real crime show that would have been fine if it weren't for the room full of veterans visibly jumping every time a gun shot went off on the screen. I watched a jovial man with a tiny service dog attempt to converse happily with his neighbor, trying and to keep his mind off the screams and shots coming from the TV. His dog "alerted" him to his odd behavior every time a shot or scream happened and he paused in his speech to go to somewhere far away in his mind. His poor tiny dog did its best, but after a few hours it was so exhausted it contented itself to sleep on the man's foot, attempting to "ground" him.
That's right, I said hours. I was actively bleeding. I don't even want to think about what the emergency of some of the others in that waiting area was. And yet we sat in the waiting room for five solid hours. Five. Hours. My husband eventually had to run home and get Riley (as I was not okay) and let Jeph out to pee. While he was gone, I slipped in and out of PTSD flashbacks. So much fun. When he came back with Riley, I cried with relief. An angry nurse came out of some dark corner behind the desk and said my name. And just like that, I got to go to the back where the doctors and nurses were. I thought my troubles were over. I was wrong.
The nurse that we had was the most lovely human being. She was trying her best to keep from drowning in a sea of responsibilities that was too much for one person. As she took us from the angry nurse and led us to a bed, another nurse told her that she better go talk to the guy in bed twelve as he had been there for six hours and was really angry. Bless her soul, her sigh was barely audible as she carefully and firmly asked the other nurse to do some damn work (not her words, but I could tell that was what she was thinking) and go talk to the guy as it was the other nurse's room. She and the student nurse she was training (yes, this woman was also trying to train someone else on top of everything) did a good job taking down my allergies and my vitals. But then, when I told them of the medications I was on, they didn't have anyplace to write down this information. I had told the intake people of my allergies and medications as well, but on my arm band it said "No Known Allergies" and "No Known Medications." After an exceptionally long wait, we got to see the doctor.
I say the doctor because I think she might have been the only doctor there. And she was either overworked or extremely incompetent. Our guess is that she was some lovely combination of the two. The woman spent two hours doing God knows what at her desk after listening to me telling her I was ACTIVELY BLEEDING. Our nurse checked in on us at the two hour mark and apologized, telling us the doctor had probably forgotten about us. And the doctor confirmed this when she came back in. She then did an examination so rough and ineffective that Riley tried to guard me from her. The doctor couldn't see into the orifice the blood was coming out of, so she asked for a light. After ten minutes, a light from some 60's horror movie was creakily wheeled in. At this point, I was shaking so badly that Riley tried yet again to get the doctor away from me. I had to tell my service dog to stop doing her job so that the doctor could hurt me yet again by an exam so rough and incompetent that my very sweet and never violent husband confessed he fantasized about punching her. Her diagnosis? I was bleeding.
That's right, folks. We were now on hour seven of being in an ER for bleeding and we finally got a diagnosis...of bleeding. So glad there was a doctor there to tell me that, otherwise how would I have known I was officially bleeding? I hope you can hear the sarcasm, because I'm not sure I can turn it up any louder. She then disappeared for more hours to "page an emergency Gastroenterologist." She "paged" this person for four hours. Or was it three hours? I don't know. Anyways, at hour nine my husband and I were literally laughing hysterically and blowing up gloves and hitting each other with them. You see, there was no cell service anywhere in the building. So we had spent about four hours in the back of the ER with nothing to do but play conversation games and try to not scream at anyone. So now we've got a total of nine hours. Nine hours. At hour seven, we had begged to be discharged and called by this mystery Gastro person later. At hour nine, the doctor finally told us that was okay with her. At hour nine and a half, a different nurse came in, apologized to us, and told us that she had forced the doctor to let us leave. We escaped from the building like it was burning.
And if you think my experience was bad, let me tell you a few more of the things that I saw there. I saw vet after vet come in on gurneys, having collapsed in various areas of the city. And these brave men and women were collapsing from wholly preventable things. They were homeless or living in poverty and could not afford their medical supplies. There were several who knew the EMTs and the nurses as they collapse every day or every other day due to not having colostomy bags, insulin, etc. And they were treated so rudely. They were talked about as if they were things and not people. They were talked over and ignored. Let me repeat: they were spoken about as if they were objects. A man was trying hard to tell someone, anyone that his problem was his colostomy bag and if they would just change it then he could go and not take up room in the ER and instead of speaking to him and acknowledging him, they kept putting his oxygen mask back on and telling him to be quiet and wait his turn. When it was his turn, a woman listened to his feeble mumblings and, without saying a word to him, yelled to a co-worker, "Hey *name*, I've got a disgusting job for you!" A disgusting job. Yeah, I get changing a bag is gross, but still. The questions "Are you homeless" and "Do you have supplies" were repeated over and over again. Excuse the dark humor, but if anyone was looking for a VA drinking game... And they called security on one man who had to be in his seventies, as the EMTs said he was just going from ER to ER all day getting the supplies he needed to stay alive. And security made him leave. Another man had a severe PTSD episode and was kicked out by security. Veterans who had a friend or caregiver with them were relying on that person to get them to and from the bathroom, bring them water and medical supplies, etc. Can you imagine having to go from ER to ER to stay alive? Can you imagine being a veteran who is saluted in the media and USA culture as being brave and heroic, yet being forced to rely on that hell hole for your medical care, treated roughly and ineffectually, and sometimes thrown out for trying to stay alive? I had the option of going somewhere else. These veterans do not get to choose.
On my way out, my husband went to get the car while Riley tried to find a place to pee. I met a Navy veteran who told me that yes, the VA is terrible, but it was the only warm place he could find for the night. He was headed in to fake an emergency so that they would let him sleep in the waiting room.
I heard chatter in the waiting room that this hospital was actually one of the better ones. The VA hospitals are understaffed, underfunded, and wholly unsuitable for the care our veterans need and deserve. It breaks my heart. It is still breaking my heart. And making me furious.

Compare and contrast that horrible day with my second ER experience. In the middle of the night, my already terrifying condition got twice as terrifying. My husband rushed me to a different hospital near our home that happened to be rated the best in our state, a fact we didn't know at the time. Within three hours I had a bag of IV fluids, a CT scan, blood tests, urine tests, had seen a competent doctor four times, had gotten a competent exam that didn't make my husband want to punch anyone, had multiple needle sticks that were done so effectively and quickly that I actually didn't realize they were happening, had a medical record typed up and had everything documented, was apologized to at 90 minutes for my visit "taking so long," as they were "super busy" that evening, and had a diagnosis and a referral to a specialist for further management. A specialist that I actually ended up seeing the same day because I was an emergency case. And now I've got tests scheduled and e-mails sent to me confirming these appointments.

My diagnosis, by the way, is that I am internally hemorrhaging, but at a very slow rate. I'm not in life-threatening danger because of the slow rate of bleeding, but holy hell it hurts. I am home now, resting until my tests the first week of March. In the meantime, I am supposed to rest and to try to not let this awfulness make me worry. I'm home now. I'm safe, warm, I have food and water, and I have a TV and Netflix and Hulu to keep me calm and help me rest and heal. I wish I could say all of our veterans have the same luxuries.

I don't know who to call about how awful the veterans have it. I don't know if writing to my senators or the president or anyone will help. I hope that this blog post, however tiny and not widely read, will shed some light on their plight.

A brief note - Remember how I said that my husband and I are blessed with how wonderful the people he works with are? Several of his direct superiors stopped by the house yesterday with flowers and told me that if I ever have another emergency and cannot get my husband on the phone, I can call them and they will either get him or come here and drive me to the hospital themselves. "Air Force Family" is a phrase that is said often, and I have found it to be true. Because there is so much talk about "Military Family," I feel even more responsible to speak up about the conditions retired "Family" members are forced to endure.

What Even Was This Week So Far?

Sorry for the delay in posting new things, but I've been incredibly busy. Of course if you're following my Instagram, you have an idea of some of the things that I've dealt with the past few days.

On February 13, I woke up to the doorbell ringing and my dogs losing their furry minds. When I opened the door, there was a florist with an arrangement of a dozen roses and baby's breath! I was so shocked! The florist didn't want to just leave the flowers outside because there was what qualifies as a Winter storm in New Mexico going on, so he just kept ringing the doorbell until I got to the door. And as you all know, EDS means I move extremely slowly. My poor dogs. But anyways, the flowers were from my husband and they were gorgeous! They remain gorgeous, sitting proudly on the middle of our dining table. I really don't like sharing romantic things my husband does with the public as they happen, as I feel those things are between us and meant to remain private. So I'm sorry, but there was no Instagram post of the flowers. I do enjoy everyone else's posts about the things they do with their significant others (it's one of my favorite things), but personally I don't feel comfortable posting those types of things until after the fact. When I went to put the flowers on the table on Tuesday, I realized just how incredibly dirty my house was. I couldn't have those flowers in a dirty house. No, sirree.
Fun fact about me: I often have manic episodes that result in crazy amounts of things getting done. They usually last a few hours. This particular one came on suddenly and lasted for five hours. Riley recognizes the look in my eye and will hide to avoid getting a bath. Jeph's soft and shiny coat and freshly-trimmed nails tell the tale (tail haha...I'll see myself out) of how he did not heed his sister's advice and failed to hide in time. Poor little guy hates baths. I have done every trick in the book, but to no avail. On Tuesday, I drained the tub and got in with him. He hid between my legs and was okay with getting the soap rinsed off as long as he didn't get dragged from his hiding place. I mentioned before that he likes showers, but he is simply too big now for me to hold him and clean him and not drop him, especially if he wiggles.
The house enjoyed a deep clean. The living room, garage, kitchen, dining room, laundry room, and bedroom were all taken care of. I had to shower three separate times, as I am allergic to all dust and my manic cleaning kicked up quite a lot of it. By the time my husband came home from work, I was exhausted on the couch, hardly able to move.
I was vaguely aware that a year prior, my husband had got down on one knee and asked me to be his. But I assumed we would just be happy about it and save our celebrations for Valentine's Day. I assumed wrong.
My husband told me that we had dinner reservations for 7:30 and that the flowers were indeed meant for February 13, not 14. I was completely flabbergasted and excited, but so very tired. Husband let me take a nap to gain a few more "spoons" (the way the chronic illness community refers to energy*). I had a beautiful time dressing up and doing my hair and makeup extra fancy. Husband kept the destination a secret until we were there. It was this gorgeous restaurant, in our city's preserved antique section of town. It was candle-lit, the food was open-fire-cooked, and the waiters were all obviously professionals who were proud to make this their career. As they should be. What a meal! Steak, crab legs, fresh salads, soups, bread, mousse, and more! It was honestly magical. As was our server's impressive beard. I could go on and on about the merits of this hidden restaurant jewel, but I think I'll keep the rest of this particular memory between my husband and I.
Then came Valentine's Day. Oh, what a day. It began with getting up disgustingly early to drive my husband to work so that I could have the car for the day. What I thought was going to be only a fifteen minute drive to a new Internal Medicine Specialist turned into a forty-five minute evil hell ride, as I had the address wrong when I had looked it up the day before. I'm not even supposed to drive more than ten minutes at a time, as my head and neck end up in an extreme amount of pain. And here we were, having gone forty-five minutes one way. Riley was carsick by the time I finally pulled into what appeared to be a dilapidated old hospital.
Again, if you know me you know that one of my Traumas that fuels my PTSD stems from a terrible hospital/surgery experience. Walking into a converted hospital was not a good idea, but with Riley gently tugging me along, I opened the door and headed in.
I'm sure I've been in a more confusing lobby, but I don't remember it. I had no idea what to do, and there were no signs to tell me. Finally, I found a box of stickers where I was to fill out my personal info. Think "Hello My Name Is" stickers with a few more lines and a place to put your doctor's name. I filled out a sticker, then just stared around the lobby until I caught a passing nurse and begged for instructions. It turns out "everyone knows" that you put this sticker with your personal info in this unmarked box and then just sort of hope that the admitting staff looks in the box and calls you over and also hope that this sticker gets shredded or something. Fun. Eventually, I was called over to a desk where I was "admitted," which was confusing to me and upsetting to my Trauma Brain. I was here to see a specialist, not to get admitted into a system. I ended up getting a yellow band, as I was at risk of falling at any time. The one thing that was good about this whole admitting fiasco was that they had a separate form that asked for my preferences. What name would I liked to be called, what gender I identified as, my birth gender and name, my preferred language, my sexuality, my religion, and other questions. The admitting woman then immediately switched to referring to me as "Abby" instead of "Abigail." And didn't slip up once. And neither did the nurse who called me to the back. It was a bright spot, as I felt that they would for sure honor and respect the requests of individuals whose names and genders were different than they were at birth.
Then it was time for the actual appointment. The nurse who took me to the back obviously had not been briefed on any of my conditions, as she asked me to put my belongings on a shelf high above my head while she took my height and weight. There was no secondary option, so I put my things on the floor. She was very confused, and seemed thrown off her game. Apparently everyone she knows can lift heavy things above their heads. I mean, you'd think the giant Black Lab with "Service Dog" and "Mobility Assistance" and "Medical Alert" stickers all over her vest would be a clue. And I was right about it being an old hospital. I was led right past a place that looked exactly like the nurses' station in the cardiac unit in a hospital I had been in. I kept myself firmly focused on Riley, having asked her to "follow" the nurse to our room. I had been told to bring my medical records and had a huge stack of just the last few years (my whole medical record would fill up several cabinets). But the nurse did not want the medical records. The admitting woman had not wanted them. I had no idea why I brought them. The nurse mentioned that "Ms. Guttman" would maybe want to flip through it. I was confused as to why the nurse wasn't saying "doctor," but then just brushed it off thinking that this was a workplace that encouraged familiarity.  The nurse finally confessed to me that she was terrified of dogs, and I immediately apologized and asked Riley, who was guarding the front of me, to go and sit on my left side. The nurse took my pulse incorrectly, spelled all my allergies incorrectly, and didn't want to write down any of my medications in my file. I chalked this up to being terrified of my dog. I never blame anyone who is afraid of Riley, because if someone came in to my place of business with a tarantula, you better believe I wouldn't be able to do my job!
Then came the specialist I had been waiting two months to see. I was almost out of medications, and was eager to speak to a specialist about managing my meds and getting re-fills/re-prescriptions. I've also been sick to my stomach and bleeding rectally for two weeks now, and was wanting to ask what the hell was going on with that (TMI, I know. But this is what you read my blog for, so...).
The door opens. This small woman walks in. She asks me if I am Abby. I say yes. I say, "Hello, Dr. Guttman." She says, "Oh, I'm not a doctor. I'm a registered nurse practitioner, so I hope that's okay." I was stunned. She sauntered over to the doctor's chair and began to glance over my file. I managed to say that my Special Needs Coordinator had made this appointment for me with the impression that she was an Internal Medicine Specialist and that it even said so on my referral letter from my insurance company. She nonchalantly responded with, "Oh, I misrepresented myself. But I've been a nurse for so many years I'm practically qualified to be an Internal Medicine Specialist." I wanted to run away, but my life-saving medications were running low, so I sat through an agonizing, frustrating, terrible appointment in order to get prescriptions for my meds. It included, but was not limited to: the stethoscope getting stuck in my clothes three separate times, her not being able to hear my heart and lungs because her "hearing is failing," her demanding to know why I'm on so many medications, her confessing that she had no idea what I'm diagnosed with, her looking at labs from four years ago and saying that she's sure nothing has changed since then, her telling me to go to a different health system because she used to work for them before they fired her for wanting to retire (suuuure), and her taking a full half an hour to type up four prescriptions.  
When the appointment was over, I gave Riley an emergency command. Her normal "let's leave" command is "Lead Me Out." Don't judge me, but her emergency command is "Let's Get The Fuck Out Of Here." She also responds to "Let's GTFO." She pulled me all the way through the run-down old hospital, through several doors, and out to the car and didn't let me stop or cry until I was firmly inside the car.
I sat in the car shaking and crying. When I finally calmed down, I realized I was going to have a forty-five minute drive home. Cue the crying all over again. Riley licked me from the backseat and grounded me until I could get a hold of myself.
My poor husband got a torrent of furious texts. He took time out of his work day to respond, as he was also horribly angry at what had happened. I decided I was going to get McDonald's for lunch. I had planned to stop by the BX (like an Air Force version of Target) when I got back to the base and pick up a surprise V-Day gift for my husband, but after that particular "adventure," I decided to grab some Valentine's Day chocolates as well.
After picking up cheeseburgers, fries, and a Shamrock Shake (my guilty pleasure that I wait for all year), we sat in the BX Mini-Mall parking lot, took deep breaths, ate, and fully put the horrible morning behind us.
Riley and I dropped my prescriptions off at the base pharmacy and headed to the BX. We took a slight detour on our way to the chocolates because Riley was alerting me to the danger of a mannequin that she thought was standing suspiciously still for just too long to be harmless. We picked up a cologne Husband has wanted for months, a sweet Valentine's Day card, and many chocolates. Usually I wait until February 15-17 to get the chocolate on sale, but this was an emergency situation.
My Care Coordinator was incensed when I told her what had happened. She told me that they had told her over the phone that this woman was an Internal Medicine Doctor, and that there was no excuse for them lying like that. She is now working on finding me an actual Internal Medicine Specialist.
Jeph was more than happy to see us when we got home, but Riley was so tired that the little guy ended up playing by himself while she slept.
When Husband got home from work, we shared leftovers from our romantic dinner. I then took an aromatherapy bath for pain, as my body was over-exhausted by the events of the day. After the bath, which was absolutely amazing, I was re-energized and we went to a Mexican sports bar for dinner. We enjoyed drinks, wings, tacos, nachos, and yelling at a UFC fight, a basketball game, and several horse races. It was exactly the kind of thing that was needed after the day we had both had. We left Riley at home because the poor girl was exhausted and would have hated the loud environment of the sports bar. I do need her 24/7, but when Husband and I go out we occasionally leave her at home to rest, as he is very good at recognizing my symptoms and signs and sometimes parents just need Date Night.
This morning, my neck is horribly stiff. I can't look to the right. Jeph is enjoying this, and continually waits until my back is turned before jumping up on the trash can. I will take a bath later, enjoying some amazingly potent oils that I got from this amazing little herbal and natural medicine shop Husband and I discovered in downtown Albuquerque. I am also wearing an Aromatherapy necklace I got from that shop, and it has been invaluable.
I'm not sure when my next blog post will be. Today, I am resting. Tomorrow morning I have a two hour Psychiatry evaluation and intake appointment and tomorrow afternoon I have a one hour Psychology evaluation and initial appointment. Tomorrow will be so tiring. Friday I see my current Primary Care Manager (aka regular doctor) and will ask about the infection in my belly button, the bleeding from my butt, and my extra nausea. Saturday, Riley has a grooming appointment at a new groomer's. We have a few days of rest and then it's off to Texas for Husband's brother's graduation with the In-Laws. Wish me luck and spoons, friends. And follow me on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram for pictures and stories in-between blog posts.    

*https://butyoudontlooksick.com/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/ 
If you're wondering why the heck spoons refer to energy...

If Dogs Wrote Movies

If Dogs Wrote Movies:

A Walk To Remember: On a lovely Spring day, a dog goes for a walk with its owner and sees three new dog friends, four squirrels, a sprinkler, and gets a treat from a stranger!

Pride and Prejudice: A dog does not want to pee where the owner wants it to. It finally gives in to peeing after a mighty struggle and realizes it never wants to pee anywhere else!

Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close: A dog attempts to wake up his owner by barking in their face.

The Notebook: A dog enjoys its new toy, savoring the ripping out of each page. Several of the pages have dried food stains!

The Avengers: A squirrel once did harm to a dog. It's up to all the Dog Friends to get it and all its friends and neighbors and relatives and anything that looks or sounds like it for all of time forever.

The Devil Wears Prada: That one lady who never has treats and doesn't like dogs on the furniture is coming over and our hero must decide between hiding in its kennel, ripping her stockings with its teeth, or trying to win her over with sloppy wet kisses.

Spy Vs. Spy: The humans are eating pizza. At any moment, they might leave some unattended. Our hero must wait minute after agonizing minute just out of sight behind the couch. He cannot close his eyes or get distracted by the nearby tempting toys, or the pizza may get eaten by...THE CAT.

Octopussy: A doggy horror movie. The new neighbor has eight cats. And none of them are declawed.

Pulp Fiction: A dog finds its humans library book and chews some of the pages into a giant spitball and throws the rest up onto the carpet.

Django Unchained: A dog helps a chained puppy (Django) by biting through its collar. The two go on an epic adventure to the neighbor's yard. Based on a true story.

If I Stay: A dog attempts to get as many treats in one training session as possible. If it gets five Cheerios for sitting, what will happen if it stays?

The Great Wall: The humans have put up a baby gate between the kitchen and the living room and the humans are cooking dinner. How will our hero deal with such an obstacle?

Resident Evil: The humans have brought home a cat.

Fences: A story of star-crossed lovers who bark at each other every single day but are kept apart by the chain link fences between their yards.

Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them: A service dog tells of its visit to the zoo.

The Graduate: A puppy finally makes it to the end of Obedience Class and shows off its new skills to its jealous friends.

A Rambling Post About Weddings Because I'm Sick Today

Y'all, I'm so sick today. I'm not sure if it is just a nasty EDS day or if I'm actually sick or if there is some new underlying thing that I need to take care of. This is the game all of us chronic illness fighters deal with all the time. Is this a new symptom, am I sick, or is something seriously wrong? Bonus points if the answer is a combination of the three.
My wonderful husband bought me Season 1 of My Fair Wedding With David Tutera on Amazon Video. Little-known fact about me: I adore My Fair Wedding. I was so sad when it ended. I didn't necessarily like the later seasons where we saw behind the magic. Having been a stage manager, director, and mini event planner/coordinator myself, I didn't want to see the behind-the-scenes stress. I know what that stress is like. I love seeing the magic of everything come together and how David orchestrates it all and the results are gorgeous. My husband and I had a tiny courthouse wedding which was magical because it was our wedding, but if I had unlimited money, I'd have David Tutera design a vow renewal. I'd have to insist that Jeph would wear a tie and Riley would wear a flower, though.
My husband and I have been talking about doing a vow renewal eventually, probably on our 5-year anniversary. Of course, this is all just talk right now, but it is fun to dream about. Because of military things, we got married with just us and Riley and a judge and his clerk in a courthouse in a tiny town in Texas. I wore a short cream lace dress that I had originally bought for my bridal shower and rehearsal dinner. The wedding dress that I bought for a wedding with friends and family sits unused in our closet. It is gorgeous, and I would love to have a chance to wear it to a vow renewal. Even if our vow renewal is just the two of us again, I am going to wear that dress. If we do it. I'm repeating myself a lot. Can you tell I'm sick?
I used to think that maybe I would be a wedding designer someday. I love everything about it. The flowers, the dresses, the tables, the venues, etc. But nowadays, I'm just having fun secretly judging everyone else's weddings instead of designing them. I mean, um, I would never judge a wedding I was invited to because that would be so mean, right? I of course would never be openly judgmental at someone's wedding, because it is their day and if I was going to be outwardly snarky and mean, that would just be the absolute worst! It is the best day of their lives and they have invited me to be part of it and celebrate with them and it would be beyond rude and mean and just gross to be ungrateful and crabby at their party! But I will discuss weddings for days with friends and family, talking about the merits of everything from the colors and decor to the selection of food to the DJ, etc. That might be why I love shows like My Fair Wedding so much. All of the judging from the comfort of my own home and I never have to see the couple in real life and smile while they talk about how their wedding was the best wedding.
I've been to so many weddings, and I love it when a wedding feels like the couple. I have been to three weddings where that was the case. It was clear from the second I walked in that I was at their wedding and I was there to celebrate their love. The three weddings were all weddings in my friend group and the brides were all three my best friends. I actually cried at all three because I was so happy that there was no reason for my inner wedding critic to say anything. I was overjoyed that my best friends were having such good weddings!
To contrast, as a pastor's kid and growing up in a small community, I have been to a billion weddings (ok, maybe a million) and I absolutely hate it when it is obvious that the wedding has been planned by family or a friend or someone who doesn't know or care what the couple wants and the poor couple just has to shut up and attend their party because someone else is paying for it so they can't seem ungrateful. I've been to more than one wedding where the couple looked absolutely miserable all night and at least two weddings where the couple tried to skip out early to avoid having to smile and wave at an event they never wanted.
And open mics! Who ever thought that those were a good idea?! They aren't. Someone's drunk cousin/uncle/plus one always grabs the mic and tells some embarrassing, awful story and you can see the couple dying inside. And internet jokes! Enough with the internet jokes! They are the actual worst. No one actually thinks they are funny. The laughs that are heard are from the other drunk people in the room. Everything is funny after a few margaritas. Everything.
Because of allergies, I actually don't mind when there is a buffet at a wedding. As long as there is enough food and the lines aren't extremely long, why not? I get the whole "classy table service and set menu" thing, but I don't think buffets are tacky or gross or anything. If that's an affordable option for the bride and groom, why complain? Why complain about free food ever unless you get food poisoning (something that has happened to me at over five weddings)?
Oh, and please PLEASE stop with forcing your guests to sit through PowerPoint after PowerPoint of your baby pictures. Please. Unless the entire guest list is your close friends and family who have grown up with you and will enjoy the walk down memory lane, just don't. I was at one wedding where the PowerPoint presentations went on for forty minutes. I was actually ready to cry by the end. If you simply must do something like that, have it set up somewhere in the reception where if guests want to go look at your baby pictures, they can. I saw that done very tastefully during one couple's cocktail hour, and I actually voluntarily and happily went to go look at their picture presentation.
Yes, there will always be family member or friend group toasts that will be awkward. It is unavoidable. These people are overwhelmed with love for you and happiness about your marriage and they are going to go on and on about that time you were five and sat in a pot of pasta naked or whatever and you can try really hard to have them not do that, but someone will. The guests understand. I promise. I'm never judgy about such things, as I know that no amount of planning or prepping can stop the inevitable cringe-worthy moment. Unless, of course, you decide to do no toasts at all. But that's totally up to you.
This post is just a rant about weddings, isn't it? Oh well. You're all welcome for my thoughts. I'm going to snuggle up under my blanket and with my pillow on my couch and judge TV weddings for the rest of the day while trying to recover from whatever is going on with my body. Love to y'all!

Take Your Feel-Good Illness Movies And Shove Them

Long-term illness is not like you see in the movies. It is not the quiet, pretty, good little girl who it turns out is secretly suffering from a life-threatening illness. It is not a reclusive billionaire who is really hot if he just shaved and who decides not to live because what is the point of living if you are in a wheelchair. It is not a gorgeous, pale woman with subtle makeup lying tragically in a bed, staring out a window and living only so someone can be her savior. It is not the optimistic, sweet yet sometimes sassy little girl who helps you discover the how to live again before she tragically passes away from cancer without showing any outward signs at all ever. It is not the invalid who just needs a little fresh air to suddenly be completely healed. It is not two kids trashing a town because that's how one learns to "live" and they're going to die so they might as well "live" as much as possible.
When I was younger, I used to cry that I was not "pretty" sick. I wasn't a beautifully thin child in a warmly lit room, surrounded by toys and cards and balloons and other gifts. I was constantly yo-yo-ing up and down fifty pounds, as medication side effects played with my body shape. I swelled up to three clothing sizes larger in the afternoon, then woke up back down those three sizes. I was eleven the first time a stranger asked me when I was due. I wasn't tragically weak and sitting outside in a wheelchair, taking in the sunlight that would magically heal me. I was told time and time again by school counselors that I was sick only for attention. I was horribly harassed and traumatized every day by my peers at school, and while that for sure played a part in my mental health and mental health does affect one's body physically, it had absolutely nothing to do with my underlying actual physical issues. I was compared to the Secret Garden boy and the Heidi girl over and over again. Maybe I should try yoga, go out in the sun more, try a sport, etc. And then there was the "why aren't you dead yet?" question that I got time and time again from peers, teachers, strangers, and well-meaning family friends. I began to wonder when my illnesses would finally kill me. Everyone else seemed to think that being sick for a long time inevitably led to death or it wasn't real. And everyone couldn't be wrong, right? When my stomach pain got so bad it led to dizziness, sweating, vomiting, and fainting, I hid how bad it was for two years. Two whole years I let my family believe that I was just doing regular pre-teen girl things like makeup or dancing or whatever in the bathroom when really I was having spasms in whatever dark corner I could find because either I would die tragically soon or I was really making it up and didn't realize it and it would go away soon. Watching movies that portrayed illness just made me feel so incredibly inadequate. Something was super wrong with me that I wasn't like what I saw.
Long-term illness is greasy hair, smelly bodies, dried vomit on toilet seats. It is realizing in the late afternoon that you haven't brushed your teeth all day so many days in a row that your teeth ache. It is doing your hair and being too exhausted to do makeup or get dressed. It is looking around at the house and realizing that while you've done the dishes, every other room in the house remains a disaster and you simply cannot get up to clean them. It is applauding yourself every time you manage to get from the bed to the couch. It is realizing you've already watched every episode of every show you want to see on Netflix and Hulu and resorting to watching things like Divorce Court because at least you haven't seen every episode twelve times.  It is suddenly realizing that you've got an infection starting near one of your surgery scars and being terrified that you'll end up in the hospital with a blood infection and then calling the doctor's office and getting an appointment for a week from now and being terrified that this appointment isn't soon enough. It's managing to feed the dogs, let them out, and that's about it. It's sitting on the couch extremely hungry, but being too exhausted to get up and make yourself something to eat. It's getting dehydrated because your legs decide to not let you walk to the faucet and you've run out of water in the pitcher by your bed. It's keeping a notebook with you with all the important information you need to remember because you can't remember any of it by yourself. It's being dependent on other people for your care. It's being dependent on a dog for your care, sometimes. It's holding a degree from a top liberal arts college and not being able to use it because you can't work for one hour a week, let alone forty without ending up in the hospital for a week. It's having to have so many reminders and systems in place for medications and still forgetting to take the right pills at the right time. It's having your service dog annoy you until you realize, "Oh! It's pill time!" It is people telling you that you are so brave for continuing to live. It is people telling your significant other that they are so brave and good and pure for staying with a horrible medical mess monster like you. It is strangers offering you advice. It is strangers glaring at you for parking in handicapped spaces because you're too young to be ill. It's fighting hard to be heard by doctors. It is crying with relief when you find medical professionals who help you. It is crying in despair because you've woken up in pain yet again just like you have for the last twenty or thirty or forty years. It is seeing spots when you bend down to pick up a towel you've dropped. It is falling down stairs, falling in bathrooms, falling in kitchens, falling at friends' houses, falling in grocery stores, falling in movie theatres, throwing up in every single public bathroom in your surrounding area, passing out at an event that was supposed to be about a friend or family member but now is about you because you've passed out. It is waking up on the floor of the bedroom unaware of how you got there or when or if you've hit your head or broken bones. It is knowing the EMS personnel by name (Oh, hey, Len. How was your kid's dance concert?). It is comparing and contrasting hospitals in the area in casual conversations. It is trying desperately to not bring up your health in regular conversations. It is a constant struggle. It is ugly, it is brutal, it is exhausting, and it is gross. Depending on what you've been diagnosed with, you might be on the highway to death or you might be trapped in a debilitated body for years upon years.
Yes, it makes you stronger, but it's because you have no choice. You have no choice but to fight every single day. You are literally fighting for every breath you take and every tiny task you complete is a reason for rejoicing. I would pay so much money to go see a movie that portrayed long-term chronic illness or terminal illness like that.

A Doggy Update

Small One (Jeph) is asleep right now, with no idea that he is getting shots this evening. I don't know who will cry more: him or me. Our vet is the actual best vet, though. Absolutely wonderful woman who really knows her job and puts the animals first and her own thoughts, feelings, etc. second. She answers any questions we have clearly and concisely. It's something I don't think I could ever do without. Our older dog goes to the base vet right now, who is also the most amazing guy. Super knowledgeable, never over-diagnoses and definitely never brushes off our concerns. Between the two of them, our dogs have an excellent care team here. 

Jeph is nearly completely potty-trained! So far, no accidents today. The only problem now is he pees when he wants attention. If I'm on the phone or haven't played with him for a bit, he will bark at me and stare at me and pee very intentionally. We're working on that behavior. 

Riley is beginning to listen to me again. And when she doesn't, I use my "mom" voice and she knows right away that she messed up. Down go her ears and her tail. Poor girl has such a huge sense of guilt. The good news is that she is adjusting well to Jeph and listening to me and having a lot of fun playing with her little brother. She is absolutely exhausted at the end of every day, having worked all day for me and played hard for hours with Jeph. She is more focused at work now, as her extra energy is completely depleted by the tiny alive fur squeaky toy. He keeps her on her doggy toes. 

Jeph also appreciates that Riley has taught him how to open sliding closet doors. It is not uncommon to hear a rustling noise from the pantry after I've closed the suspiciously open door. Riley also helpfully opens other doors for Jeph. She can't understand why I'm not thrilled that she lets Jeph in the laundry room, bathroom, extra bedrooms, etc. when he asks her to. She doesn't get punished for it, as she is trying to be a helpful big sister. 

They both got reprimanded, however, when they discovered the weak points in the dirt under the fence and dug several holes just big enough for baby Jeph to wiggle through. Thankfully, Jeph is terrified of the neighbors' dogs. Every time he starts under the fence, they bark and he goes running back into the house. He only made it entirely out once, and thankfully I caught him right away. He has gone through a growth spurt in the last week and cannot get out of those holes anymore. I found them inspecting the holes together yesterday, as though they were little architects planning a renovation. I sprayed the holes and fence with bitter apple spray, and they decided to take their hole-digging operation to the other side of the yard. 

We are also working on the chewing of the furniture. We got a new table and chairs and benches for our dining room and already there are visible teeth marks on the legs of one of the benches. We got Jeph some new toys to help with this, as the poor baby is teething and isn't entirely responsible for his natural need to chew. We got the toys yesterday, and today Mr. Jeph has not chewed the bench legs, opting to try to destroy a tough toy instead. 

Dogs are awake and laundry is beeping, so I've got to be done with this post. Until next time, friends!

Check out my Instagram (thegrandadventuresofabby) for daily pictures of baby Jeph and Ms. Riley!

Also follow me on Twitter (@TheGAofAbby) for updates and some lovely stream-of-consciousness.

Taste and Talent

I don't usually like the theatre that the rest of the theatre community likes. I hate "Rabbit Hole." I really hate all of David Mamet's plays (although a friend of mine was in one this past month and I would have paid anything to get to see her kick ass in it), I despised the musical adaptation of "Matilda," and so on. Because of this, I spent quite a while questioning my taste level. Did I just have terrible taste in art? But the art I like isn't terrible. I love the horrific stillness that creeps into my soul whenever I encounter "How I Learned To Drive" and "Wit." "Intimate Apparel" still brings forth a feeling of warmth when I think back on it. And Mr. O'Neal's "Long Day's Journey Into Night" will forever be one of my favorites. I delight in the wordplay of Moliere's "The Misanthrope" and the hi-jinks of Shakespeare's "As You Like It." And "Title Of Show" changed the way I looked at playwriting.
I began to realize that just because I can't bring myself to love "Cloud Nine," I'm not a less-talented, tasteless person. And although I've had "I'm Not Pregnant, I'm Just Fat" (look it up on Youtube because it is the best song) in my head for three days now, I am not less qualified than others when it comes to giving opinions on the use of clocks as an enemy in Hamlet or discussing what the heck Nietzsche was thinking when he wrote his thoughts on the theatre. Just because I enjoy certain genres or certain styles or certain "feels" when it comes to art does not negate my ability to produce art that is good. Just because I watched a bootleg of "Legally Blonde: The Musical" on Youtube and became obsessed and just because I have all the lyrics to all the songs in "Hairspray" memorized and just because I'm secretly wishing I could go see the "Bring It On" musical doesn't make me less of an accomplished, good, and valid theatre artist who can participate in intellectual discussions and create "high art" or "avante-garde" theatre if I really wanted to. In fact, I have created such theatre and loved it. But you better believe I also belt out "So Much Better" in my house behind closed doors. Side note: I'm not kidding about wanting to see "Bring It On: The Musical." Doesn't that sound like an excellent evening of theatre? Do people actually do cheer stunts on the stage? How would one do the cheer competitions? And that scene of weird romance where Torrance and What'shisname brush their teeth? Please tell me they've got some song about bringing it on that they repeat at least three times in the show. I need it. For reasons.
And finally, just because I haven't been able to do theatre recently doesn't mean my thoughts and opinions on art don't matter. It took me a long time to come to these conclusions and to believe them and I'll keep reminding myself of them every day if that is what it takes.

Learning To Be Okay Part 1

I will be occasionally baring my soul to y'all, as I am working very hard on my mental health recovery. I see a new psychologist soon. I spoke with her at length over the phone. Our goal in working together will be to help me cope with my mental illnesses, not irradicate them completely. Therapy is not a magic pill, and I will have to do hard, dark, terrifying work in my mind and in my life in order to help myself. I'm scared about doing this work, but I am ready for it. A really good way for me personally to work through issues is to write about them. I will title these posts "Learning to Be Okay Part __," so if you don't want to or can't read them, you'll know which ones to skip. Today, a certain issue is running around and around in my brain. In an attempt to start working on it, I write about it here:

I haven't the slightest idea how to not worry about money. I grew up worried about it. I have saved and scrimped and budgeted and been terrified of not having enough since I can remember. In high school, when I finally had some income of my own, I hated spending any of it. I cried every time I had to make a purchase that was necessary. In college, I wore my shoes and clothes until they were almost indecent with the number of holes in them. My friends just learned to accept it as one of my quirks. Once I was working for a living, my medical expenses made it so I never had enough money. I ended up putting groceries on a credit card just so I could eat enough food to be nutritionally balanced. I bemoaned the price of milk when it went up to almost four dollars a gallon. I hated walking by the produce section, full of gorgeous fruits and vegetables I could not afford and could not medically eat. The special diets I was on were so expensive, and I cried after every grocery trip. 

When I met my husband, I was working a job that my health could not handle. I was too terrified of being homeless or not being able to afford my treatments to stop, even though my health was steadily declining and I was visiting emergency rooms every other week. When my now husband, then boyfriend, insisted on helping to support me, I had so much guilt that I was physically ill. I was terrified to the point of wild panic that everyone who knew him might think I was taking advantage of him. I was also so incredibly angry at my body. I had graduated with honors from a top liberal arts college, and here I was unable to pay for groceries and medications to keep myself alive.

Fast-forward to now. My husband has a good job. We have a safe place to live. My pantry has the weird powders and supplements that I need for my stomach issues. My medicine drawer has the medications I need to keep myself breathing. I haven't been to the hospital in over three months. And I honestly don't know how to handle this change. I am convinced somewhere deep in my brain that one day I will wake up with nothing and have to fight for food again, working jobs I cannot physically handle and destroying my body in the process. 

The positive side of this is that I am always on the lookout for sales and coupons. I can't bring myself to buy anything without researching it thoroughly, so we always end up with good quality items. And my husband has been amazing about this. When he found out that my shoes had holes in them, he took me to buy new ones and encouraged me to throw the old ones away. When he noticed that I had hardly any clothes that fit, he took me to buy some new ones. I insisted on taking advantage of the clearance racks and sales, and he sweetly indulged me in that little eccentricity. 

I keep frantically donating and giving to people who don't have enough, as I hate that there are people in the world who go through what I did and I absolutely loathe that there are people who have it worse. I want to give them all a safe place to live and a loving family, but since I can't do that, I donate my clothes that still have wear in them and anything that I can't use goes to charity.

I have this deep fear inside me that I will someday become materialistic out of nowhere. I know it isn't really a thing I should be afraid of, as this isn't in my nature. But I still worry. What if some people still do secretly think that I am taking advantage of my dear husband, as I do not look sick to the un-knowing eye? I know that I worry about these things more than I should, because I sometimes rave about them during panic attacks when I am not in control of what I am saying. My ever-patient husband holds me and comforts me while I cry, and then insists on not letting me wear shoes whose soles are literally falling off. I am grateful for him every single day. He is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I love him.

Now if you'll excuse me, my dogs are barking at the neighbor dogs, and I must thank them for their diligent protection of me. They are very, very good dogs.

It's Back

Riley is refusing to listen inside the house, and Jeph for sure is at the right age for some intense training. Because of this, the dreaded (for me) and much-anticipated (for the dogs) FANNY PACK is back! That's right, folks! The treat-filled fashion accessory from hell is firmly around my waist, waiting to treat well-behaved dogs. So far, the little puppy has "sit" down alright, but his "leave it" and "come" commands are really shaky. And Riley is suddenly realizing that I'm preoccupied with Jeph and just looks at me with her tail wagging like, "I don't have to do what you just said and you won't reprimand me because you have your hands full of wriggling puppy." It makes me annoyed. You are a fully-trained service dog, but you think you don't have to listen inside the house because there's a little one who knows nothing? No. Not gonna fly in my house. Of course, she is well-behaved outside of the house. She does her job extremely well when there is no little brother casually chewing on furniture. Hence, the fanny pack.

I have my work cut out for me. Especially with Jeph. He needs the basics down before we can do any sort of special training for my needs. And he might not be well-suited for service dog work, but I won't know until I get the basics down with him. The issues I get to work on with Jeph are: biting, chewing inappropriate things, talking back, barking at meal times, sitting, lying down, leaving things when told, coming when I call, scratching, and understanding the word "no," and what it means. Also, he keeps eating clumps of grass and dirt and running away from me when I try to get it out of his mouth. He's being a typical puppy, but it is time for training so he can become a happy dog. Riley just needs to understand that it is time to grow up and be a good listener. She is not a puppy, and cannot act as such. Certainly, she can enjoy play times with her brother, but she needs to be available to do her job in the house.

I will begin by doing short training sessions multiple times a day. I am currently needing a lot of rest, but the best way to train a dog is during commercial breaks of TV shows. That way they have 3-4 minutes of training and 10-15 minutes of running around and playing. This keeps them engaged and doesn't exhaust you as much as a whole hour of training would. Dogs have short attention spans, and they will get easily bored and tired if you try to do intensive training for a long time.

A cute moment: the other day, I put Jeph in his kennel. I then couldn't find Riley! I was terrified, running around the house and looking outside and in closets and then I heard it. A large sigh that has become Riley's trademark response to when I am doing something she thinks is silly. And it was coming from Jeph's kennel. I thought perhaps she had taught the little one to sigh! But then, as I checked in on my little fur son, I saw it. Check out the photo below:

How cute is that? Very cute. Extremely cute. And if you think Riley looks a little annoyed in this photo, it is because I woke her up with the camera's flash.