Staring Contest, Anyone?

I don't know how drug addicts do it. It's not natural. Pinching a portion of your flesh, so that you can ram a needle into it and inject a substance, is just not something we were meant to do. In fact, we humans have a built in protection for just such occasions - it's called panic. And while I had thought that most of my 'fight or flight' response had died off with most of my hormones, I've discovered that a noticeable amount of the 'flight' response is still alive and well and living in my body. It's in my head, where past experience tells me that needles hurt, where new knowledge tells me that this time it won't because the needle is so incredibly fine, and where my sense of self-preservation tells me that either way, it's necessary if I want to live. It also resides in my stomach, where the butterflies congregate every time I pick up the syringe, where the muscles tense and un-tense in a desperate attempt to find the best position for the least pain (y'know, just in case), and where the ultimate target of said syringe is metaphorically painted in bright red.

I'm not afraid of needles. I'm really not. When they are in the hands of someone in a white coat, whose fingers move with the confidence gained from years of practice, I'm quite relaxed. It's quick, usually pain-free (or nearly), and I don't have to watch. Easy peasy.

But therein lies the problem: watching. In the past, I've always turned my head. From the time I was a child, any time I had to have a poke, whether they were putting something in or taking something out - I turned my head. If I didn't see the actual moment that the point touched my skin, it somehow wasn't real. And by the time I realized there was an unpleasant sensation in my arm (or wherever), they were removing the offending object. All done. I no longer have that luxury. Having begun a new medication that must be injected once a week, I have had to learn to LOOK. I can't turn my head. I can't pretend that nothing's going to happen until it's almost over. I can't entrust my safety and comfort to the hands of someone that's supposed to be doing these things. It's all in my hands - literally.

But I suppose, much of life is the same, isn't it? We get by by not looking. We don't pay attention, hoping that by doing so the thing we fear will just fade away. We grab that extra 20 minutes of sleep in the morning, knowing that the boss will be loud and red when we arrive, but for that blissful 20 minutes we turn our head. It's not real. If we don't look at it, it won't happen. And then it does. And do we learn from it? Some of us do, some of us do it again next week. We see the flashing light on the dashboard, or hear that funny noise from the left-rear, and we turn our head. It'll go away. It will probably sound fine when I take it to the mechanic anyway, so why bother? And then it breaks. Leaving us stranded somewhere, hopefully with a charged cell phone. And we are forced to LOOK. Pay attention. When something is unpleasant, our natural tendency is to look away, but sometimes we just can't. The thing must be faced.

I've been instructed. I've been given the appropriate supplies. I have everything I need, except...confidence? acceptance? compliance? All of the above. So far, I've faced it three times. I will probably face it every week for the rest of my life. And every time I do, a couple less butterflies show up to the party. Will I ever adjust? Will this ever seem 'normal'? Probably not. But at least I will learn to face it - gradually, with practice, gaining confidence. The thing will not go away, but I can learn to do a damn fine job of staring it down.

Blog Candy

I've been hopping along with the Unity mega-hop, and stumbled into a great blog called "Olde Country Creations". The blog itself is so pretty, and is this girl talented!! Please take a moment to visit, and while you're there be sure to sign up for her awesome give-away!

Just a Number

I do a fair bit of shopping online. It saves the whole 'getting dressed and leaving the house' thing, which for me and my disability is a painful venture. Usually, the parcels are delivered without incident. But this morning...grrr...I'm still fuming...a parcel came to the door for which there was a small duty charge owing. No problem - I was gathering the money (digging in DH's pockets, etc.) when the delivery guy...left. Just left. Handed an incomplete delivery notice to J, and just walked away - with my parcel! I literally had the money in my hand, and was on the way to the door, and he just left. What's up with that? Now I'll have to arrange for someone to go to the Post office tomorrow just to pick up this item that was right there at my door and he just walked away with it!! To add insult to injury, I jumped on to the Canada Post website to lodge a complaint, and now I feel the need to complain about their website. It should be simple: find the 'Contact Us' button, write a scathing complaint, and hit send. Right? Wrong! It appears that you can ONLY send their little form to them if you have a customer number. I don't have - nor do I need - a customer number. That's for companies or WAH folks who actually do business with them. I'm just a regular customer - without a number. Which is kinda odd - because right now I feel that's exactly what I am.

Just a number.

91 yr. old female drummer - Allee Willis Presents "Hey Jerrie"

I love old people. Even in my youth, when I thought anyone over thirty was O.L.D., I had a strong sense that within each of these adorable beings was a wealth of history and information that was not to be found in any book or TV show. I loved asking my uncles about the war, listening to my grandmothers laugh about being a woman in the 1920's, and watching my Dad's face as he talked about growing up on the farm. I especially like the older folks who don't seem to know they're old. Call it a delusion, call it the Peter Pan Complex, whatever. I just love the quirky, eccentric, absolute joy of someone who knows that there's not a lot of time left, and absolutely not a thing to lose. I think I'm looking forward to it, actually. The day when I can say and do whatever I want, and everyone else will just have to say, "Oh well, she's old. You can't change her now." or "She's old - whaddaya gonna do?" I'll put on my purple pants and my red hat (but I won't join the Red Hat Society - that's for old people).

First of Many...I hope

Hi! I guess, like a lot of people, a blog is something I've thought about for a long time. I've read enough of them, and I totally get the appeal, but it's always been the commitment aspect that put me off. What if I have nothing to say? What if people come here looking for an update, and there isn't one because I've been too busy, or too ill, or too whatever. Or worse - what if nobody reads it at all? But today I found this: * blogging without obligation. And I thought, "Well, why not?" If I can give myself permission to blog what I want, and when I want, this could actually work. So, here I am. I'm not yet sure what exactly you'll be likely to find here over the next weeks, but it's likely to be a mish-mash of family, hobbies, health, the weather, and maybe even some politics thrown in, just to keep it interesting. Thus ends my first post. I know it's short, but it's a start. After all, I'm blogging without obligation, right?