In my reverie

I've had no internet since February 19th. Today I'm in the hospital with a suspected infection, so yay, wireless. Boo to being in the hospital, but hey, at least I can check my email. I wrote this up the other day, anyhow, and thought I'd go ahead and post it then go on and get some sleep.

How does a technophile like me make it through almost three weeks with no internet?

Lots of knitting.

I’ve been reading and listening to audio books sometimes, but to tell the truth, the vast majority of my time has been spent watching television and knitting. I’m making socks at record pace. I’ve been so disheartened at my lack of connectivity that I’ve scarcely plugged in the laptop. Why bother, it seems to say to me. You can’t read your email. You can’t check your blogs. You can’t read what Kate Harding has to say about the dude on TLC who claims that he can “MAKE YOU THIN” via the magic of cable television. Why bother? You can’t blog about your misery or your small triumphs. So why bother?

Today I decided to bother, partly because there’s nothing on television, partly because I’m afraid of forgetting everything I want to make a note of someday.

I’ve been moved to Forbes Road Nursing and Rehabilitation. It’s the current use for the old Pittsburgh Hospital building, where my mother and her siblings were born, and where I did a summer’s service as a teenaged candy striper. (Strangely enough, Columbia Hospital, less than two miles away, where I was born, is also a nursing facility now). The move happened suddenly and it was not a good transition. I was told in the early afternoon that Tuesday that a spot had opened up and that was it. By 9 that night I was moved. The bed was wrong. The room was hot. The circumstances were terrible. I was despairing when they left me here. I’m only a little better now.

Let me explain about the bed. Due to my size and the fact that I perspire profusely naturally, my skin tends to suffer pressure sores more rapidly than most people’s. Because of that and because of my sciatica, a special bed with an air mattress was ordered for me. This bed is classified as a “bariatric” bed because the primary use is for obese patients who can’t move themselves around so well. Forbes claimed to have such a bed for me. They lied. The bed I was given could have fit three of me, was covered with plastic, and was as hard and unyielding as a gym mat. I spent two agonizing nights on that bed, crying in pain and getting very little sleep between the sweating and the sciatica. It was a bariatric bed all right, but only due to the size of the bed. I have no idea how actual hugely obese people slept on that bed, as it was excruciating for me and I’m more “just” obese rather than the bedbound nursing home obese that you see on television being exploited and shown eating take out food.

By the way, if those people on those shows get food anything like what I’ve been getting here, it’s no wonder they call out for take out at every opportunity. But this isn’t meant to be a critique of discovery network and their exploitation of fat people, it’s meant to be catching up to speed on what all has been going on with me since I had my internet amputated.

The food isn’t always horrible. I’ve had some decent things here. The pot roast is good. The chicken gumbo soup is excellent. And sometimes, we get sherbet. Sherbet is always a treat. But in general, it’s bland, old-people, nursing home food. I’m one of the minority of residents here who are actually aiming towards making a full recovery and going home. As such, I think my dietary needs differ from the geriatric cases that make up most of the beds here. No such consideration is taken, however, so Bob and my mother and Lena bring me fruit, yogurt, snacks both healthy and not, and basically keep me from losing weight at a more frighteningly rapid pace than is already happening. I’ve been here a little over two weeks and I’ve lost about 15 pounds. That should not be happening. Some weight loss is to be expected, but my fear is that I’m not getting adequate nutritional support for the amount of work that the Rehab is putting me through, and for healing as well. I’m sure the attitude is “hooray, the fat lady is losing weight” not “uh oh, the fat lady is weak from hunger because we’re not feeding her enough to recover from her injury and to work through rehab at the same time”. So I guess my family needs to keep bringing me food, because I’m usually ravenous, and not bored-ravenous, not ED-ravenous, but workout-ravenous, healing-ravenous, on the verge of ketosis-ravenous and those are not good things. I’m trying to learn to listen to what my body is telling me about food and eating and nourishing it in the way that it needs and I’m powerless here to do anything to improve my relationship with my hunger. I apologize and tell my body I’m sorry and I’ll get it what it needs as soon as I possibly can if it can just bear with me and keep healing and keep trying to get stronger in spite of inadequate nutrition and very, woefully inadequate sleep.

Back to the bed for more on that. The bed saga has been a vale of tears for the most part and it’s still not good. I’m on an air mattress that does not provide adequate support for my back and tends to make me slide from side to side. I am terrified of falling out of bed at night, as nobody in this facility knows how to keep a sheet on an air mattress. They wake me up several times a night for vitals, for pain pills, or just to say hello. Why me? Don’t they understand I’m here to recover from an injury, not because I’m old and too frail to take care of myself any more? Don’t they understand that healing can’t happen without sleep?

I’m fortunate that I have a private room here. When I checked in, it was out of necessity due to the nosocomial infections I picked up. Earlier this week, I was taken out of isolation but moved to a smaller private room. According to the tests, the nasty bugs are gone. I can’t imagine having a roommate here, though. I need a cold room, music, room to maneuver, and quiet. I don’t like people. I’m not easy to live with. I’d lose my mind with a roommate here. I was told when I checked in that if I opted to stay in a private room if they needed to move me to semi-private, I could stay for an additional fee of ten bucks a day. It hasn’t come up yet, but if it does, we’re going to do it, because my sanity is more important than the money, and I don’t think I’ll be here much longer anyway. I’m hoping for another three weeks to a month and then home. Home. I want to go home. I want my cat, and my stuff, and my email. I want to see my daffodils blooming even if I can’t weed them. I want my own bed, the one that has my husband in it.

Ah well. As aforementioned husband is wont to say, all in good time.

Relearning

My leg has a new geography, inside and out. I explore the new contours of my left knee, as well as I can through the boot and around the bandages. I wonder what the scars will look like. I can feel my muscles object when I try to move them. The pierced places are stigmata, but with pain and resistance instead of blood.

It needs time. The hurt is deep, and it's not just in my knee, it's in my head and in my heart too. The nice people from physical therapy assure me that it will hurt when I bend it. At first, it will be very bad. But it will get better. I fear that pain. I don't have strength for pain. I'm a wimp, I admit it. Stubborn resistance, I'm a fearless expert. Smoking? Quit it. Beat the hell out of it. Never met a substance I couldn't conquer. But pain is something else again.

My hand feels around my knee, nervously. I wonder what has happened in there beyond the injury to the bone. I felt things like rubber bands snapping when I fell. I can't help but wonder what ligaments and tendons I've destroyed, never to find again.

I talk to my knee sometimes. I have to be conscious to speak nicely to it, so that it will understand that I'm not upset with it, I still love it, it's still a welcome and treasured part of my body. My new favorite curse is "BASTARD! Not you." The "not you" part is directed to the nurse, the therapist, myself, my knee. The bastard part is for the pain. Misbegotten unwanted slug of agony burning inside my skin and bones. But it's there because it needs to be there. Can I learn to accept it, to even embrace it, to help it move on? Where does pain go when it dies?

Today, I can move my knee joint about an inch before it hurts enough to make me cry. Yesterday it was half an inch. Maybe tomorrow it'll be two inches. Maybe not. The PT folks aren't here on the weekend, so any progress will be made on my own initiative. I feel weak. I feel afraid. I feel paralyzed. I have to move past that, but I don't know how.

I will have a rich terrain of scars on my left leg when this is all through. Two long incisions from the fasciotomies. An incision from the bone reconstruction. Holes where the pins for the external fixator pierced my thigh and shin bones. Holes where the drains came out of my flesh. I joke that my stocking-modeling days are past, but the truth is I've always been vain about my shapely calves and nice ankles. The left one will be shapely in a whole new way now.

How I wish I knew where to begin. I want my life and movement back. Two more months of contemplation upon the proposal of walking before I can begin again.

Flakes of dead skin fall away from my leg, a fatality from the stretching of the swelled flesh and the dryness of the hospital. A hideous dandruff, I wonder what it will feel like on some distant day when I can get into a shower, or better still, bathtub, again. Showers are still pretty frightening, even with all the security of the hospital staff and the safety bars and such. And of course, the injured leg can't be washed yet.

An aide washed the foot on my injured leg the other night. It was the first time it had been washed since the accident. It was covered in flaky, corroded layers of betadine and dead skin and who knows what else. As she washed the foot, ever so gently and patiently, I nearly cried. I was sorry that someone else had to wash my foot, I still can't reach it, but it felt so nice. Such a simple thing. I will learn to enjoy and appreciate such simple things from now on, I promise. Things like wearing shoes, and being able to walk. Things like standing on two good legs.

The swellings on and just above my knee are rather frightening. I remind myself that they were much worse, not so long ago. It's a small comfort. Tentative touching and probing of the knee yields weird sensations, like warning lights. Fear. I must get past the fear. When I had my second daughter, I read a lot about fear and the connection with pain. Maybe if I understood the processes of what was happening inside my leg, I'd be more willing to face the pain without the fear.

I am trying to allow myself to feel hopeful. So many people wish me well. So much love. I allow that love to move into my knee and my leg bone and the right leg and foot too, mustn't forget that one, it's doing double duty. I don't fear scooting around on one foot. I don't fear falling, I am confident in my balance. I scoff at people who think they should deflate the bed to let me out. My right toe touches the ground and I'm safe, that's all it takes. I must stop fearing the pain. I must take that fearless ferocity that I've bandied about for so many years and put it to this task, to this work, now that it really matters.

And all the while, the geography will change, evolve, and flow into recovery. Or so I can hope. So I can choose to believe.

Two forward, one back

Well, I'm still here in the hospital. And they're still telling me they're transferring me. At this point I'll believe it when I see it.

I have two hospital-caused infections. Neither represent a significant threat to my own health or that of visitors with normal immune systems. I had to laugh at the irony of today's "word of the day" being "Nosocomial". (nosocomial means hospital-caused, as in infections or illnesses)

Yesterday they took the external fixator off of my leg. That was my sixth trip to the OR. I now have a big black boot on my leg that gives me a false sense of security because I still can't put any weight on it, and now the pin sites hurt like a mad bastard.

I'm so freaking tired of this.

I'm still working on the pomatomus socks, one is finished and the other is 1/3 of the way down the calf. That's about it for knitting. I blame the meds. It's hard to concentrate on knitting when you're in this much pain or groggy from the oxycodone. I've learned to do sudoku, though, so it's not all a wash.

More later. Too tired now.

10G and beyond

It was some time between two and three AM when I finally arrived on the 10th floor. I remember several people telling me "welcome to 10G!" in cheerful voices, and I think I commented on how friendly everyone was. I was taken down the hall to an empty room and transferred, somewhat painfully, into a bed. Blood was taken, sheets were adjusted, pain meds were given, a bedpan was brought and finally, gratefully used. Since I was scheduled for the first available slot for surgery, I couldn't have anything to drink but more trusty ice chips were brought. Since I've been here, I've learned to appreciate chipped ice more than I thought possible. There's nothing like it when you're in the recovery room, slowly regaining thought and feeling and realizing that a sirocco has blown through your mouth, leaving nothing but a faint residue of camel dung. Ice chips are nothing short of miraculous.

My elder daughter Lena arrived around 3:30 in the morning and sat with me while I faded in and out of consciousness. My leg was bound tight in the temporary cast and all I could feel was a deep, dull, endless ache that was beyond anything I'd ever felt or could even begin to describe. I think they were giving me dilaudid, or maybe morphine, but whatever it was, it only took the slightest razor's edge off the pain. Lena got her little stickers out of her purse and put one on my hand, and one on my injured toe. We talked and she stayed a couple of hours. Then it was time to go to surgery. I called my husband and my mother to let them know I was going in.

In the pre-operating room, I signed forms giving permission for everything from blood transfusions to anesthesia. My surgeon came in to talk to me. His name is Dr. Tarkin, and he's quite the character. He oozes self-confidence, but he was very pragmatic with me at that time. He discussed some of the consequences of the surgery, early arthritis, knee replacement, mobility difficulties younger than usual. He described what he'd be doing, and told me not to worry, that it would all be okay and that I'd be almost as good as new when he was done. We were off to the OR, where they have the most beautiful bright green tiles all over the walls. Being wheeled into that room was like diving headfirst into a vat of seafoam gelatin salad. And that was mostly all I knew for a while.

When I woke up in recovery, I had no idea what had happened, and it took me several hours to find out the full extent. There had been complications, compartment syndrome, and the planned rebuild on my bone could not be done. What had been done was two emergency fasciotomies, deep incisions into the meat of my calf with suction and drainage put in to relieve the pressure. I had no idea that I was within hours of losing my leg, or even my life. I found that out later. I was also the proud recipient of an external fixator or x-fix, a device that kept my leg still and straight so there could be no further damage to the crumbled bone within. Two pins are fixed into my shin bone, and two into my thigh bone. The pins are connected to an apparatus that looks like a capital A. The whole thing is ungainly and awkward, and somewhat hard to look at.

In the following week, I went on to have three more surgeries, the final one on my birthday, nine days after the accident. But I've gone on enough today about pain, and sadness, and worry. 10G became my home, and the staff like my family, with all the quirks and dysfunctions and foibles of any family. The people on 10G, the orthopedic trauma ward, are a unique bunch. They deal with high patient turnover. People aren't usually here as long as they're on medical wards. They deal with severe pain, disfigurement, external fixators, and difficult families. They have, for the most part, great senses of humor and a great deal of compassion for their patients. I've been the recipient of more kindness here than I can describe.

The day after the inital surgery, Bob and my younger daughter Anna were visiting. The burly young folks from Physical Therapy had come by to get me out of bed and into a wheelchair. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Someone brought me lunch, and I tried to eat a little bit of my salad. I was sick to my stomach, and I was fading in and out of consciousness sitting propped up in the wheelchair. I looked over at Anna and she was crying. I asked her why she was crying and she said she wasn't. I began to figure out at that point that things had been more serious than I'd known.

Intermission

So here I am in the hospital, still. Tomorrow will be three weeks since the accident. I'm supposed to get transferred to a skilled nursing facility today and I'm not sure if I'll have internet access there. I plan to continue this saga either way, but I might not be able to post subsequent chapters in a timely fashion.

Believe it or not, I'm still knitting. I finished the neon circus monkeys and the first hundertwalker, cast on for the second hundertwalker, and am about 2/3 of the way through the first of a pair of Pomatomus (from Knitty). Only I couldn't figure out chart B and instead of muddling through and making it work for me, I just gave up and decided to do the foot in stockinette. It's all good. Needless to say, I don't have pictures and am not sure when I'll be able to take or post any.

I've also been trying to do some reading. It's unexpectedly hard to read in the hospital. It may be the pain medication, but I just can't seem to concentrate as well as I'd like. I'm reading Paul Campos' "The Obesity Myth" and it's fascinating. Best of all, my mom was looking at it the other day and she wants to read it when I'm done. I also started Terry Pratchett's "only you can save mankind". It's very good. My mom got me the updated edition of "double yoi", Myron Cope's autobiography, and I've been enjoying that a few essays at a time.

People call and visit. I get cards and emails. I cry sometimes, from pain and depression and from dreaming that I can walk. Or dance. Or that I'm at home. It all seems so impossible sometimes. I'm worried about the pain meds too. Oxycodone is addictive. I try to make sure that I'm actually in pain before I take it but the problem is that if I do that and wait beyond the four hour time point, the pain gets ahead of me and it's hard to get it back under control. This morning's doctor told me that it's okay to just keep taking it, that it's more important to control the pain. My nurse last night (Kurt, who is awesome) actually came in and asked me if I was ready for them, because he saw how distressed I was from waiting on the earlier dosage. I guess there's a whole science of pain management now. I have the feeling I'm going to learn a lot about that.

So I suppose I'm off into the unknown and I'll find out more when I get there. I'll update again as soon as I can.

ER is nothing like you see on television.

Pulling up to the emergency room of the largest and supposedly best hospital in the area should engender a sense of comfort and hope in most sick or broken people. Unfortunately, that was not the case for me. The ride from Forbes to UPMC was mostly uneventful except for my feet dangling off the stretcher. Once the guys got me there, though, it was a slightly different story. Apparently some of the stretchers don't go with some of the vans, and the wheels on the stretcher got hung up on the bumper of the van, nearly dumping me out into the road. One attendant literally screamed for help from anyone passing by and a security guard came over to lend a hand, but I was terrified out of my wits and considering what came later, it's a damn good thing they didn't dump me.

They got me inside without further ado and left me in the hands of UPMC's emergency room. First I was wheeled to a room with four other beds in it. It smelled very strongly of poo. They moved me almost immediately to a non-poo smelling room where NFL network was showing on a television in the corner. I notified the nurse, without much hope, that I needed to use a toilet. She helpfully offered a bedpan but I declined, citing the need to attend to my feminine hygiene product. I bravely waited, hoping that before long I'd be able to avail myself of a normal, porcelain flush toilet. (Little did I know that almost three weeks later, such a luxury would still be unknown to me.) All my statistics and contact info were again taken and then, a flurry of activity led to my being moved to the hall near the poo room. There were a great number of alarms and beeping noises and loudspeaker announcements calling for immediate help and weeping relatives being led away by concerned looking staff. I think someone actually died in the poo room during that time frame. I still hadn't been given anything for pain and it was starting to get ahead of me.

I was sent for x-rays. In the x-ray room, I was contorted 100 different ways to get every possible angle on my legs, hips, back, and so on. They wanted to make sure nothing else was broken, I imagine. It hurt more and more every minute, and hurt more and more each time they made me move or turn or twist. I nearly vomited from the pain but imagining the pain of vomiting added to the fact that I already had to pee proved a very effective deterrent. I was taken back to the poo room, now ominously missing one occupant, but mercifully also missing the smell of poo. Directly across from me was a despondent looking young man with a basin and an expression of angst unseen since the late 90s. He periodically threw up into the basin, moaning. Next to me, thankfully beyond a curtain, was what sounded like an older woman begging someone named Tommy to "make it stop, I want to go home, please make the hurting stop" over and over again.

Around that time, Bob arrived. I was glad to see him but he looked worse than me. One of the greatest things about our relationship is how much we are attuned to each other, but it made it difficult for either of us to comfort the other much. We were both very worried, and with reason. I was sent for a CAT scan next, just of the left leg, the one with the fracture. I was getting really tired of moving from the ER bed to various apparatus. Back to the poo room and a nurse kindly gave me a cup of ice chips to suck on. The vomiting young man was still there, but seemed to be doing less vomiting. The Tommy calling lady was gone. An unreasonably young doctor came in to talk to me. The more he talked, the more worried I became. My fracture was bad, very bad. Plates and pins bad. I would be down for the count for some time, three months at a minimum. My need for a bathroom was still there but I was beginning to understand that I wasn't going to see one for a while, there would be no chance of any weight put on the bad leg. I was being admitted to the hospital and would likely be operated on first thing in the morning. Until then, they'd put my leg in a temporary cast. Another improbably young doctor joined the first and in a haze of pain and plaster and heat, my leg was immobilized. And finally, finally I was given pain medication.

It was a wait for a room, so I told Bob to go home and take care of the dogs and I'd let him know what was going on as soon as I knew. Surgery at first opportunity in the morning was all that was known for sure. Some hours went by, in a dilaudid-induced fog, in great pain, and in unknown and unrealized swelling in my damaged leg. Finally, around 2AM, a room became available and I was taken to 10G.

The story of what happened

So here's the story, or at least the beginning.

Thursday night is my regular bowling league night. I'm a pretty crappy bowler with an average in the high double digits, as sad as that is, but I don't mind. I was in the league to have fun and get out of the house and get around people, and a ladies' bowling league seemed like a fairly non-dangerous way to accomplish that.

On the 17th, I had started off pretty well. I felt like I was bowling well, like I was lined up right and throwing the ball right and that I had a good chance of beating my average by a good amount. The second frame, I bowled and left three pins. I did the usual aiming and calculating to pick up a simple three pin spare and went in for the shot. After I let go of the ball, I lost my footing. I don't know how I lost it, but I was struggling to keep from going over the foul line, and I lost the struggle. In regulation bowling alleys, the lane beyond the foul line is oiled to facilitate the ball's slide. My foot came down in the oiled part of the alley. I struggled to remain upright, but lost that struggle too. As I started to fall, everything slowed down. I heard crunching, popping, felt strange sensations like rubber bands snapping in my leg, and I hit the ground. I made a slight attempt to move, to get up, and started screaming.

I have never felt anything like that in my life. I was almost okay as long as I was still, but any movement was excruciating. Then, even being still wasn't okay. I could feel my leg swelling. I wasn't sure if things were broken, pulled, sprained, strained, or just bruised, but I knew my life was going to be different from then on.

The alley manager called the paramedics and someone brought me something for my head. I managed to call my husband on my cell phone and he assured me he'd be there. So many things were going through my head. The members of my team were sitting with me, trying to comfort me.

The paramedics arrived within ten minutes or so, as did my husband Bob. The paramedics prepared to get me on a backboard while Bob gathered my things and got my coat and bowling bag and my car keys. I was panicked, completely, and could not get hold of my emotions or fear. One of the paramedics came to my side and spoke to me gently, and I felt reassured immediately. I can't explain what was so wonderful about this particular medic, but he had a natural way of calming me and making me believe that everything would be okay. His face was like an angel's face, with skin as smooth and beautiful as a baby's. He helped me stay calm.

They took me to the nearest hospital, Forbes Regional, which was of course not in my HMO's plan. X-rays were done and it was obvious I had a pretty bad fracture. A different ambulance company was called to transport me to UPMC Presbyterian for orthopedic trauma. This ambulance ride was a whole different ball game. More of a van, the stretcher was far too small for me and my legs dangled off the end. Once they got me to the hospital, they nearly dropped me out of the back of the ambulance getting me out. Not a fun experience.

Then, the real fun began, the urban hospital's emergency room.

alive, not kicking

quick version, i had a fall at bowling on the the 17th. my left tibia has a plateau fracture that was repaired on the 24th, after an emergency surgery and a followup to save my leg from compartment syndrome. i'm still in the hospital and in a lot of pain and on a lot of meds. no weight on this leg for three months minimum.

will update again when i can type better. just wanted to post a sort of granny weatherwax "i aten't dead" sort of thing. I'm in UPMC Presbyterian Hospital room g1022 for now.

a friend loaned me his laptop today but it's my first laptop experience. not as easy as it looks.

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart

Today is Melissa's birthday. She would have been 44 years old.

I miss her every day. I think about her every day. I try not to spend time regretting the wasted years, regretting that we didn't make better use of the time we had... we did the best we could, just like everyone does.

But I miss her so much. Sometimes it just fills my heart up and there's no room for anything but the hurt.

Anyway, she loved this song. She liked when I played it on the flute, or sang it for her. This is about all I can manage today.

Hotels are superstitious places.

I'm doing computer stuff while listening to "The Shining" audiobook. It's hard to concentrate on the book and what I'm doing at the same time but it's a new thing, I'm just trying it out.

Went to the doctor's office today. No prognosis yet. She ordered tests. But the good news is that the doctor, a new one in the practice, is amazing. I started off by declining to be weighed. The nurse did not give me any problems with it. But when she took my blood pressure it was really high. The doctor was super nice. She listened to me. She agreed with me about my metabolism being screwed. She did not ONCE say or imply that I should lose weight. No patronizing. No talking down. She’s read Heath at Every Size and size acceptance stuff and is very much OK with it. She said she’s watched her family struggle with weight her whole life. I told her I have accepted that I’m famine-proof and she laughed. We discussed my old back injury, my vertigo, my costochondritis. She re-took my blood pressure and it was much lower. She was in the examining room with me for almost half an hour, which is pretty much unprecedented in doctoring these days. She said we'll move forward after the test results come back. She took a lot of notes, and right where I could see them, not surreptitiously at all.

I hope she never changes.

So, tonight is therapy. We'll see how that goes.

Some knitting progress. The Lovlund sweater is moving along nicely. I'm into the sleeves on the back.


It's hard to get a sense of it but I think it's going to be pretty nice.



I'm doing a pair of simple cabled mittens.


Mostly because I can't find my gloves. Now I can't find my lens cap, either. Life is a challenge sometimes.

The yarn may look familiar, because it's from the Pinwheel Sweater of doomy doom, which is now happily ripped out and converted into wonderful usable yarn. I just could not make it work for me, and I'm not sorry about it. I'm also going to make a long pointy stocking cap that matches the gloves.

Started a pair of socks on new year's day. Monkey, from Knitty. Ingenious design, easy to knit.






Pretty stuff. I got the yarn from a swap on Ravelry. It's Spunky Eclectic Super Sock. Another one of those luxury sock yarns that I'd never buy on my own.

It's hard to tell, but there's progress on the Hundertwalkers.

Once I finish these, it's going to be a while before I do socks on size zeros again. Too long.

I also took some photos of some of my favorite christmas presents. I didn't get to photograph my Hines Ward steeler jersey, it's in the wash.

Here's a vase my mom got us.


And a cat she got me.


Lena got me a peruvian quena flute.



You blow like a flute, but through the end, and you have to close off the end with your chin before you blow. It's different, but it sounds very nice.


The kids also got me these drums, more decorative than anything. They look nice against the new wall.


Here's the wall.


It needs something to hang, but what? No idea. The pictures are getting moved around and rearranged and reevaluated.


That's our "wedding wall". It's now in the dining room.

Not much else. I'm in a state of transition and who knows where I'll end up.

No longer ridin' on this merry-go-round

Very fast update.

The living room and hall are painted,with a lovely accent wall. The main color is a very very pale orangey cream, best seen in this photo.


the accent wall is green. I don't have a photo of that yet.

The new window treatment hardware is up, and hung with improvised curtains.


Those are actually the old curtains with the tops cut off and hung through the hems until we can get new ones. Better than nothing, our house IS back from the road, but not that far back.

The curtain rods have these awesome finials on them.


And Biscuit approves.



It's been a long day. Tomorrow I have stuff to do that prevents me from going to work. So I'll try to do a better update after I'm done with all that.


Figment hopes you'll understand.

No place like home for the holidays

I have no intention of going out tonight. We're staying home, drinking beer, and watching movies, once we get done watching Anna paint the accent wall in the living room. She got bored on her holiday home, and offered to paint. My living room has been in an uproar since about Thursday, giving me lots of time to do deep thinking about my control issues, my personal space issues, and my behaviors. Interesting stuff, at least to me.

I've been reading a lot of size acceptance blogs. Interesting to see where people are on the journey to learning to love oneself. I'm just sick to death of self-loathing and depriving myself of joy because of my body size. I did some quick math, and in my dieting life, I've lost about 500 pounds. I've lost a lot more than that, though. I've lost my self-respect, my metabolism, my joy in moving and eating and living. The core of it is that there is nothing inherently wrong with being fat. It's just like being tall, or being Italian, or being tone-deaf. It just is. What I need to do is stay away from the scale, assign neutral moral value to food (no more "good" or "bad" foods) and learn to listen to what my body wants.

On listening-I realized the other day that there are days when I go all afternoon and evening without having anything to drink. Not even water. And I wonder why I wake up in the night with the sahara desert blowing through my mouth! I'm so out of touch with my body's cues that I can't even recognize thirst.

On moving-it hurts. Of course it hurts. It's going to hurt. But if I don't move, I can't be fit. I want to be at least somewhat more fit than I am now. Note that this has nothing to do with weight or size.

Small steps, though. This is my resolution, and I'm not one to make resolutions.



That first. Everything else can follow.

Oh, and read Shapely Prose-it's also linked in the sidebar. Particularly a little number called "the fantasy of being thin". She's also got an excellent rant up today about Weight Watchers and how they're co-opting size acceptance language to sell their diet. Good stuff.

I need to do a full-on blog post instead of this little newsy crap that's been going in here lately, but truth be told, I hate my keyboard. It's just not working out for me. Maybe after things settle down, I'll get one that I don't hate typing on, and perhaps I'll type more as a result. Or I might type the same, but enjoy it more.

In knitting, nothing much new. The Hundertwalkers have been put on a circular needle for magic loop. I think I've converted to that method. They're past the heel but not really enough to photograph yet. Today, I finished the Iris socks.


Then Bob and Anna took pictures of my feet.



I have to say they're pretty great.

We had an adventurous christmas. I took a lot of pictures, all of which are on my Flickr page, in their very own set. A couple of highlights, though.

My daughters.


A box-shaped cat. (Sara, my aunt Ginny's cat)


And some very cute dogs.



Happiest of happy new years to all.

maybe I'm crazy to suppose...

It's been an interesting week. Needless to say, very busy. And being non-christian has never saved me from the hustle and bustle of the holiday season.

I was very happy to see Yule come this year. I needed the light to come back. All in all, it was a better year than last, but could still stand some improvement.

My accomplishments for 2007 include...

Became proficient at knitting socks.

Acquired a good camera and making strides to learning how to use it.

Decided that I need to stop fighting and hating my body and start learning to love it and work with it.

Reconciled myself to doing the most low-stress version of my job that involves actually doing some work, and coming up with workable compromises between my standards and the unrealistic workload.

Learned to make straciatella in several different ways. Decided on the way I like best.

Began reclaiming my feminism and seeing all the ways in which patriarchy hurts us all, and calling bullshit where I see it in that regard.

So all in all, not bad. And my quitmeter (at the bottom of the page) keeps inexorably ticking toward two years. There are days I don't even think about smoking. Weeks I go without actively wanting a cigarette. It's pretty cool.

Now that I've finished the dread holiday knitting, I have time to work on stuff for ME, ME I TELL YOU! HAHAHAHAHA.

My Iris socks should be done by the end of the week.


This pattern moves really fast, but you can't make it out very well unless the socks are stretched out.




I also started on Lovlund by Cornelia Scott Hamilton.


It's a short sleeved sweater designed to work with Noro yarn, but I'm using Jojoland Rhythm which has color runs like Noro but more shifting colors than abrupt changes. Pretty nice, actually. The colors aren't as neon-y as they look in the photos but at 5 in the AM on christmas eve, I'm not working for the perfect shot.

I woke up at 4:30 and could not get back to sleep. My back is getting worse and worse all the time, my feet keep going numb at night. It starts with the two middle toes on each foot, and radiates out and back. Once I get up and start moving around, it goes away. On top of that, I had a severe flare-up of costochondritis on Friday and Saturday. Had to take vicodin in order to sleep, but when I woke up yesterday, it was much better. It still hurts some but nothing like the agony that was Saturday.

I'm trying not to think about the things that are missing this year, namely my Grandmother and Melissa, and yes, Quincy too. Melissa not being here hurts the most. She used to do "russian christmas" when we first met, because we both worked in retail and were very poor. That branched out into our habit of declaring "russian" anything from birthdays celebrated late to Mother's day delayed to get good tables at restaurants. She was the source of so many small traditions in my life that it's hard to go a day without feeling her absence, very keenly. And I'm not obtuse enough to miss the connection between my sadness and my physical maladies... I can only hope that in time, my heart will heal enough to allow my body to follow.

Well, I hope everyone has a good holiday of your choice. Today will be work and then to my Aunt's house for a while. Tomorrow, my mom and my elder daughter will gather here for present-opening before we set out to my Uncle's house for the day. Then back to work Wednesday. Enjoy it as best you can!

To my mother, my dog, and clowns

(The title is a line from "Life on Mars", one of my favorite David Bowie songs.)
My family has apparently forgotten I have a name.

Today, we received two holiday greeting cards (from members of MY FAMILY, no less) addressed to Mr. And Mrs. Bob. This pisses me off. I am very proud and happy to be married to Bob, but this does not mean I NO LONGER HAVE A FIRST NAME. Neither Bob nor I see me as an extension of him. I have my own identity, personality, and name. Only the last name changed, and that was only because I've gone my whole life with a long-assed, difficult last name and wanted one with one syllable for once in my life. I did not change my first name, nor did I disencumber myself of who I am to become Mrs Bob. Ok? Ok.

It's been a bit of a hectic week. The Dread Holiday Knitting is complete, and I am at last able to work on things my own again. The last project finished was my mother's socks.



I think they came out quite well.



She admired this pattern (Kaibashira from Magknits) when I was making it for my elder daughter. Hopefully she's forgotten that I said I'd make her a pair and she'll be nice and surprised. They're made from the first Koigu yarn I ever bought. The colors are just beautiful and these went pretty fast, less than two weeks. I learned one important thing. The general instructions for knitting Magic Loop say not to pull the yarn tight between the needle transitions, but if you're working size one needles, you DO need to pull it tight, or you'll get ladders. I found this out when I had to rip out about four inches of sock (sparing the cuff, thank goodness), the ladders were just too severe and unacceptable.

So. I'm working on two pair of socks for myself. I'm on Ravelry (username Mensabuttercup if you want to add me, please feel free) and I belong to a group called "Sock Knitters Anonymous". Each month, there's a sock challenge, and those who meet the challenge are put into a "hat" for a random drawing for prizes. I actually won a prize, this gorgeous yarn from the Art Walk sock yarn club.


Of course I couldn't wait to start a sock out of something so pretty. It's becoming a pair of "Primavera" socks.

It started out innocently enough, but soon developed a spiral.


I don't mind it so much though.


The yarn is truly a premium sock yarn, something I'd probably never buy due to the expense so I'm really enjoying working with it. A rare treat.

The "Hundertwalkers" march on, slowly now. I'd put these down for a month or so because of holiday knitting and it's nice to get back to them, but dang. 100 stitches around on size zero needles takes FOREVER.



That is one gorgeous self-patterning sock, though. Oh, those colors.

That's about it.

Hopefully I'll get to update before, but if not, have a blessed Yule.

Gone to the dogs

Honestly, I didn't want to do an update today, but since I usually do this on Mondays, I felt obligated. So here is today's list for the Cosmic Complaints Department.

I'm going through a lot of stuff right now. Trying to do the whole "fat acceptance" and Health at Every Size thing, but I'm still in that "but not for me" phase, and I'm still struggling with a very unhealthy relationship with food. And a very unhealthy relationship with my self image.

Money is tight. I feel like a big failure there, too. I keep hoping someday it'll get better, but I'm just not seeing it lately. Good thing we decided to keep giftmas to a minimum this year.

The Steelers lost. Now the unabated Pats worship will get even worse. I hate that team.

My toes are falling asleep every night when I go to bed. I think the bed is really bothering my back, but there's nothing I can do about it. My old back troubles are rearing their ugly heads in a big way.

I'm very, very profoundly depressed right now.

But it's not all bad.

The dogs are cute.





My husband is awesome, supportive, and sweet.

My kids are pretty cool.

I'm within one half of one sock of being finished with the Dread Holiday Knitting. I will finish early. Mostly because I'm not doing that much but also because I kept it more sane and reasonable this year.

I do have gifts for everyone that I want to give gifts to. They might not be the greatest gifts, but they're gifts. I still need to get some photo frames.






The laundry's almost done. That's worth celebrating, isn't it?

And in a little over a month, I'll be able to take a couple of days off, which I need desperately.

No craft or yarn photos, this time. It's just too grey and cloudy outside and I don't want to do photos inside as my relationship with this camera does not yet include being able to take indoor flash pictures that look like anything other than ass.

Edited to add-this morning at the dentist's office, Janice Dickinson and Al Roker were on the Today show together talking about kids having body image issues. Oh, the irony.
Hang in there. If I can do it, you can do it.

And now, our lightning round!

I only have time for a half-fast update. (say that fast and you'll understand.)

My younger daughter had her graduation ceremony on Saturday, even though she doesn't officially graduate for another two weeks. Graduating from college, and she's not yet 22 years old. Amazing.

I have a whole set up on Flickr, but there are some extra photos I took that were not included in that bunch.

First, this bank of computers in the lounge.



Who ever said christian college students don't have senses of humor?




and finally...


There was a lovely sign next to the gifts they were giving the graduates.


Of course, being the smartass that I am, I had to comment on it. "Only had one to spare, eh?"


Nice fix.



I'm insanely proud of both my kids, of course. But that made me laugh. I needed a laugh after the speeches, believe me.


Anyway, I also took some photos from the back porch of the lounge where the reception was. There's a cute little riverfront town across the way.


(That one is best viewed large, so click on it if you like.)

This is the big G (for Geneva) on the mountain across the river. I guess they light it on fire during homecoming or something.


And here's a train that looks like a toy train.


In fiber things, I continue to knit socks like a madwoman. The rainbow Jaywalkers are done, as is my mother's christmas stocking.



This project started with the yarn, or even before that. I spun a "mystery batt" from Mountain Shadow Ranch and to get the most mileage possible from it, plied it with lengths of red and royal blue roving. Not enough to do anything substantial, and the sparkle in the mystery batt proved to be prone to breakage, so not particularly durable either.

It was a stash puppy for a year or so. My mother's had a rather small christmas stocking for some time and when I started thinking about making her a new one, this yarn came to mind. Several fits and starts later, I settled on a seed stitch/stockinette checkerboard and a white cabled cuff.

Anyway. The liner is a commercial satin xmas stocking from Joanne fabrics.

There are actually three cables, the other two are around the back.


I made an i-cord to hang it.


After I got it all knitted and blocked, it was still looking a little plain, so I embroidered some snowflakes on it.


There's a fine line between rustic and sloppy, and my embroidery skills are a bit ... dated. I like the overall effect, though.


I'm happy to say that every pair of socks that needs to be finished before the 25th is at least cast on.

My mom's Kaibashira socks are past the first heel.


And I only have about 2/3 of one brown slipper sock to go.


I was encouraged enough to cast on and knit about a foot of a giant needle (size 11) mohair scarf just for fun today. No photos though. Yet. You know me, give it time.