Just a flesh wound

Every time I swallow it feels as if I have one of these stuck in my throat.

I had the delightful experience this morning of hearing a doctor use the words "pus" and "goiter" in the same sentence.
And yes, she was referring to me.
While I definitely had one, the other is, thankfully, unlikely.
Last night I noticed my right knuckle was sore. It was hard to see for sure, but it looked as if I had a splinter. In my knuckle.
Now, you'd think someone would notice a splinter going into a knuckle, but I had no recollection of a sudden pain. The only contact with wood I remember having was putting logs in the fireplace and for that I always wear fireplace gloves.
Nonetheless, in the dim light of our CFL bulbs, it looked like a splinter.
I jokingly said to my girls, "Watch. In the morning I'll wake up and it will be swollen and full of pus!"
Ha ha.
I should know better.
This morning it was indeed swollen, red, tender, and undoubtedly infected.
I decided to head to a walk-in clinic rather than try to make an appointment - I had to be done in time to pick my daughter up from school at 10:44 and my husband was returning from two weeks in Chile around 9:30.
Somehow I managed to slip a glove on over my swollen and extremely tender finger. I had to drive with with my finger extended - did I mention it's my middle finger?
My apologies to anyone who saw me and was insulted.
The doctor took one look at my finger and launched into an explanation of MRSA a dangerous, drug-resistant from of staph. Apparently, my finger looks like a classic case. She took a sample of the infection (ow) and we'll have the results in two days.
Her method was not unlike how my Uncle Clarence lanced a pus-filled cyst on a cow. Yeah. That's a whole lot of gross.
Fortunately, my knuckle spurted much less.
Meanwhile, I am allergic to the best medication for staph (figures) so instead I'm taking cephalexin.
And my finger really hurts.
While I was there, I decided to try for a two-fer and mentioned the lump-like sensation I've had in my throat for the past several weeks. She took a quick look and all seemed fine. Though I've never had a doctor ask me to look down while she checked my throat - she was so short that as I sat on the exam table her head didn't even reach my shoulder.Then she asked if I'd ever had a goiter.
I burst out laughing, blurting "pus and goiter - just my luck."
I may have scared her a little.
No, I've never had a goiter, but I do have hypothyroidism.  Apparently, the lump sensation is right where the thyroid sits, and though my thyroid seemed fine, she suggested I have it checked out by my regular physician since "sometimes goiters grow in" creating pressure.
Joy.
Of course, I came right home and googled "lump in throat sensation."
This seems to be fairly common and is called "globus pharygis."
It's also been called "globus hystericus," as many people have no actual physical cause, rather the sensation is caused by anxiety.
Yeah.
Whoopee.
This just goes to prove that if it's weird, I'll get it.
I can honestly testify that my anxiety is quite well under control these days, so it's likely due to some simple inflammation. I have an appointment with my doctor in a week.
In the interim, I'm trying to ignore how much pain a stupid knuckle can cause and hoping it's not MRSA.
Oh, and did you know it's next to impossible to unscrew the lid from a two-liter bottle of pop when you can't bend your knuckle?
Try it.
Then you'll have to call for help, too.

Brewskie

With my renewed focus on mindfulness, I recognized that I am not the only one in my household who has let personal interests and endeavors slide.  

My husband used to brew beer.  It was a hobby he enjoyed but which fell by the wayside as our lives became "busier." There just never seemed to be time.

But making time for personal interests is vital to contentment.  Once I'd rediscovered this for myself it was time to grant the gift of time to my husband.

He works crazy long hours with loads of travel.  His weekends have always been filled with "chores" - stacking wood, making repairs, working in the yard, etc.  Those little tasks that seemed so important would suck up whatever non-work time he had.

Well no more.

As they say, all work and no play makes Mike a worn-out, unfulfilled, guy.

Or something like that.

So for Christmas this year I got him a gift certificate to a local brewing supply store. In the past he always made-do with barely adequate equipment. This gift allowed him to upgrade a little and purchase the raw ingredients necessary to brew a batch.

It was fun to watch him get back into his hobby.  I picked up a couple of basic brewing books from the library and about a month ago he brewed his first batch. He was concerned about fermentation, so the primary fermenter (I think it's called a carboy) was brought upstairs where it was a little warmer.

The girls and I, enjoying how much he was babying his batch, wrapped the carboy in a heating pad and hat one day.  I was upstairs when he came home and heard his somewhat frantic reaction.  Of course we didn't have the heating pad on!

It sat upstairs in the dining room for a week, protected from the light as you see above.

 It was ready to bottle the day before he left for a two-week trip to Chile.

 The brew is awaiting his return tomorrow, under wraps in the basement.

I can't wait for him to taste his inaugural brew.  It looks a little dark for my tastes, though I definitely will sample some.  After he makes a second batch, I think we'll brew some root beer for everyone to enjoy.

Spinster

Isn't this gorgeous?

My youngest daughter, Melissa, 14, learned how to spin nearly two summers ago.

She is quite the fiber artist.

For her birthday last year, in addition to several sheep's worth of roving, she received a small drum carder.  Actually, she paid for about a third of the carder - as with most things, spinning supplies and tools are quite expensive.

A drum carder allows her to custom blend fibers in spinning-ready batts.

Here is a fiber "sandwich" - various types of wools and colors are layered before carding.

These sandwiches are then fed into the hand-cranked drum carder.

It takes a fair amount of muscle to turn the crank.

As the fibers are run through the combs they are mixed and smoothed.

Henry is always willing to supervise; unfortunately he has a penchant for stealing whole hunks of roving.

Here you see a completed "sandwich' ready for the carder.

And here..

Here is the finished batt.

And another one.

Melissa then takes these batts and spins them into yarn.

The yarn with the blue and gray is what she spun from the batts pictured earlier.

She also spun all the yarn you see above.

For me!

This yarn represents a huge amount of time and effort on her part - and it's all for me.

I have a project planned.

I've been dragging my feet a little, but hope to start it this week!

Rainy Day

It rained last week

and it smelled like spring

Stagnant

Floyd knows exactly who he is: Gorgeous, that's who.

When my third child started college last fall I realized something.
I have devoted so much of myself to being a mom, a wife, an animal caretaker, and in dealing with chronic illness that I let myself stagnate.
I suppose I never really answered that iconic question of youth "Who am I?"
I just kind of avoided it as my life took off.
Who am I?
At 21, a wife.
At 22, a grad student.
At 24, a stay-at-home mom
At 26, stay-at-home mom of two.
At 29, stay-at-home mom of three.
At 33, stay-at-home mom of four.
Then I became a homeschooler, a sometime unschooler, a mom of high school kids, college kids, graduate student kids.
And while I hope to add grandmother and mother-in-law to that list someday (not necessarily in that order!), the pattern I've established is quite clear. I tend to define who I am through my relationships to others.  There's nothing wrong with that, but I need to know who I am individually as well.
Now, I don't mean to denigrate my role of "mom."  Being the mother of four incredibly intelligent, caring, funny human beings truly is the best part of my life.  Being married to the man of my dreams is the most wonderful, amazing, truly fortunate thing that has ever happened to me.
But I'm 48 now, and my role as mom, though constant, continues to evolve.  Let's face it, my kids don't need me in the same way they did as babies, toddlers, children, or young adults.
I love the relationships I have with each and every one of them.  And we are a strong and supportive family that truly enjoys spending time together.
So why do I feel as if I never figured out what I want to be when I grow up?
I'm fortunate to be able to continue to stay home, and I still have a daughter in high school who requires a lot of chauffeuring, among other things.
But I realized that I finally need to do more for myself than take the occasional (alright, nearly daily) nap, exercise (relatively consistently) and read a book here and there.
Folks, it's time to figure out who I want to be for the next half of my life.
I had grand plans this fall, including two art classes, attending the nearby Unitarian church, joining groups, volunteering, joining a book club...
Yeah, it was a little too much too soon.
Real life intervened as the specter of mental illness crashed into my children's lives yet again.  My train was completely derailed.
Things are looking a little brighter these days, and I've decided to acknowledge a few things about myself.
I am not a good "joiner."  I need to try one new thing at a time and give myself permission to quit or switch gears if it's not a good fit.  I haven't been able to force myself to attend many church services, but I joined a small group there that I dearly love!
I tried out the art class (one of them was cancelled), but recognized that I'm not comfortable "arting" in a group. Too much insecurity for that. So I've done a few artsy projects at home with my girls.  I plan to try to increase the frequency of these artistic endeavors and just allow myself to enjoy the process. As my youngest daughter told me, my self-worth should not be tied to the success (or failure) of an art project.  (How did she get so wise?)
I am the type of person who doesn't like being too busy.  Creating too many obligations for myself makes me want to run and hide my head under the bed with the cats and the dust bunnies.  And you know what?  It's okay.  I don't have to try to force myself to be busier than I want to be. I have always needed a lot of alone time (when in 6th grade I'd climb up into my closet and read the encyclopedia).  That's just who I am.  So I'm allowing myself to just stay home.  I like it here, you know?
While I love to cook and love to read, I really don't want to take cooking classes nor do I want to discuss books.  What do I want?  I want to try to new recipes and challenge myself to cook from scratch even more than I already do.  I want to take time - hours and hours - and just devour books.  For myself. Now, if I could only solve that little problem I have of staying awake longer than a chapter or two...
I still haven't found my volunteering niche.  I tried the local animal shelter with my daughter, but on our second tour of duty I came home with a kitten, upping our total to 6.  Yeah, I know.  Can you say hairball?  The rescue league is not a safe place for me.  So finding the right fit for volunteering is still high on my list.
I guess I'd have to say I am a work in progress.
While I haven't discovered that elusive answer to the "who am I?" question, I think spending the next 40 or 50 years finding out will be a pretty darn rewarding experience.

Confusion

My cactus is confused.
I bought it several years ago as a Christmas cactus but this year it just can't make up it's mind.
So far it has bloomed at Thanksgiving and Christmas, in mid-January and for Valentine's day.
Now, it's heralding spring.

It seems to be mimicking Mother Nature's confusion.  Little snow, record warmth, crocus blooming in February.

This week alone we've had rain, temps in the 50s, and right now big, beautiful snowflakes are drifting past my window.

Yesterday it got uncomfortably warm in the house just from the fireplace.  Today, I've already run the heat, the fire is blazing, and I'm cold even with a heavy afghan and two cats on my lap.

I'm not complaining, mind you.
I hate snow and ice and cold.

And as far as I'm concerned, my cactus can keep right on blooming.

Got Flowers?

Early in my treatment for depression, before my therapist knew me well, he tried lots of what I like to call "the little tricks" he learned in "therapy school."

The one that came to mind last week was when he told me to buy myself a flower.

Yeah.

Here I am, sitting in your office, paying you crazy sums, suffering from severe depression, and you want me to buy myself a flower?

Which is pretty much what I told him.  But I didn't stop there.  I let him know in uncertain terms that if I had to buy my own flower, for goodness' sake, I would only feel worse.

I believe this suggestion came shortly after his "go home and take a nice relaxing bath" idea.  At the time I was a mother to four children under 11, one of whom was a toddler.  My husband traveled, my bathtub was dirty, and taking a bath in the afternoon was about the last thing I could do.

I suggested he find out if these trite ideas actually made anyone happier or only increased the anger the patient feels for her therapist's lack of understanding of what life as a stay-at-home mom is like and that if I wanted to feel happier then tell somebody else to buy me a damn flower.

Ahem.

I might have been a bit of a challenge for him.

But that was then and this is now.

Ten years and a decade of selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors later, I have a higher set point of daily happiness.  

Or maybe it's that my depression threshold is lower?

What I mean to say is that now that I'm no longer depressed, I do occasionally enjoy buying myself flowers. Especially this time of year, when it just seems too long to wait for daffodils to bloom.

Ah, Spring.

You do make me happy.