(UPDATE, October 2016:
In September 2016, there was a bombing near my dad’s apartment. I knew he was physically ok, but I sent him an email titled, “Are You OK?”. His response caused major anxiety and panic attacks and I wrote a draft response. I also went iver his email point by point, but there are only so many times one can insert the word, “Bullshit”. My dad has been rewriting history for a while. I’m aware that he does not like the Real Me, but I find it odd that, when rewriting history, he doesn’t make me into someone that he likes — or loves. Instead I am made out to be worse than I ever was, which confuses me. Why not make me into the child he always wanted me to be? I posted the email responses but quickly took it down. My father needs psychological help and I felt posting would have “gone to far”. But in going through my Drafts, I found this. Maybe he’ll see it, most likely he won’t, but these memes are as close as I can get to letting him know how I feel.)
I love my dad but, as you will soon see, he has hurt me again. I had a great set up but an accidental click on “trash” ruined it. So here are the memes in no special order. (I hate WordPress on my phone but my grandma refuses to listen to what my son and I need and goes with what my dad, aka, The Favorite, says, and we wind up with a bigger Netflix screen. Thanks, dad. Big help. My son can show his teachers YouTube instead of a science project!)
Notice the name here, dad:
Aaand of course some are missing and they’re not divided but that’s what happens when you don’t have a compiter or laptop — glad you ignored the last list of ten and chose one to watch Netflix on, Dad, but we needed one so my kid wouldn’t have to skip lunch and stay late to use the school computer. (And if you start in on his weight, I’ll remind you how you called me “fat” when Playboy asked me to pose for them. Or how you pointed at me and an unnamed Doorman, telling us if we didn’t lose weight we’d get diabetes a week before you fell into your first diabetic coma. Or I’ll poke your belly. Arse.)
I once posted about making Duct Tape Wallets, but the pictures didn’t get posted, so I need to update it. At one point in this project you will need to make a small duct tape sheet. I’ll try to verbally guide you through it.
Anyway, my love of stationary items and dollar stores has collided to make a small, easy to carry date book / notebook.
You Will Need:
* small date book
* small notebook, as close to the same size as the date book as you can manage
* duct tape
* scissors (for duct tape)
* markers for decorating
1. Take your date book, notebook and duct tape.
2. Wrap a piece of duct tape around you fingers, sticky side out to make a loop. This will be used to hold the two books together.
3. Use the duct tape to cover both the date book and the notebook together. Trim to fit.
4. At this point, you will need to make a small sheet of duct tape. Using 3 pieces slightly longer than you will need, place one sticky side up and place the second halfway across. Place the third piece next to the first, sticky side up, and you will have a small “sheet”. Place one half of the sticky half on the inside of the date book flap (unless your notebook is smaller, then reverse), and the other sticky half on the outside of the date book. Now you have a loop to place a pen into. Trim to fit.
5. Using your markers, write whatever you wish on the cover(s). Be sure to include an email address on the inside of both books in case you lose them.
Date book: $1.49
Notebook: 2/$1.49 = $0.745
Duct tape: $1/roll; less than half used = $0.50
Pen (4 color plus mechanical pencil): $1.49
If you have any questions, please ask.
I will be updating my Duct Tape Wallet post soon.
If you have anything duct tape related that you would like instructions for, please let me know. I am working on my phone so photos don’t always post, but hopefully I will have a laptop soon.
Happy Samhain (“sow-een”), which is the Wiccan New Year.
A.k.a., D. K. Stevens
To those who have been concerned about my lack of online time these past two weeks:
My son has had a cold. He’s given me two since school started, but apparently I passed on his latest: sore throat, coughing, mild fever at night. He was in bed all weekend and I kept him home on Monday.
I know. No Big Deal. I’ve always been over-protective. But there’s something I’ve failed to mention.
N was born in early November, so that’s when he gets his yearly check-up. Two years ago there was a minor problem, and it was there last year. This led to a follow-up visit in January for a second blood test. A few months later he was called in for a sonogram of his kidneys.
At the beginning of summer break we were told that one of his kidneys was smaller than the other. Not a big deal, it’s possible to live with one kidney, but his larger kidney wasn’t covering for his smaller kidney. I was referred to a specialist, but after waiting 6 weeks, debating whether to tell my son, he freaked out at the specialists office. And we lost the appointment.
We did get blood taken again and, with the sonogram, it looks like my son — as of now — should be able to make it through his teens before needing a new kidney. This is ideal as I’m not a match and if his kidneys are adult-sized, he has more of a chance of finding a doner.
Ideally, his larger kidney will kick in and do it’s fucking job.
Realistically, his smaller kidney will be removed and he’ll need a healthy kidney to make up for what his larger kidney is not doing.
Worst case, he’ll need a kidney sooner. Meaning his smaller kidney will be removed and he’ll be on dialysis waiting for a doner since the larger kidney is a fuck-up… Like me.
So meds are a problem for my son. Even for a stupid cold. My son knows some but not all — not even most — of this. He thinks it’s No Big Deal. But it is.
Not ignoring. Just wallowing in self-pity.
— Dee / Kat
I am a mom.
I am an ovo-lacto vegetarian who believes it is not worth my time to hate anyone.
My son’s dad crippled me by snapping my spine. I also have fibromyalgia and lots of fun illnesses / diseases. I live in chronic pain.
My posts are about my life. Sometimes I post stories or poems or reviews.
I’m an avid reader.
I like constructive feedback.
I am writing this on my phone so apologize, in advance, for typos.
I believe in giving credit where credit is due so if you see your work and there is no credit, please let me know. If you wish to repost or quote something of mine, please let me know. Everything is copyrighted.
One of these days, I’ll do it.
For now, I just take pictures of me smoking in front of “No Smoking” signs ;p
I first noticed the dark colored mouse as it ran across the sink and jumped behind the stove. I thought my (retired mouser) cat Ema and I had imagined it until my son winessed almost the same scene the following day.
I was the runt of my litter and, worse, had the dark grey fur of my absentee father. My four siblings, all a light grey like our mother, and nearly twice my size, liked to make fun of me:
— Chester the Nester, he’ll need to feed til he’s one; Chester the Nester, he’ll always come in last. Chester the Nester, he’ll never be much fun, Chester the Nester, he’ll never be that fast.
It wasn’t much as childhood rhymes go, but it hurt. A “nester” is a mouse who never leaves the nest; and while I had no problem with the idea of caring for my mother into her old age, I had images of a wife and a litter of our own…
I was the first of our litter to go searching for food. Not because I was ready, mind you, but to try and prove myself. I was returned home by the two EMMT (Emergency Medical Mouse Technician) mice on a stretcher, my head bound tightly from a deep cut and a concussion I had received running from a cat and banging my head on a low-hanging piece of wood. I was still clutching the piece of cheese and saying, “Please, Mr. Cat, this is for my mum, not for me.” This changed the rhyme my siblings chanted a bit:
— Chester the Nester, chased by a cat and whacked his head, Chester the Nester bled and lay there looking dead, Chester the Nester, clutching the piece of cheese, “Please, Mr Cat,” he pled, “this cheese is for my mum”.
I moved a pan over to block the mouse from running to his oven hiding spot. We lived with (I’d say, “owned”, but what human has ever “owned” a cat?) three cats. The oldest, the aforementioned Ema had caught a mouse or three in her day; by the time the other two were acquired, my son and I assumed the Smell of Cat would keep away any mice. We were wrong.
After the head wound healed, I noticed that my sense of smell and taste were gone. I tried to hide this fact, but to no avail. When my older brother Charles was run over trying to bring home food for us, my sister Charlene shoved me against the wall. “You’ve lost your sense of smell,” she stated. Charlene was always very direct. “I’ve noticed how we all smell something, yet your whiskers and nose are the last to go — like you’re copying us.”
She let go of my shoulders and stood back, knowing I wouldn’t run even though I was back on all fours. I hung my head in shame; there is nothing worse than a mouse with no sense of smell.
“Mother knows,” I said lamely, in a quiet voice.
“And what of us?” Charlene demanded. “Chrissy has moved in with her husband, Charles has been run over, Christopher has some wild idea about going to the upper floors–“
“I’ll go with him!” I exclaimed, although my stomach churned at the thought. Christopher was the Wild One of our litter and the upper floors scared me. A lot.
Charlene glared at me. “You,” she paused. “You will go with Christopher to the higher floors?” She was almost screeching her squeaks were so loud. She slapped me across the face, then; the first, last, and only time. She looked ashamed. “Chester…” her voice softened. “Chester, I’m sorry about the chants. They were jokes. You’ve got nothing to prove! Chester, no. No,” she squeaked more firmly. “I’ll go with Christopher. Someone needs to stay with Mother.”
She rubbed her cheek, her whiskers, against mine. “I’ll go,” she whispered. Charlene was used to getting her way, and not just because of her large size.
That night, as everyone slept, I pulled myself carefully away from the bundle. “Ready, Christopher?” I squeaked quietly.
“Ready,” he whispered. I gently kissed my mother goodbye. “We’ll bring back loads of food, you’ll see,” I squeaked quietly, and followed Christopher down the halls and up the elevator wires to wait for daylight when the humans would be out.
The mouse hadn’t been seen in a couple of weeks. My son and I had forgotten about it. Until we came home to see it dart through the sheet that blocked the air conditioning from the living room / my bedroom to the hallway.
When you’re a Parent, there are things that you would do for your kid that you normally wouldn’t. I’m terrified of bugs. TERRIFIED. But so is my son. So when there’s a bug, I MUST protect my son. Even if I’m terrified. Even if I’m about to throw up / pass out/ scream/etc.
I stepped on the mouses’ tail, glad I was wearing sneakers. The mouse squeaked — LOUDLY. I moved my foot and moved a box, effectively blocking it in on three sides. “Get me a plastic container!” I called to my son, who came running in with a small container, while trying to remove the top. I took it from him, yanked off the top, and tried to catch the mouse in it. I succeeded on my second try, slid the top underneath — had to shake it a bit so I could close it without hurting it’s tail, and it was in!
Carefully, I slid the lid underneath the mouse and flipped him over but had to shake him a bit so I wouldn’t close the lid on his tail.
“Open the door for me, please, Sweets,” I said. I didn’t want to touch anything even though I was pretty sure I hadn’t touched the mouse. “I’m going to bring this to the Super,” I said. “Don’t touch anything, ok, Pup?” He nodded.
I was reminded of the time we stayed in a Family Homeless Shelter. I had refused the mouse traps that snapped on the mouse for the sticky kind. I surrounded the heater with them and one night a mouse, holding a Phillies Blunt wrapper in it’s mouth, was caught. I called the front desk because I didn’t want to touch it but, long story short, after half a litre of vegetable oil and a lot of “this isn’t part of my job” complaints from the night guard, the greasy mouse slid off the trap and ran off into the night.
I had decided to take the mouse to the Super’s apartment on the first floor. Not his son, who should be the Super, but the old guy who purposely stepped on and broke my then toddler son’s favorite train set piece; the old guy who put a lit, bare bulb on my antique luggage collection and set them on fire; etc. Hundreds of dollars worth of damage, and not a single apology. He goes through the tenants mail and steals government mail — welfare letters, disability letters, and so on — so appointmens are missed and cases closed. He broke the lock off of my mailbox with a screwdriver and tried to charge me the fifty dollars I had refused to pay for my keys when I had first moved in.
I rode down the elevator and looked at tbe little dark mouse in the clear plastic container. I realized I should take pictures with my phone, which I’d left upstairs, so there would be a time / date stamp. When the elevator opened on one, I quickly pressed “6”, followed by the Close Door button. The mouse was busy going in circles, keeping his right side against the plastic container. Upon reaching my floor, I called out to my son, “Pup, my phone, I left it up here. I want to get pictures.”
My son opened the door for me with my phone in hand. “Mom,” he said, “there’s a big drop of blood on the floor in front of the kitchen, in the hall. I think one of the cats got a bite just as we came home.” The blood stain was almost the size of a quarter and there was a light blood smear nearby, heading towards my room. I held up the plastic container and shook it a bit. In the sunlight I could see a chunk missing from the left shoulder of tbe mouse. It was so deep that as he scurried about his plastic container, I could easily see the bone of his left arm as it went up and down with each step.
It was a set-up. Christopher assured me that he had scoped tbe place out twice and there were two humans but they had gone out. He would stand guard while I grabbed as much food as I could and give it to him. I thought the strange glint in his eyes was excitement. Or the sun. Or his crazy.
“You’re sure this is safe?” I squeaked quietly.
“Don’t you trust me, Chester?” Christopher squeaked back, a bit loudly, I thought. “Now… go!” And I felt both hands shove me out into the open kitchen and by the time my eyes had cleared from the bright sunlight, I was surrounded by three cats. “Christopher!” I squeaked as loudly as I could. “Christopher! It’s an ambush! Let me back in! Please!”
“Couldn’t smell the cats, could you, Chester?”
“Who else is in on this?” I squeaked, ducking under a paw with very long nails. “Charlene?” I asked. No answer. Suddenly I felt fangs pierce my left side, right on my shoulder. I didn’t want to know, but I had to know. I gasped for air, pushing with hands and feet against the felines’ mouth. My head was back so I couldn’t bite the cat, but I squeaked out quietly, “Mom? Was Mom in on this?”
The cat shook her head, teeth digging deeper into my shoulder meat, her claws reaching for my belly. “No, Chester the Nester. This was all me. I’ll return and tell how we were ambushed and though they’ll pretend to be sad, Charlene and Mother will be glad you’re gone,” Christopher answered, his voice fading as he ran away through the tunnels to tell his version of the story.
Suddenly, there was a loud noise as the two humans returned. In the split second that the cat was distracted, I pulled free, losing flesh and blood, and ran for a dark room.
Not fast enough. “Mouse!” yelped the bigger of the two who pushed aside the doorway and stepped — hard — on my tail. I yelped. The larger human moved a box as I tried, and failed, to jump through a tiny hole. Now I was boxed in on three sides — wall, wooden table leg, box. And a large human on the fourth side.
After going downstairs, realizing I needed pictures, having my son take them, and noticing the wound on the mouse, I wasn’t sure what to do. I left the closed plastic container in the garbage room on tbe first floor. Back upstairs, I cleaned my shoes, the blood, the cat puke ln the bathroom floor.
Then I sat on my bed.
I felt horrible.
I should’ve let the mouse go. Somewhere… Outside? Where the feral cats could kill him? No. Where, then? I think I went into shock, a little, at that point. I would shake uncontrollably, intermittently, for almost four hours afterwards, until my Nighttime Meds kicked in.
But what choice did I have? Make my son get rid of it?
That night, and the night after, I had nightmares. Mice everywhere. Big ones, little ones, mice with missing chunks of flesh and visible bones. Leering mice. Mice squeaking at me. The following morning, I ran downstairs. “Did they take out the garbage from yesterday yet?” I asked a neighbor who lived on tbe first floor. He nodded, “You just missed them. Why?”
And that was it. The mouse had most likely suffocated or bled to death. I am a horrible person.
The plastic container wasn’t closed all the way, but enough that with the loss of blood and lack of air I soon became unconscious.
“Psst! Psst! Chester! Wake up! Wake up!” the last was more of a plea. “Charlene? You’re dead, too?”
“No, stupid, but we’ve been trying to get you out all night and the garbagemen are coming!”
I took a deep breath — I could breathe! And I felt the burning pain in my left side, where the cat had taken a chunk of flesh. Charlene and my mother had been chewing through the bottom of my plastic prison for hours! The two EMMT’s who had brought me and that infamous piece of cheese had been helping, and now one took charge. “This is going to hurt, Chester,” she smiled reassuringly as she squeaked. “My name is Jen, that’s my brother Jonah.” She nodded at a mouse with white fur like hers; litter-mates are named using the same letter. “That bite in your side is bad but we are out of time. Hold my hand and squeeze when it hurts.” Charlene and the male EMT, Jonah, looked at one another and, with some unspoken signal, pulled me out through the hole.
I squeaked, I wet my fur, I squeezed, I passed out… We were a couple of months old: Charlie, Charlene, Chrissy, Christopher, and me. “Look! I’m Chester!” squeaked Christopher after rolling in coffee grounds to make his fur darker like mine. “Chester… Chester… Chester!” the voice changed from Christopher’s teasing tone to Jen’s concerned tone.
I tried to sit up and as the pain shot through my left shoulder, my nose touched Jen’s nose. The pain wanted me to fall back onto the soft bed, but everything else wanted to feel the warm wetness that was Jen’s twitching nose and feel those whiskers move against mine forever. “You should, uh,” Jen paused, as if not wanting to move away either, “Lie down.” She smiled nervously. I took her hand in mine as the pain took over and I fell back onto the feather nest. I looked around. “This. Isn’t. The. EMMT. Uh, place,” I said slowly.
Jen smiled and lay down next to me on my right side. I noticed my left shoulder and arm were tightly bandaged. “When your mom and Charlene found out about your brother’s plan, well,” she covered her cute pink mouth with her dainty pink hand and gave a fake little cough.”Well, there’s only one bed at the EMMT’s headquarters so I said I’d take care of you here.” She paused and looked up at me, and I could see the pink skin under her white fur turning a darker pink. “Um, as long as it’s ok with you.” I pressed my nose against hers, our whiskers twitching together. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I smiled.
Afterwards: We had a dual wedding, Jen to me; Charlene to Jonah. Charlene was halfway through her pregnancy, and six months after Christopher set me up I was a proud, happy, stay-at-home dad. My mom lived with Jen and I and our four; Charlene often helped as she and Jonah had a litter of six. Christopher agreed to get help although none of us had gone to visit him yet. On the other hand, we had all agreed not to press charges, either. I’ve been writing short pieces for the local paper, but Jen thinks I should try a novel. Or a Children’s Book. Or a comic… Who knows? I’m just happy to be surrounded by family who love me as much as I love them and don’t mind that I have a bit of a limp on my left side. Lester, our runt, thinks it makes me look, “cool and tough”. And that’s good enough for me.
My son will be 12 in November; he’s starting 7th grade on 30 August. As someone born at the end of March, I was one of the older kids in my class; my son is one of the younger. I’m still not used to having a child born so late in the year. When it became 2016, I immediately knew my age*, but when I came up with “12” for my son’s age… I realized I’d better learn about having a kid born later in the year!
My son goes to a Charter school. (When he leaves this school, I have a loooong post written, including video, photos, emails, etc, to show just how bad this particular school is. Until then, we’ll pretend he’s going to a school that is a tiny bit better than our zone school and not mention the name if the school.)
Normally, the school allows students in between 7:15am-7:30am. A second after that, and you’re considered “late”. When my son was in 5th grade, they excised kids whose parents called in and said there were problems with the trains (this can be easily confirmed by going on the MTA website). Apparently, too many kids showed up with food from tbe local McDonald’s and train delays, even with a note from the conductor, are not acceptable reasons for lateness. I can understand this for kids with McDonald’s or kids who use this excuse a few times a week. But I kept track, and my son was less than 5 minutes late due to train delays about once a month. We would leave at the same time each morning, leave twice the reccommended time Google Maps suggested, and normally arrive between 7:10 and 7:15am. But at least once a month, my son, probably the only kid brought by a parent on the train (I didn’t see any others although about five come by car), would have “lunchtime detention”.
With the exception of Wednesday, when they get out at 2pm, they would get out at 3:45pm. Unless they had detention or Homework Center (meaning you didn’t do or didn’t hand in all of your homework). Then they got out at 4:30pm.
Either way, my son arrives as the sun is rising, and, in winter, leaves as it is setting. He was put on a Vitamin D supplement as he didn’t see the sun for a few months every year.The new schedule is 7:45am-4pm. Meaning my son still needs his Vitamin D supplement.
I’m worried about my son returning to this school. In 5th grade, he was bullied by 3 boys (one of whom was part of the reason we left his last school) to the point my son had to be switched to a different class. Knowing this, they still put the one boy we had left his old school to avoid in my son’s 6th grade class. Ironically, the bully’s mom had also asked that they be separated. (I had tried being friends with her and apparently “knew too much”. And there was the time she yelled at my son in the charter school office in front of teachers and staff before I got there. But why should they care about my son?)
Anyway, once my son is back in school, what will I do?
I will write. I will set up, and keep to, a writing schedule. I will set up doctor’s appointments on only two days a week so tbere will be a minimum of three day wbere I have to take my son to school and pick him up and in between, write. Write, Write, WRite, WRIte, WRITe, WRITE. (That was harder than you’d think with my cruddy phone keyboard.)
I have tons of ideas and I will do them.
I will be more social. Fuck this pain. I’m in pain no matter what I do or do not do, so I might as well do something!
And that’s all, really.
(Oh, I’ll find out hpw to have a bar separate sections of my blog!)
As for the asterisk it will be explained below.😃
* Although I tend to add a few years. Most people take off years. I had a boss who turned 30 three times when I knew her; everyone laughed behind her back, saying she was probably closer to 40. I add a few years, and people say, “You look so much younger!” That’s the trick, folks: add a few years. People will think you look and actually are younger than your real age.
I also reccommend staying away from ages that “sound” fake. Twenty-one always sounds fake, and you will be carded, even if that’s your real age. Thirty sounds like you’ve been there before and, depending on how you look, people will mentally add a couple of years, believing you’ve been 30 before.
Obviously your real friends will know the truth 😃
And now I’m melting in the bathroom, and the constant knocking followed by, “Are you ok in tbere, Mommy?” (I only get called, “Mommy” when he’s worried or tired. Otherwise, I’m, “Mom”.) means I’m done.
See y’all soon!
Jambernews will now be an archive. There will also be a forum (the link is in the menu).
Jambernews has been a wonderful site for people to go and read an unbiased account of Amber Heard (who?) and the man unlucky enough to be snared in her web, Johnny Depp. Some have claimed that Jambernews is anti-Amber, but this is not true. The site also offers insight into Narcassistic Personality Disorder.
This piece is a brief overview of the Johnny Depp / Amber Heard divorce.
Thank you, Andy, for all of the hard work you and your Jamber Elves (instead of Xmas Elves) have done over the years. Wishing you and yours all tbe best in your future endeavors.
May 20-21 Johnny Depp’s Mother Betty Sue Palmer passes away.
May 23 Heard Files for Divorce, citing irreconcilable differences. She asks for 50,000 a month in spousal support, the penthouse, and the range rover.
Depp’s attorneys have not had enough time to get all of his financials together. Until they have more time, they can not agree to Amber Heard’s demands.
May 27 Heard Accuses Depp of Abuse, obtains a restraining order, and states she;s been abused for 4 years by Depp, and that he has a long history of substance abuse. She claimed Depp threw an iPhone at her on May 21st, photos are released showing a facial mark caused by the iPhone. The police that arrived that evening (May 21st) state they did not see any marks on her , nor any thing in the home that was disturbed.
May 29 Friend Says Depp Was ‘Manipulated’ By Heard…
View original post 741 more words
(NOTE: This entire post just got deleted. I’m rewriting from memory.)
I wrote a whole long post about how I came to have what some might call a twisted sense of humor.
It was all erased.
My dad was going in for surgery on some herniated discs in his neck. There was a 50% chance he’d die on the operating table. But when his parents and brother went for lunch, my dad launched into a hysterically funny story about a hot female nurse shaving him “down there” as he would need a catheter after the operation — and how cold the room was.(look up the Seinfeld episode about Cold Water if you have questions.)
Then he pointed to a huge fruit basket he had received. “What am I supposed to do with that? I can’t eat solids for a month!”
When our family came back from lunch, my dad was smiling and I was hysterical laughing. He was literally facing Death but he had made me laugh.
As he was wheeled into surgery, everyone said how much they loved him. I whispered, “When you wake up, you’ll have a catheter.” My dad smiled, “I already do.”
He came out of surgery as well as could be expected, but I learned a valuable lesson:
As I grew older and amassed my own laundry list of illnesses and diseases, I remembered that lesson. Life can suck but if you are reading this, you are better off than most of the people in the world. If you have a roof over your head, food (or money to buy food), and a change of clothing, you’re better off than 70-90% of the world. (Sorry, but I couldn’t find an exact number to quote.)
I’ve been told I have a twisted sense of humor. But…
Here are a few links:
Laughter truly is the best medicine.
When I was in high school there was a girl I couldn’t talk to because she was so cool. We became Facebook friends and, I thought Real Friends. We supported each other and sent messages of encouragement. Recently, I made a joke to my ex- high school/ college boyfriend, based on this joke:
An elderly widowed gentleman in a nursing home became very friendly with an elderly lady. He told her his former wife used to hold his penis every night to help him go to sleep. The elderly lady decided to do this for her new male friend every night for a week. Each night he fell soundly asleep. The next week the gentleman told the lady that he was sorry but he had found a new partner. She was very upset and asked him, “What does she have that I don’t have?” He replied, “Parkinsons.”
The Cool friend replied:
NOBODY WITH ILLNESSES AND/OR DISABILITIES SHOULD EVER BE MAKING FUN OF. IT IS VERY CRUEL AND IGNORANT. HOW DARE YOU.
[i]t’s how my family deals with us all having chronic pain / illnesses. Mostly my dad and me when we were talking.
It’s from a joke about a couple who meet in an old folks home. One day the woman sees the man with another woman and calls him over.
“We’ve shared meals, we’ve slept in the same bed, I even put my hand on your penis! What does she have that I don’t?”
He answers with a grin, “Parkinson’s.”
If I couldn’t laugh I’d curl in a ball and cry. Sometimes the pain is so intense I’m laughing and crying.
When the muscle spasms started, it would scare my son to see me jerking around or flipping off the bed or, one time while making dinner, a knife flew out of my hand across the room. If I let my son know how much pain I was really in, it would’ve scared him and he would’ve worried more.
So I’d laugh.
Often hysterically, like a crazy person, but then he [my son] could laugh, too, instead of being scared all the time.
I hope you understand — I’m not making fun of anyone. When Michael J Fox was diagnosed an article said it was from head injuries playing hockey as a kid. I used to get my head slammed into walls daily by my biological mother so I was terrified I’d get early onset Parkinson’s.
It’s the best coping mechanism I have since my son is with me a lot. If I didn’t have a kid, well, I wouldn’t be using prescription pain killers, that’s for sure! I’ve been out of Lyrica for a week now & am praying I can get it today. Mixed with the heat… It’s been rough. And my son has to watch.
And then after finding out she had unfriended me on Facebook and Instagram, I wrote:
I see you unfriended me on Facebook and I had to request to follow your instagram account (again; As we were following each other).
If you’re that bothered by me making a joke, I wish you’d text me or messagenger me or dm me privately to discuss this.
I can’t believe this is the first time you’ve noticed my sarcastic / laugh-instead-of-cry approach to living with chronic pain. Even with my son, if I had to take a cold hard look at my future — in a wheelchair, in constant pain, completely alone — I’d probably be suicidal. It’s one thing to not mind being alone but to deal with never being held as I sleep, never being kissed again, etc… Once my son is grown, I will have to deal with such self-pity. But until then, I need sarcasm and humour or else I might as well pack it in. I’m sorry if I offended you but it’s how I cope.
And now I’m [re]writing this. Hoping she will see; hoping she will understand.
I’m very sorry that you misunderstood my comment on Facebook. If you don’t wish to talk to me, I will respect your wishes.
Please understand, I would never “make fun” of any illness or disease; I do use humor to deal with my situation and if that means we cannot be friends, I understand. I would like to hear your reasoning, but I wish you health and happiness no matter what you choose.
I freely admit that my mind goes to self-pity-mode a lot. It depresses me that after I have raised my son I will be, literally, alone. It upsets me that I will never be kissed or held by a lover again. But I need to stay strong for my son and for myself. Please do not mistake my joking as “making fun of” or “laughing at” others.
Con mucho amor,
Aka, D. K. Stevens