Random Thought #1

Do you ever have days that start off perfectly fine -- Mary Poppins-like in fact, kind of "practically perfect in every way" -- only to have them go dreadfully wrong only a couple of hours later? Yesterday was like that for me.

I was on the ball and ready to conquer the world starting just after 3:00 a.m. In a couple of hours I managed to answer the business email, sort my personal email for answering later, complete the Monday meme posts, scoop the litterboxes, brush two of the four longhair cats, unload the dishwasher, get a new load of laundry started, and harvest my crops on Farm Town. James Brown's song "I Feel Good" was the anthem of the day. Then a single phone call brought it all crashing down around me.

I wasn't really paying attention to the time, but I think that it was shortly after 9 when Betty's estate attorney called. Evidently, he received a phone call from one of the daughters of Betty's deceased husband because she, after a single visit to Betty in the 8 years that she has lived at the board and care facility, was concerned that I might be mismanaging the trust. I don't think much of anything could have shocked me more than that phone call, but I do know that it's been a very long time since I was as angry as it made me!


This individual has no real relationship with Betty, has not bothered to check up on her except for a phone call last Christmas when she told the caregiver that she would come to visit but never showed up, and now, out of the blue, is "concerned" that her care is not being managed well? Where has this person been all these years? In a neighboring city, certainly not too far away to demonstrate this "concern" by visiting Betty to make sure that she is being well cared for. Last week was the first time in eight -- count them, I said E-I-G-H-T, years that Betty's caregiver ever saw this person! How's that for "concern"?


Random Thought #2

After yesterday's "excitement," I've had a headache that doesn't want to give up the ghost and die. I know it's because the anger is still seething in the pit of my stomach, bubbling to the surface every now and again to remind me how utterly brutal people can be. I can't place the blame for this one on The Brain; nope this misery is my own fault. At least the headache is not one of the Chiari types, so I am left to conclude that this must be the kind of headache that "normal" people get, LOL.


Random Thought #3

Surgery update (yes, Aunt Nola, this is for you): Next Thursday, the 27th, I am scheduled to have the thyroid surgery that should have happened last November but didn't because my pre-op blood work showed an elevated white blood cell count that turned out to be an indicator of the very nasty cold that made itself known on Thanksgiving. I have the pre-op appointment on Monday and barring any WBC issues, I will be AWOL for one day next week. Unless I have a seizure or some other Chiari related complication, the surgery is supposed to be out-patient. I am going to discuss with my doctor the possibility of having it done under a local instead of a general anesthesia as this significantly increases the likelihood that I will get to go home on the same day. Besides, how cool would it be to lie awake on the surgery table while a surgeon slashes a hole in your neck and takes out half of your thyroid gland? Sounds awesome to me!


Random Thought #4

Classes begin next week, and I feel sad. No school for me. I'm retired, remember? No animated discussions about censorship in the public school classroom. No more interesting essays defending the First Amendment as it applies to websites with disgusting content. No more introducing the uninitiated to John Milton's Areopagitica or John Stewart Mill's On Liberty. No more poring over the ALA's list of banned books to see which ones we've read. No more. No more. I'm sad.

And did I mention that I'm pissed off, too?

In the wee small hours of the morning on Monday, I somehow managed to find a very unfriendly blog -- one that left a trojan on my laptop. Thankfully, my anti-virus software caught it quickly; unfortunately, it wasn't quick enough to prevent the trojan from making a change to the computer's registry so that about an hour later, a message pops up on my screen alerting me to the fact that another computer, with the same name as mine, has joined our household network. Thinking it was some kind of mistake, I hesitated a minute before figuring out that it may have something to do with the trojan.


I launched AdAware just in case there was some kind of malware on the machine and kept on working on my Monday Musings post. All of a sudden, I start hearing Chinese coming from my iPhone speaker which is always hooked up to the laptop. Freaking out completely now, I knew there was a problem as I began to connect the dots. . .there was a phantom hacker /user / a$$hole on our network, with access to my computer and clearly enjoying him/herself!

Try as I might, I couldn't get the registry change fixed and ended up having to reinstall Windows yesterday. I've never done it before, so that was quite an adventure in and of itself. Once I got all the drivers and whatnot reinstalled, everything worked fine except that I couldn't access the internet network. Thanks to my cousin, whose Microsoft certification comes in really handy, the problem was diagnosed by phone and fixed in no time. But that was at 7:30 last night!

I am still trying to get everything reinstalled on my computer so that I can get caught up with the work I was supposed to have done for the business on Monday. I hope to have that done sometime tonight, and then I will return to my regularly scheduled blogging.

I don't think that I have ever talked about the fact that I am the conservator in charge of the care of an elderly neighbor and friend. And if it weren't for the fact that I am currently totally stressed over a member of her family and her current health, I wouldn't say anything; however, I really need to vent in a big way.

The Amazing Egyptian Dude and I bought our home from my dad, so except for a few years when the AED and I lived in a neighboring city after we got married, this place has been my home for close to 30 years.

My whole family befriended a delightful retired couple who lived across the street. For the sake of their privacy, I'll call them Bob and Betty. The AED always started his day by having a morning cup of coffee and visit with Bob. Our daughter headed straight across the street as soon as she got home from school for an afterschool snack and lots of fun before starting her homework. Two or three times a week, she watched The Wheel of Fortune with them, competing against Bob to see who could solve the puzzles first. Betty took a daily walk down the street and stopped at my house for a cup of coffee before returning home; she loved to share the neighborhood gossip with me. At sunset, Betty and I chatted from across the street as we watered our lawns. Not a day went by that they weren't an integral part of our lives the way that grandparents who live close by would be.

When Betty developed diabetes and a few years later, dementia, Bob resolved to care for her himself, with a little help from friends. The AED did their grocery shopping, played Mr. Fix-It when needed, and drove them to doctor's appointments; I bathed Betty, cleaned up after her when she had difficulty controlling her bowels, and assisted Bob with her care; our daughter helped to clean up when Betty had accidents, washed and brushed her hair, and continued to make the weekly visits to Bob for Wheel of Fortune. Through all of this, we saw very little of their children.

Bob and Betty had both been married previously and had children from those marriages. Bob had two daughters, and Betty adopted her first husband's son. One of Bob's daughters lives in another state and visited once every 2 or 3 years for a week or so; the other one lives locally but because she didn't grow up with him, they didn't really have much of a relationship. Betty's son wasn't around much, unless, as she said, he was in trouble or needed something. He has lived in another state for as long as I can remember.

As Bob and Betty grew older, sicker, and more frail, they came to rely on us for assistance. We did for them the things their children should have been doing. Bob asked me to be the conservator of a living will and trust because he was concerned that if something happened to him, Betty would not be cared for properly. I agreed. I knew that it was a big responsibility, but I also knew that they couldn't depend on anyone else to take care of them.

Betty's dementia worsened to the point that she repeated the same two conversations over and over again. One was the story of how she and Bob met and eloped to Vegas, the other was what a great life they had. Blissfully, her mind had frozen in her happiest memories. When she became combative about taking a bath and keeping herself clean, Bob knew that he could no longer care for her adequately, even with our help. Although her pension would cover the cost of a nursing home with no out-of-pocket expense involved, Bob refused to place Betty in one. After speaking with their social worker about other options, I found a fantastic assisted living facility close enough to our homes that we could drive him to see her every day. Bob was absolutely dedicated to making sure that Betty got the best of care and was willing to pay for it; the assisted living facility is not covered by her pension or insurance and costs approximately $3000 per month. She has received excellent care there for the past 7.5 years.

Six years ago last month, Bob took a fall that required an ER visit. He hadn't broken any bones but was bruised and in pain. Two days later, when the AED made the morning trek across the street for coffee and a visit, he found Bob on the floor in the den. He called me to come help him because, as he said, Bob wouldn't wake up. I knew what I would find before I ever left my house. Bob had died in the night. And with his death, my responsibilities and nightmare began.

Almost immediately, the vultures began circling overhead. I notified the daughters that their father had died and that as soon as funeral arrangements had been made in accordance with his wishes, I would let them know. The one who lives out of state said she couldn't afford to come, so after checking with the estate lawyer, I arranged for the trust to buy her a plane ticket so that she could attend her father's funeral. The one who lives here expressed upset at the cost associated with giving Bob the Catholic funeral he wanted. "Nobody will be there except us," she said, "so why spend so much money?" I made sure that our friends and neighbors knew about the funeral and attended. Betty's son didn't have the money to afford a plane ticket to attend, but he was sure quick to ask about property and finances and who was in charge of them. He was quite vocal about his objections to me being the executor of the will and conservator of the trust.

I haven't heard anything from the daughters since their father's funeral. Betty's son, on the other hand, has been a thorn in my side more than once. He had a fit because I decided to rent Betty's house instead of selling it right away. I figured that by renting it, the property would generate the additional income needed to pay for her care because her pension and social security don't cover it completely. He wanted to know exactly how much money Betty had and how much her care cost. For the past six years, he has been waiting for his mother to die and hoping that her money isn't all gone by the time that she does. After not hearing from him for more than a year, he called on Monday. His financial circumstances are dire, he's had hip replacement surgery, and he demanded that I send him copies of his mother's bank statements. The AED, who spoke to him, told him that those requests had to go through the attorney. He became enraged and said that he would overturn everything that Bob had set up. We wished him luck. What we know that he doesn't is that anyone who contests the will or the trust inherits only one dollar. Good luck to him.

Still recovering from the son's latest tirade on Monday, I got a call yesterday from Betty's caregivers to tell me that she was at the ER. Her blood pressure was high and was she mostly unresponsive. I zipped over to the hospital, which is just a couple of blocks from my home, and talked to the treating physician. Betty has pneumonia in one lung, so they will be keeping her for treatment. But when he asked me to verify that she has a DNR (do not resuscitate) order, also known as an advance directive order, I lost it. Why would he ask me that if she weren't in really bad shape?

As I drove home, all I could think of was something that the AED calls "the evil eye." Basically, it's a belief that people can wish bad things on others that actually come true. The Bible mentions it a few times, and it's talked about in the Qur'an, too. I don't like to dwell on superstitions, but it seems so ironic that the son, who needs money and is anxiously awaiting his mother's death so that he can cash in on his inheritance, called me on Monday with a demand for her bank statements and Betty falls ill enough on Thursday that she needs hospitalization. And worst of all, the doctor asked me to verify that she has a do not resuscitate order.

Am I being paranoid? I don't know. I'm worried about Betty, angry at her son, and praying that she lives long enough to spend all the money she has even though I will inherit 1/3 of it. I don't want her money, unlike the ingrates who can't be bothered to take care of her!

I've spent much of the day on the pity pot thanks to a paralyzing headache that started shortly after 7 this morning. The Amazing Egyptian Dude woke up much earlier than usual and told me that he would be going to the business as soon as he finished drinking a cup of coffee. I had been up for a couple of hours already and laid down on the couch for a short nap before class.

I don't know how long I slept before that familiar brain freeze type pain struck on the right side of my head. That's the kind of headache that makes moving next to impossible. Although the oxygen tank was right beside me, I couldn't get up off the couch to turn it on or to put the cannula on. I just lay there, frozen in time like the Lady of Shalott. Then I heard the Amazing Egyptian Dude! He hadn't left early after all. When I get these headaches and need to get his attention, I whistle; he's got some significant hearing loss and would never hear me if I tried to call him with words because the pain is so intense that barely a whisper comes out.

I whistled and waited.

And I whistled and waited.

And I whistled again.

Nothing.

I could hear him across the room but just couldn't muster the strength to do anything else to get his attention. It took several attempts, but he finally came over to check on me. Turns out he had heard me from the beginning but thought that I was dreaming and making noises in my sleep, so he decided to hang around to wake me up for class!

Cafergot and oxygen later, I could move at least. The pain had dulled to a livable level but the time that happened, it was too late for me to go to class. Besides, I try not to drive on headache and seizure days.

So I missed my class today, The Brain bit me in the butt big time, and I am frustrated as all get-out over the whole damn situation. I've never been "normal," but this level of uniqueness is really getting to me. I want to be in control of myself for a change instead of taking the passenger seat to The Brain and its electrical thrill seeking.

I miss me. I miss my life.

Is that the sound of the wahmbulance I hear in the distance?

I studied Spanish all four years of high school. Senor Munoz (sorry, but I have no clue how to get the proper tilde above the "n"!), who made learning the language fun most of the time, made it a point to teach us songs and phrases that we could begin to use right away no matter how little of the language we had actually mastered. And so, it is with a sense of profound gratitude to Senor Munoz that I shout, for all the world to hear, "Gracias a Dios que hoy es Viernes!" And in English --


What a week this has been. Let me say that again -- what a w---E---E---k!

I haven't had a seizure for two days, so my little world seems to be settling down again. The headaches, however, haven't quite finished reminding me that The Brain is in charge of things no matter what I think. All in all, though, I can't complain too much about The Brain's obsession with electrical surges; it is what it is, and I'll continue to muddle along as usual. So what has made me so thrilled that the end of the work week has come, at last? In a word, students.

If it weren't for the fact that I will soon be a retired educator, this professor is ready to throw in the teaching towel. Yesterday, my students, who have been working on a research paper for four -- count them, folks, FOUR -- weeks, should have had a rough draft of their essays ready for their classmates to read and critique. Between the two classes, no more than a dozen students actually had a draft for their group members to read. Many still hadn't completed the required research and had left their peers in the lurch, as they couldn't write a draft without the research that their group members should have collected and shared.

In all my years of teaching, I have never seen such a blatant lack of consideration for others as I witnessed yesterday. They have all known for four weeks that this assignment requires cooperation with one another and that if one member of the group fails to meet scheduled deadlines, the others suffer. Despite this knowledge, some of them decided that the undue, uncalled for, and unnecessary stress they placed on their group members was simply not as big a deal as their inability to conquer their procrastination habits.

Let's just say that I let them all hear my displeasure with the irresponsible behavior. It didn't help those poor students whose stress levels had risen to new heights, but it just might act as a wakeup call for the inconsiderate and irresponsible.

I may be shouting T.G.I.F. to the world, but I'm still a cockeyed optimist! Amen and Amen.

Life is filled with ironies. Yesterday, while writing my post for Blogging Against Disablism Day, I had a seizure. It was the first of several that plagued me throughout the day. Like always, I did what I could between electrical overloads and the naps that follow them. But by the time the fifth seizure came along, I had had enough. My level of frustration reached the boiling point mostly because I have grading that needs to get done, and it's incredibly difficult to maintain focus on student essays when one's brain is performing the electric slide at regular intervals. Seizures make me craziest if they come when I've got something that I need to finish within a certain time frame, otherwise I deal with them quite well.

By mid-afternoon, I had given up on the notion of grading and returning papers. Feeling completely defeated, I settled into my nest on the couch to read a book that a student had loaned me. Two paragraphs into the text, seizure number six came along and blew the reading fuse. Patience be damned! Whatever it was that had triggered the seizures obviously hadn't gotten any better because my brain was still trying to get my attention.

I still don't know what upset The Brain yesterday, but whatever it was must not be resolved yet because this morning began with a double-header: a headache AND a seizure. You know, I wouldn't mind this crap so much if it made me look as cool as this chameleon!

I've written before about the feeling of running in a hamster wheel and not getting anywhere, especially when it concerns the miserable Chiari headaches that I get more than often than I like. The past few days have involved a lot more running in circles without getting anywhere, and I am intensely frustrated about it.

Sleep, or rather the lack thereof, which is often at the center of the circular dilemma, proved even more elusive this weekend than normal. I played musical beds all weekend long as I tried to find a comfortable position for my neck so that sleeping didn't trigger a headache and wake me up. Fat chance! Whether I built the nest of pillows on the couch, our bed, or the futon in Iman's old room, I simply could not get comfortable enough to sleep longer than 30-40 minutes at a stretch. My neck doesn't usually give trouble, unless the muscles tense up in response to a particularly nasty headache; however, the bones in my neck are now a source of pain on their own. It's a bit freaky to roll my head around in an attempt to loosen up the neck muscles and hear the grinding of bone on bone when I do! The grinding sound gets loud enough that even Ali can hear it. So, I now have to figure out if the pain the neck is the source of the sleeping problem, or if the the sleeping problem is causing the pain in the neck. Wonderful!

Now that the rant / vent is over, I'm going to move on and make a real post, LOL!

Oh boy, am I glad that Thursday is a day with words because I've got quite a few of them milling about in my head, begging to travel down to my hands and the keyboard where they can come to life! Pardon what, I feel certain, will become a rather disjointed post.

Student X Update
Tuesday marked my class' first departure away from censorship in textbooks and reading materials used in classrooms and movement to censorship in other areas of American life. We
began with the censorship of images and information related to the war on Iraq. This lesson includes three online readings, two of which include graphic images from the war. I had prepared a handout of war photographs from the American Civil War, WW's I and II, the Vietnam War, the Iraq War juxtaposed against Goya's 3rd of May 1808. Our discussion would examine why graphic depictions of war are celebrated when oil on canvas is the medium but censored when the medium is a photograph.

I've never felt the need to practice self-censorship in my classroom until Student X's behavior last week. Since Student X had expressed "disgust" about a violent scene in the book at the center of the conflict, I worried that showing graphic images of the violent results of war might be just enough to send an emotionally unstable individual over the edge. I decided that it would be best to start the class with a disclaimer that explained the discussion and the use of the images along with an offer to excuse anyone who would be uncomfortable.

When I walked into the classroom, Student X's usual spot in the front row was empty. Although Student X is, as I mentioned in the first post, always late for class, on Tuesday, the student had arrived early and taken a seat at the very back of the classroom, positioned in such a way as to be flanked on either side by classmates and hiding behind another one. In a class of only 14 students, such a drastic seat change doesn't go unnoticed and since Student X has always been a regular participant in discussions, the move brought a palpable feeling of uncertainty to the classroom. I went ahead with the disclaimer and made the offer, once again, for anyone to leave when I put the class into groups to work with the images. Nobody left, and we made it through the discussion without a single peep from Student X. We'll see what happens today when we examine censorship in music. . .

Headaches Update
Whether the heat or the stress from the Student X situation is the cause, I don't know, but the past three days have been made much worse by headaches. The constant feeling that my eyeballs are ready to pop out of my head from the pressure inside it has made sleeping, already a big problem for me, nearly impossible. Ibuprofen, my pain med of choice, can do only so much and with headaches coming fast and furious, I quickly reached the daily limit. Yesterday started out quite promising; because I had had only one headache in the night, I awoke feeling refreshed. Pshaw, that didn't last too long! Shortly after 11 am, another one struck with pain so bad that I had to lie down in order to breathe comfortably. With a much cooler temperature yesterday and a fair amount of sleep last night without a headache, I'm beginning to think that the hot weather is the culprit. If that's the case, summer ought to be most pleasant -- not!

My least favorite time of year is clearly approaching. Whatever happened to April showers bringing May flowers? We're not going to get much rain here in the draught-ridden southern part of the Golden State with the 90+ degrees temperatures we've had for the past three days, that's for sure!

I've never been a fan of the summer months. Sunburn, heat rash, and sweat just aren't on my list of things to enjoy. Even as a kid, the only part of the summer months that I actually enjoyed were the weeks that we made the family road trip to the east coast. When summer came, I hid away in my bedroom with a pile of books and didn't emerge until time to return to school in September.

The older I get, the harder it is to tolerate summer. Of course the problem isn't helped by the fact that one of my medications elevates the body temperature so that while everyone around me is feeling comfortable, I am hot and miserable. Honestly, I can tell when the temperature in my house increases by a single degree!

At least in adulthood I have the benefit of a home with central air. And during the months of June, July, August, and September, the electric company loves me!

The more I think about it, the angrier I become. I'm a very easy going and easy to get along with individual; I don't rile easily, nor am I quick to anger. In all the years that I have been teaching, I have never, ever had a confrontation with a student. Never, that is, until this afternoon.

As the end of the semester nears, students begin to feel the stress of catching up with readings, preparing for finals, and completing major projects. They want to start seeing the light at the end of the semester tunnel, as do I. We've still got three weeks of classes left, and most of that time will be filled with some heavy duty assignments -- the big ones that professors assign as a culmination of a semester's learning. My students have begun working on one such assignment for me.

My classes are built around the theme of censorship, particularly as it relates to textbooks and other reading materials used in the public school classrooms. It is designed to introduce future teachers to the types of challenges they will face as educators in the K-12 system. The course culminates in a complex research assignment modeled after the procedure that teachers commonly follow when forced to respond to a parental challenge requesting the removal of a book from the curriculum.

Because the research assignment is quite involved, students work in groups. As a group, they choose one book from a list that I have compiled based on two important factors: (1) it appears on the American Library Association's Most Frequently Challenged Books,and (2) I have verified that our school library has the resources needed to complete the required research. After choosing the book they want to work with, the group members divvy up the research sections, assigning one portion to each member. Students share their research with one another but write their own essays.

Last week, we went over this final assignment thoroughly. I offered a synopsis of each book on the list, indicated the grade in which it is typically read, and the reasons why it is most frequently challenged. A couple of groups asked to use books that were not on my list, which is fine. The books in question have, indeed, been challenged and would work quite well within the parameters of the assignment. All was right in the world at the conclusion of last Thursday's class. And then came today.

**Disclaimer: Because my blog is in the public sphere, I cannot divulge specific details about the incident that follows. I may be retiring in a few weeks, but I certainly don't want to end a career that I dearly love on a bad note and providing more specific information with the knowledge that some of my past and present students read my blog and might be able to identify the persons involved in "the incident," would be irresponsible of me.

One of the groups that had chosen a book not on my list had read their selection over the weekend. While the rest of the class was busily working on an activity, Student X began bullying the other group members for having suggested such a "disgusting" book for them to read. Suddenly, in what can only be described as the irony of ironies, Student X challenged the group's decision on a challenged book and sought to censor it, and them, in a class about censorship!

When their voices could be heard across the classroom where I was helping another group, I had to assess the situation and run interference if needed. Student X had staged a coup, and the group was, without notifying me or asking if it was even okay, scrambling to make another book selection. With a mind locked as securely as Fort Knox, Student X refused to hear anything about the literary quality of the book in question, even when its defense came from me. Despite my explanation that we are all adults, in college, and that we ought to expect sometimes to encounter ideas that make us uncomfortable, Student X remained steadfast and determined to control the situation. Rather than creating any greater discomfort for the other group members, I advised the students that changing their book selection to one not on the assignment's list meant that I could not guarantee they would find the required research materials and that I would not help them search for it. The group seemed to settle down, and I turned my attention back to the other students. When all was said and done, the group capitulated and chose another book. Chalk one up for the censors!

At the end of the class, Student X hung around until everyone had left the classroom and asked to talk to me. After requesting an extension on the essay that was due this evening, which I granted, Student X expressed upset with me for having interfered with the group dynamic. As our conversation continued and I let Student X know that it was my responsibility to maintain control in the classroom and to prevent any student from bullying another, Student X began to look like a deer in the headlights and slowly walked backwards -- yes, literally backwards!-- weaving through two rows of seats, complaining all the while about being "disadvantaged" by me and my interference, until backing out of the classroom completely. What had happened? A breakdown? A meltdown?

I headed off to the parking lot and the peace that leaving campus would surely bring. Incensed, confused about what I had just experienced, yet concerned about Student X's mental health, I wandered the parking lot in search of my car. And I do mean in search of -- in my confusion and upset, I could not find the darn thing anywhere! As I always do when in a state of panic, I called Ali. His reassuring voice calmed me enough so that I found the car and began to make my way to our business.

I knew that I needed to inform my department chair about the incident and attempted to call his office from my cell phone. But lucky for me, I had, just the night before, finally figured out how to sync my email contacts from the computer to my iPhone and in the process, unbeknown to me, erased phone numbers that were already in my phone but not in the computer's contacts. I had to wait to call until I could get to the office and look up the number on the school website. At least the time lapse would allow me to arrange my thoughts enough that I didn't sound like a complete unprofessional idiot when I did call.

While I was scouring the parking lot for my car, Student X was in my department chair's office reporting my wretched behavior. Before making the phone call, I had decided that since we have only three weeks left of class, it would be best if Student X, who travels quite a distance to get to the campus anyway and always arrives late for class as a result, did not return to the classroom and that any outstanding be turned in via email. My solution provided an out for an obviously stressed student and a reprieve for the other group members who wanted to complete the assignment with the book they had just purchased and read. The chair indicated that our stories were nearly identical, except that Student X claimed that I had behaved "aggressively." After discussing the situation with the chair, it was agreed that the group would use the new book with the understanding that I couldn't guarantee they would find the resources they needed nor would I help them locate any. Problem solved? Not really.

As the day turned into the evening, I began to hear from some of the other group members. They resented Student X's attitude and felt pressured to change the book selection, even though they didn't want to, because the thought of having to work so closely for the remainder of the semester with such hostility, anger, and bitterness was worse. Perhaps I should have insisted that Student X not return to the classroom after all. But, if I had done that, Student X's claim of being "disadvantaged" would become truth. On the other hand, I now have three students who are genuinely "disadvantaged" by the coup. Their day was every bit as terrible, horrible, no good, and very bad as mine.


Things are, however, looking up for me. It's the little things like this email I received a short time ago that make teaching a worthwhile career choice in spite of the nitwits:

Do I hear the wail of a siren in the distance? I sure hope so, because I am in desperate need of a waaaambulance! Someone please call up the reinforcements before my fanny becomes permanently attached to the pity pot!

Ok, so yesterday was just plain terrible no matter how I look at it. The cluster of seizures that began in the middle of the night on Tuesday left me with clusters of headaches on Wednesday that rendered me just about as useful as plastic surgery tips from Jocelyn Wildenstein. I don't give in or up easily and genuinely believe that location matters very little to misery, so I went to the office. (Side note: Ali and I have a business, so "the office" to me means the location of my desk in one of our warehouses.) Besides, pity pots are portable!

Seizures and short term memory are not the best of friends. In fact, they really don't like one another at all most of the time. Thus it should not have surprised me that I completely forgot Ali's dental appointment yesterday morning or my own eye exam appointment in the late afternoon but remembered that I would be missing out on seeing Phantom of the Opera. Back in January, I posted about anticipation and mentioned that I had bought tickets for myself and the niece to see the show on, you guessed it, February 18th! In the heat of the excitement, I hadn't considered that (1) the show started at 8 PM, (2) I live in Orange County and the theater is 35 miles away in Los Angeles, (3) I can't see well enough to drive at night, and (4) I would have to find someone to drive me and the niece to LA then be willing to wait around for 2.5 hours until the show finished.

Ali volunteered to play chauffeur for us. But the closer the date of the show drew, the less I wanted him to make yet another sacrifice for me. I mean, really, the poor guy already hangs out in the car on Thursday nights while I teach a class, so why on earth would I want him to waste yet another evening stuck in the car while I enjoy musical theater? How utterly selfish is that?! Iman and Magdy (daughter and son-in-law) volunteered to drive us and hang around in Hollywood until the show was over, but it's a long drive and Magdy has to be at work very early in the morning. A solution to the problem came to me a couple of weeks ago when it hit me how nice it would be that two birthday girls (Iman on 2-4, Basma on 2-17), both of whom are as crazy about Phantom as I, share the evening together and gave my ticket to Iman for her birthday. It's a good thing I did, too, as I would never have made it to LA yesterday; however, that doesn't mean that I don't get to feel sorry for myself for having to miss out on the show!

With the constant pressure, banging, and throbbing going on in my head, I didn't accomplish anything at the office except to make Ali feel terrible that I was there at all. Ours is a genuine old-fashioned "mom and pop" business. Ali, I, and Iman are the only employees and between us, we manage two warehouses, a brick and mortar shop, a couple of websites, and all the wholesale and retail customers they bring. Since Iman got married last month, she cut her hours by half to make it easier to manage a full-time load of classes while working and adjusting to married life. Add to this the time I spend away from the business to take care of my teaching responsibilities both in and out of the classroom, and you'll see quickly enough that Ali is one heck of a busy man all the time. How could I add to te burden he already carries so willingly?

And so, I spent yesterday on the pity pot lamenting the misery that came in the wake of an avalanche of seizures that triggered an eruption of headaches, mourning the loss of much of my independence, and bemoaning the burdens that Chiari forces me to dump on my family. For now, I'm going to try my best to play like Scarlett O'Hara because, "After all, tomorrow is another day."

If you overlook the luggage under my eyes from chronic sleep deprivation, the wobbly walk that comes with disequilibrium, the funky way I step down from curbs to avoid falling off them, or the way I have to tilt my head to avoid seeing double, my very serious and very real illnesses are invisible to most of the world. I'd never thought much about this invisibility before reading the latest post on Prof S's blog and following it up with Michelle's post, the one that got Prof S thinking on the subject. But now that I'm contemplating the subject, it's clear to me that I've been damn lucky. Instead of getting "But you don't look sick!" comments, I receive accolades for "holding on so well," "fighting bravely," "overcoming obstacles," and setting an "inspirational example" for others. My illnesses are as invisible as fibromyalgia, chronic pain, Lupus, and migraines, among others, yet when I tell people about them, the response I receive is always positive and sympathetic. Why?

Strangers who look at me won't see the piece of brain that hangs down in my spinal column, nor will they see the majority of the symptoms this miniscule protrusion causes. Arnold Chiari Malformation is an invisible yet progressively debilitating condition. Unless I am actively seizing, people will never know that I have Epilepsy, either. On the surface, I look fine, peachy keen, hunky dory, and above all, healthy. But perceptions can often be deceptions, and I think this may be the case with most illnesses.

Society has conditioned us to look for physical signs of illness such as a cough and stuffed nose for a cold, withered and twisted hands for rheumatoid arthritis, or tics and outbursts for Tourette's Syndrome. The reality, though, is that most illnesses -- even the ones we know best -- are invisible! Can you look at someone and just know that (s)he has cancer, diabetes, or heart disease? Not likely because although we know and fear these illnesses, they are every bit as invisible as Lupus, fibromyalgia, chronic pain, ACM, and epilepsy.

I believe that the positive feedback the explanation of my illnesses draws from strangers has to do with location, location, location more than anything else. ACM and Epilepsy originate in the brain, the body's epicenter. No other organ, except maybe the heart, inspires as much fear and awe as the mass of grey matter that lives in our heads. When I have a bad day and people hear about it, I get positive responses and sympathy because my conditions are neurological. And when people hear that I've had brain surgery, their reactions are even more kind and sympathetic. But I'm sure that if I were to tell strangers that I suffer from chronic pain, their reactions would be mostly negative. Aches and pains are a normal part of life, right? We all have them and ought to learn how to cope instead of concocting a condition for them. Sound familiar? This is where ignorance comes into play.

Ignorance of an illness does not make it any less real to the people whose lives are wrapped up in it. Just because we can't see what causes the pain of fibromyalgia doesn't make it a figment of someone's imagination. Unless I went around flashing the now faded red badge of courage that extends from the midpoint of my skull to slightly below the point where my neck is connected to my shoulders, nobody would know that I have an illness, either. But because I can say that a skilled neurosurgeon alleviated some of the symptoms associated with ACM, I get slack that others don't. Pain and misery are pain and misery no matter where they originate!

It all started with a trip to Costco. We needed a few things for home and the office and since Ali, who usually does the Costco shopping, had a large wholesale order to get ready, I volunteered to go. With a full shopping cart, I got in line to pay and started unloading the items onto the belt for the cashier. Before I even got half of the stuff out of the basket, a lady moves in front of me, places a divider bar on the belt, and plops her purchases down!

"Ma'am," said I, "please take your things off the belt and wait until I finish unloading mine before you put them back on it. I'm not finished!"

She looked at me like some alien life force had thrown me in her path for no reason other than to test her patience. "How am I supposed to know when you're done?" she asked without moving anything off the belt. She turned to look at the elderly woman who must have been her shopping companion, raised her eyebrows, and waited for my answer.

It didn't require the brilliance of a rocket scientist to figure out that the woman had been shopping before. It didn't require the deductive reasoning capabilities of Sherlock Holmes to figure out that if she had been shopping before, she knew the rule about waiting for her turn to check out. Or maybe it did. . .

"Keep your eye on the cart I'm using," I responded. "When it's empty and I've pushed it to the side of the belt where the cashier is, I'm finished. When I'm finished, it's your turn." I picked up one of the items she had so rudely plunked on the belt and handed it to her. "Now, if you'll get the other things, I will finish unloading mine in less than a minute."

Insulted, she heaved a clearly audible sigh, grabbed the rest of her purchases off the belt, headed to another line, and the remainder of my day went downhill from that point.