Miss me?

Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's been a coon's age since I posted last. But since no one knows about or reads this blog but me I feel zero need to apologize. I'm a rotten correspondent. Deal.

Hmmm, what's changed in the weeks since my last entry? I'm still out of work, still have fibro, still sleep badly and at odd hours. So nothing, basically.

Except one thing--the grumpy dwarf was diagnosed with cancer again. The doctors found it when they did the most recent follow-up biopsy/cat scan. Thyroid this time, though it's entirely unrelated to the tongue cancer he had earlier this year. The doctors say this cancer would have popped up whether he'd had the earlier bout or not. Further proof that grumpy's body is not only not doing its job but has actively turned against him.

There's one enormous blessing that can't be ignored here: he's had so many scans and exams of his head/neck area recently that a thyroid cancer couldn't have gone more than about three months without being detected. If this have been anywhere below the neck it would have had more time to grow and spread. BF and her kin continue to amaze me. No one could look at that family and deny that God is watching over them.

He will have surgery in a couple of weeks, and again I'll be able to stay over for a few days after he leaves the hospital so BF doesn't have to take any unpaid days off work. See how even my lack of gainful employment turns out to be a blessing?

Himself will finish with his latest teaching assignment tomorrow. He's been working Saturdays all summer teaching an 8-week computer class for the local community college. And he has another Monday and Tuesday evening class beginning in September. It means that during the final three weeks of RenFest he will be working his regular full-time job, working weekends at Fest, and working two evenings a week at the college. And unless something drastically changes before then I'll be doing...nothing. Himself will be working three jobs and I will be working none. I'll help at at Fest on Saturdays, that's it. He won't let me work Sunday, too, he says I'd never make it. I hate it that I can't argue with him. Even I've had to admit I'm seriously not healthy.

I can't walk anymore without leaning heavily on my cane. I’m tired and depressed so much of the time that I just can’t move. Getting out of bed most days takes all the force of will I have.

Because I have such a problem with talking about pain and asking for help I've resorted to writing everything out in a letter to Po. Dumb, right? It's a defense mechanism left over from my hazardous childhood. Being safe meant staying as silent and invisible as possible, and the very worst sort of attention was to be heard complaining or asking for something. Expressing unhappiness or a need for anything was taken as a personal insult to the goat-roper stepfather, just as if I were telling him to his face that the environment he provided for us was inadequate, and he therefore was inadequate. And anytime he was faced with inadequacy his solution was to beat, berate, and humiliate someone until he felt better. Being a bully as well as a thug he found it both safer and more convenient to beat his stepchildren than go out and look for a fair fight. One of the most horrible afternoons of my life was a result of 14-year-old me asking my mother if she would buy some antiperspirant that I could use.

But I digress. The point is, I’ve never been able to honestly tell Po what’s going on with me, health-wise. I try, but I sit in his office with my mouth open and literally lose my ability to speak. The sound of my own voice talking about my pain and illness frightens me into paralysis. Hence the letter. I slipped it to him at the game last Saturday, the last game until ARF. One of the many advantages of being friends and comrades-in-arms with our doctor since he was in med school is access to him outside of office hours.

As I just mentioned, the Renaissance Festival starts next weekend. Clap paws, jump about, squeal with glee. How can I express how much I’m looking forward to being on my feet for 10 solid hours, breathing dirt and straw dust, wearing 9 yards of boned corduroy? In Kansas, in August. Smiling steadfastly while some spoiled muffin-topped JoCo bee-yotch tries on every single ring in the store multiple times, telling the 97th goth wannabe in a row that no, we don’t carry pentagrams, and being visually assaulted by the spandex-and-tube-top wearing gramma with the butterfly tattoo that was probably cute 40 years ago but now looks like some hideous melting zombie moth.

Ah, I’m being too cranky. I do hate the heat and the dirt, but I love being part of the number-one selling shop in the entire village. I love being around the jewelry and keeping it polished and arranged nicely. My speciality is the ring pads—actually I’m the only one patient enough to work the rings. And I love seeing friends that I only get to see once a year during Fest. And I love to people-watch and see the infinite number of fashion choices people make. (Honestly, gramma, do you even have a mirror in your house?)

And the money always helps. So spread the straw, stir up the dust, ratchet up the heat, and pour on the humidity. I’m ready!