Off To Meet WIth The Balloonman

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My how time flies when you're not having fun.  Thursday is almost here, which also means it's almost time to meet with Balloonman (ie the Interventional Radiologist who'll be doing my angioplasty to reverse the CCSVI).  I'm sure I'm excited.  Really I am.  Don't look at me like that.  I'm telling you the truth.  I am.  I'm super excited about meeting the man who'll be sticking a wire in my leg and threading it up to the main drain for my brain, to blow up balloons.

It's not like I'm scared or anything.  You know me.  I laugh in the face of danger, HA HA.  Not scared.  Not me.  No.  It's a walk in the park.  He does it every day.  I know people who've had it done.  It's classed as a day procedure.  It's not like he could rupture Jeff or anything.  It's not like I'm having nightmares of an exploding Jeff.  No.  Not me.

It's not like I'm going all doom and gloom and thinking all the worst case scenarios (must put away Caplan's Stroke, 3rd Ed, damn neuropsychology training).  It's not like I've been thinking of the myriad ways that Bob could be an arse and be difficult during the procedure.  

As I said, that's just not me.

Happy place.

Happy place.

Happy place.

I have even found a picture of the balloon I think I should request.  What do you think?  I figure a unicorn has all the magic built it.  Nothing shaped like a glittery, rainbow farting, unicorn could do me wrong.

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I've been told only good things about Balloonman, so I'm hoping that he'll be nice and I'll leave his office on Thursday fully convinced it's a walk in the park.  Or that I'll develop a serious case of fugue till it's all over and Jeff is banished.  Either way, I've told Mr Grumpy that if I forget, he is to demand drugs on my behalf.  I fully intend to sleep through the whole thing as I have absolutely no desire to know what they do. 

Cheers
The completely calm and not panicking Michelle :) 

As a musical accompaniment how could I go past Nena's fabulous, 99 Luftballons (1984).  I know it's about 99 red balloons, but as my German is limited to the names of various pressed meats and Oktoberfest, I have no idea about the rest.  Still didn't stop me from rocking to it, and shouting out "99 Luftballons" at the top of my lungs, at the Bluelight Discos of my youth.

Sunshine On My Shoulder Does Not Make Me Happy.

Well hello once again Spring, I see you're back from your short hiatus.  I did truly appreciate that on your days off you chose Winter as your locum.  Should you wish to go away again I would highly recommend getting Winter back to cover your absence.  He gave it his all, and even put on a little Winter Wonderland show for us, complete with snow.  I will have to admit I didn't miss you whilst you were on holidays.  I may have even had a little dance, complete with jazz hands, the first day you were away.  But now you're back, and it's ops normal.

The birds are singing.

The bees are buzzing.

The possums are fornicating like there is no tomorrow.

The blowflies (the traditional heralds of the Australian Spring) are flying drunkenly around.  Lulling me to sleep with the rhythmic pounding of their heads against the window panes.

The plants are growing.

The weeds are multiplying.

Pasty bodies, complete with muffin tops lovingly cultivated over the Winter, abound in the surrounding hills.

I'm KOed in bed.  A vomit bucket my only companion.  Taking pictures of my feet.

(Hello feet.  Hello candy striped pajamas. 

Hello dust and messy bedroom obscured by bad focus.)

My bp is yet to decide if it's up or it's down.  For a while there I thought it was heading South chasing those blessed Antarctic winds, but now it seems its heading North at a great rate of knots.  Oh wait. No. South it is. No North?  No South? North?  South? 


Given that Melbourne is famous for it's 'four seasons in one day', I'm hoping for a bumper snow season to hit about 5pm, to replace the current wilt-worthy 29C.
(84-85F).

I did think it may be time to break out a DeLorean and go back to last weeks more pleasant climes.   I did also find out that other people (men) do not think it's funny when I asked a reader who lives near the DeLorean factory if the flux capacitor came as standard or was an optional extra (Note she found it funny.  Men!  And that includes you Mr Grumpy, I can also hear your eye roll from here).  Women clearly have a much better sense of humour.

I may or may not be going a little delirious from the heat/boredom/hypotension/nausea/.......

(Love my little Japanese fan. 

I'm pretty sure I'm know as the weird woman with the fan in my local area).

Not that I look like a nutter at all.

It's just that (as was pointed out by she who is the Queen of all things lady parts related, purveyor of topics requiring the liberal application of mental bleach, unicorn love, glitter and single handedly responsible for the resurgence in popularity of ukuleles, Elly Lou, over at BugginWord) I am in desperate need of a 'mental margarita'.

Off now to search for my mental pitcher, because one mental margarita may not be enough to get through today.

The Hot, Damn Hot, Michelle.

Frontier Psychiatrist, The Avalanches.

Purple Misty Mountain Haze

Well my dance with FATigue continues this week.  So brace yourself for an underwhelming blog post  Damn Spring and it's fine sunny days.  You suck Spring.  You suck.  Mind you today's Spring day which is 13C of cool, grey, drizzly and fogged in (love living in the hills) is my kinda day.  Now if only I wasn't wiped out from the last two days, I'd be partying on down this fine misty day.

I do love where I live.  It's a truly beautiful part of Australia.  Who'd think we are already having our bushfire preparedness meetings. Yay.  Something to look forward to.

Just a couple of photos from today.

(The main road through the forest)

 (The forest at the end of my road)

(My road would look more lovely without the bins I forgot to take in.)

 (The view from my front door)

(This is my kind of Spring day)

I've been trying for ages to get a decent picture of my purple feet.  It's hard as usually, by the time they are bad I'm non compos mentis so grabbing the camera is not high on my 'To Do List'.  I think I finally managed an okay one this time.  This is after about 2mins with one foot up and one foot on the ground.

(Sexy? No?)

No one can ever accuse me of not having a colourful disorder.  My cardio always checks my feet when she comes out to get me in the waiting room.  I think they are nice and easy indicator on how my health is going.  Most days this is just my legs and lower arms.  On bad days this will pretty much be my colour from the neck down.  Dead sexy. 

(Just a hint of purple in my legs)

I mean there is a subtle hint of purple in my legs in my untouched Dorothy Shoes pics. Contrasts nicely with the red of the shoes don't you think?  Accessorizing is hard when you look like a giant aubergine.  Now if only I could get the eldest rugrat to follow me around with his airbrush as he did in the photos for the actual shoe post.

The purple bloating is something most Bobettes have to contend with.  Gravity is a tricky cow for our bodies.   I am getting better at ignoring it.  Its not going anywhere any time soon, so I might as well embrace it.  For the most part it's only when others point it out that I realise how bad it is.  I do know it's getting worse as my youngest rugrat now frequently offers to massage my legs.  He gets frustrated, as when he finishes one leg and moves onto the next the first one is already well on the way back to Zombieville.  But overall denial is a wonderful thing.  If I don't think about it doesn't exist right?

Well after that exciting post of nothingness it's time to go and prop my bloated purple feet up the closet wall and enjoy the misty day.

The foggy Michelle. 

I was going to add Prince's Purple Rain as my musical interlude as I do love Prince and rain and well purple is my colour, but apparently he's not keen on his vids being on Youtube.  So suck it Prince, you're a no go.  I'm going with the classic Purple Haze by Jimi Hendrix.

FATigue.

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Once upon a time I'd love to have a sleep in.  To wake up, look over at the clock and see that it was 1pm.  1pm!  Oh how decadent I felt.  Let them eat cake! (and preferably in bed).  To lie there in comfort, whilst the rest of the world went on, stuck in regimented adherence to every tick of the clock.  A joy.  A forbidden pleasure.  One all the sweeter for remembering how much you'd be yelled at for being lazy as a child if you slept past 10am.  Might as well have dessert before dinner or chocolate pudding for breakfast.  The halcyon days of adulthood and all it's glorious freedoms.

But now.

Ugh!

My bed and I are spending far to much time together.  And whilst there is quantity, the quality is missing.

Take away choice and the excitement fades.

Take away choice and the elicit pleasure of sleeping in on a workday becomes a chore.

Fatigue has bitten me on the arse these past few weeks and there are no signs that it is getting ready to leave.  It's not like I don't experience fatigue on a regular basis, because I do.  It's part and parcel of living with Bob.  The medical sites compare the quality of a Bobette's life with that of someone with congestive heart failure.  Yay!  Apparently it takes us three times the energy just to stand as a healthy person, so my baseline is pretty low to begin with.  But dammit, I am starting to think that I'm carrying not only my own unmanageable boxes of fatigue, but the boxes of everyone in the surrounding district.

I know the change in weather is partly to blame for my current bout of uberexhaustion.  Spring lulled me into a false sense of security.  I was enjoying the sunshine and the mild weather.  The new leaves slowly unfurling in the garden.  The randy birds fornicating left, right, and centre, in my backyard.  I actually sat out in my garden chair and caught a couple of rays.  But then those couple of pesky degrees were added to the weather.  It was a balmy 19C (66.2F for my international readers) yesterday and it sucked the wind right out of me.  I am lucky that I live in the hills surrounding the fair city of Melbourne as we are always 4 or 5 degrees cooler than the city.  But turning into a wet sock at 19C does not bode well for the Summer.  Me thinks my heat intolerance may be getting a wee bit worse.

Being sucker punched by fatigue makes life exhausting.

Walking to the loo = exhausting.

Having a shower = exhausting.

Getting dressed = exhausting.

Standing up to make my morning sanity coffee = exhausting.

Yelling at the kids = exhausting.

Lifting arms = exhausting.

Moving legs = exhausting.

Breathing = exhausting.

Fatigue sucks.

FATtigue.  It has the "fat" built right in and it's that damn artery clogging, heart attack causing, transfat.  Might as well chuck a blended BigMac in an IV and stick it straight in my arm, it could hardly slow me down any more than my current snail lifestyle.

I'm starting to think that the universe is sending me sarcastic messages.  Good old Dictionary.com sent me "Indefatigable", as my word of the day.  Indefafrickentigable.  You've got to be kidding me?  Whilst fatigue may have the "fat" built in, Dictionary.com definitely has the "dic' built in.

So back to bed I go.  Exhausted despite sleeping most of yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that.  No doubt I'll be exhausted when I wake up again.  Woo Hoo Spring. Woo fricken Hoo Summer to come. 


The yawning Michelle :)

Running up that Hill, Placebo (2003), because that's how I feel at the moment.   I'm old enough to remember when Kate Bush originally released this, and may have the cassette gathering dust somewhere, but I do love Placebo and the weirdly attractive Brian Moloko.