hmmmmm

Humuhumunukunukuapuaa Now that's a great name.

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Take THAT Anxiety!!!

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Something that not many people know about me is that I have dealt with anxiety and panic.  I have been told that it is unusual for panic to surface so late in life, but I experienced my first panic issue in my early forties.  I knew immediately what it was, and I sought the help of a doctor.  I also devoured a number of books and listened to relaxation tapes.  I practiced breathing exercises.  I took the initiative and brought the situation under my control.  I took pride in the fact that the doc prescribed Xanax, and I only ever took it two or three times--and that was half a pill.  I hated the feeling it gave me, kind of like being a zombie. There is a misnomer about such attacks.  Perhaps panic is not the best description of what actually occurs. I saw a reporter on the TV a few nights ago.  They showed a clip of him in the midst of a panic attack while reporting live.  He looked down and appeared confused.  He stumbled over...
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66

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It is 4:50AM. I have hellacious acid reflux. I have consumed too many antacids. My rem ai ning option is to sit upright for a while with a cup of tea. I think it is helping. Chemo yesterday. I am now seeing a pattern to the first day of a cycle: i ncreasing fatigue and headache on the way home. Terrible headache and fatigue by the time we get home. Now reflux which is intense even for a seasoned GERD veteran like me. While lying in bed, it occurred to me that my body feels a bit like Route 66. Not the famous one. The infamous one. People who live near DC will know what I am talking about. Bill and I traverse this road to reach Georgetown University Hospital, where I am receiving treatment. I have lived in the DC area for decades, and I have never seen 66 not under construction. I am sure I never will. But, there is presently a new level of chaos which seems to have no limits. Early in the mornings, on our 90-minute drives (on good days), I am typically asleep by the time we are a...
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Desperation is Sometimes a Consequence, Not Merely a Choice

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My husband knew this man.  It’s been almost a year and a half since the man went home from work, put the barrel of a gun inside his mouth, and pulled the trigger.  There were a good number of people at his funeral, but it was quiet.  Very quiet.  Odd that the man’s widow did not shed a tear.  Well, maybe not so odd.  Their marital woes were not a secret.  It sickened me that she seemed almost jovial when the funeral had ended.   And yesterday I came across the name of a person I know of whose wife killed herself many years ago.  He had been cheating on her.  They had a young child.  I’m sure that he went on with his life like her death was her own choice.  And, ultimately, it was.  But I have to voice that there is an attitude and common belief today that rubs me the wrong way.  It is the philosophy of each person being responsible for his or her own happiness.  There is truth in the statement.  But it m...
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