Begat

I first came across the word ‘begat’ when I was a little girl.  Sitting through endless church services and looking for distraction, I would pore through my bible for words I didn’t know. In the Old Testament there are comprehensive family histories.  They list only the sons. But of course. Surely that isn’t where my feminism took root (or is it?).  They went on in variations like this:

And Canaan begat Sidon, his first begotten son, and Heth, and…

It’s not really a term we use anymore, but it is a useful word. The next time I heard the word begat (or a present tense version of it) was when I was a new Mum.  The plunket nurse was talking about baby’s routine.  She explained that “sleep begets sleep”.  The more sleep babies have, the more they want. And how the less they get the more and more wakeful, and therefore, harder to settle.  So I set about creating a better sleep routine.

And today, I added a new context to the word begat.   (Rude word warnings…)

Crap begets crap.

And so it was, that Crap begat Crap who

You know what I mean.  It never rains but it pours. Just when you think ‘surely nothing else can go wrong, I’ve had all the bad luck a person should get’ …a bird poops on your head, you jam your favourite scarf in the car door and rip a big hole in it, you stub your toe and miss a phone call from the radio station that would have won you a trip to Paris.

No amount of positivity works. Nope. Deep breathing is useless. There is nothing you can do but surrender to the crapfest and hope that somewhere down the line, the begetting will run out. And as my friend said to me this morning, it is okay to say “why me!?” sometimes.  I agree, but it is not easy when the kids are with me, to rail against the begetting of bad times. I’ve been trying to keep the self pity to my private moments.  The anger and the grumps. I’ve been trying to fake making it, so that the Universe might be tricked into laying off on the lessons for a while.  I am sick of learning lessons.

Universe? Take your zen-opportunities and go jump. Take your deeper meanings, your soul education, your wisdom bringing life experience.  I don’t want any of it. I’d rather life was easy and I could be shallow, thanks.

My mother-in-law is sick, she has advanced Parkinson’s.  My father-in-law is sick, we’re waiting to hear results from his recent tests to see if he’ll be having surgery or radiation therapy, or both. My brother just phoned to say something’s up with his liver and kidneys. And I spent this morning at a pre-admit clinic for the surgery I will have in August to remove pre-cancerous cells from my cervix.  It’s not a huge thing, but it is one thing too many.

I had to be there for 9am, so we were up and out of the house by 7.30 this morning, I had to first drop off my daughter and then my son both to the homes of two very helpful friends. And when I hopped back into my car to go to the hospital, it would not start. The lights were on, but nobody was home.  Glancing at the clock I realised that if I called for roadside assistance, I’d miss my clinic appointment.  I screamed then, in my car.  Let out a tiny bit of the anger that has been swirling around in my head. And I called a cab. After my meeting with the anaesthetist and the admissions nurse, an ECG and some bloods, I caught a cab back to my car. The bloody thing started first go.

See?  Bad times beget bad times.  I am sure my car wouldn’t start earlier, simply because I needed it to.  All this crappy minutae, on top of all the other stuff gets me down. My steroid trial is over and I feel myself sinking back into the quagmire, perhaps even more so after my immunologist yesterday made it pretty clear there was no way I would be eligible for IVIG. And all because I am seronegative, like 50% of patients with my diagnosis. I don’t even know if I can fight the fight for treatment any more. My steroid trial proved I have an AI aetiology, but now there is no treatment?! I can’t even explain how I feel about the shittiness of that. I feel like I am falling.

I know that my mind is a messy, noisy place.  I know I need help getting into a better frame of mind.

Let me know if you know how I can do that.

For now I am just putting it out there.  Crap begets Crap.

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So Full of ..it.

Public health and sensitive person warning. This post is about POOS.

Hello.  My name is Rach and I haven’t had a poo in 16 days.

That means that I really am, full of sh#t.  Before you leap in with wonderful suggestions, you should know; I have been ingesting chia seeds. Hydrating. Taking my usual laxative pills. When I am a good girl, I also take soluble movicol, which isn’t nearly as bad as I tell myself it is. Somehow getting to the many-sachets-of-movicol-in-one-hit-stage feels like a failure to me. An admission that I haven’t been able to manage my recalcitrant pooper.  So I ignore it for a while. And then comes the enemas.  I really hate them. I feel like they are the perpetrators of evil. They promise much and deliver little. My poison pals.

When you have Dysautonomia, you may also have to make friends with the enema.

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What’s worse than having enemas? Having to give them to yourself.  It honestly feels like self-abuse. Like I am violating my most private parts.  Oh!  That’s probably BECAUSE I AM.  And while I am getting into position for this special kind of friendly assistance, I am always compelled to read the box.  It doesn’t help matters.

Gently insert enema tip into rectum with a slight side to side movement.

If I am already on my side, what then is side to side?   Wouldn’t that then be up-and-down?  And would that be the wrong motion for my poor pooper?  I try to imagine that my hands belong to a nurse, the sort who just gets on with it.  I make small talk with myself to distract myself from the embarrassment at hand. “how’s your day been today, Rach?  A bit sh#t?”…  I do the business.  Why do enemas always feel cold? Should one warm it up first?  That might be kinder…

WARNING: Do not use when nausea and abdominal pain are present.

Duh. That is why I am using it. 16 days being full of sh#t will make anyone nauseous and abdominally pained.

…failure to have a bowel movement after use of a laxative may indicate a serious condition.

No sh#t, Sherlock! Failure to have a bowel movement for so long that you need to use this kind of laxative may indicate a serious condition too. Who writes these box words?

EFFECTIVENESS:  usually produces evacuation within 2-5 minutes.

Maybe in another dimension. I’ve been sitting here for fifteen… the box said that after administration I should:

…maintain position until urge to evacuate is strong.

Nope, nada.

At that very moment, my hubster walks into the bedroom and asks me what’s up. (!)
“Benzalconium Chloride. Apparently.”  I mumble,  then, “I’m writing about enemas while I wait for this one to work.”
“Do you think people will want to read about that?” he asks.

Well, no. But I didn’t think people would want to read about chronic illness, suffering, sadness, frustrations, my medical menagerie, grief, doctors, my taste in eighties music, my family, doctor-suessy-post-mortem-instructions or dysautonomia, either. It’s kind of a job lot. 
(By the way, if you are reading, you deserve a medal.  This is not a topic for just any reader, it’s only for the best kind of readers, like you).
My hubster cocks his head to one side and drops this, in a funny voice. Smiles and leaves the room again:

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I laugh.  A strange kind of sensation travels along my bones and into my left shoulder.  Could I call that an urge?

I don’t know.  But I am hopeful.  Please Frenema.  Give me the sh#ts.  I don’t think I can bear any more crap poetry.

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Update: Just wanted to reassure the worriers out there.  Poop has been made.  Here is a song for the purpose of celebrations:   Don’t sit under the POO TREE!
Because.  Eventually, shit happens!