Exit-us

I am a frequent flier when it comes to the bathrooms at Slimmons. In all honesty, I am tied to the bathrooms wherever I go, but because of the accessibility of the Slimmons bathrooms, I'm able to participate there much more often than I would in a different venue; if I had to walk (run) a long way for them. Or wait in a line once I got there.

Richard has two bathrooms located in the back of his dressing room at Slimmons. Although recently redecorated, the predominant theme of each remains true to their former selves. Bathroom # 1 (on the left as you face them) is the more sane bathroom. That is, until you wash your hands. (You do wash your hands after going, right? Don't tell me if you don't. And never shake my hand again!) Wash your hands, dry them off with the paper towels, then use the foot lever to raise the lid of the trash can. BAM!!!! The lid of the can hits the wall! And the mirror. With my facility for breaking things, I'm sure that I'm going to either knock a hole in the wall or break the mirror before I'm done. Ergo, I don't use that bathroom.

No. I use the other one. On the right. Bathroom # 2; the "watch yourself pee" bathroom. For if you are sitting down, there is a floor-to-ceiling mirror in front of you for you to contemplate your physique. If you're of the stand-up-to-pee persuasion, don't despair. There is a thigh-high-to-ceiling mirror behind the toilet too. No matter what direction you do your business in, you get a full-length view of yourself. But because of the positioning of the toilet, the sink, and the trash can, there's little chance that I can damage anything in that particular room.

Actually, the bathroom on the right is the celebrity choice anyway. When
Richard spent the day with Jimmy Kimmel, working on Jimmy's health, that is the bathroom that Jimmy found the hamburger in.

I know. It doesn't look much like the same bathroom anymore, but it is. And every time I'm in there, I look for the speaker to order my own hamburger. I haven't found it as of yet, but that's just a matter of time...

Anyway, you're probably wondering why I wax on about bathrooms. Other than them being the most important room in my life, that is. Well, it has a lot to do with Dana. And the Exit signs.

You might recall a few weeks ago, an Exit Sign fell on Dana's head during exercise class.

A couple of weeks later, the sign was replaced, and Dana was so convinced that her string of bad luck had resolved, that she stood under a ladder. All appeared to be well for Dana. No bad luck. But then again, I wonder if bad luck can be transferred...

For tonight after the um-tee nth time going to the bathroom, I noticed it. The Exit sign leading out of the dressing room and back into the club. It was empty.

Furthermore, the skeleton in which it used to reside had a burnt out bulb!
I quickly ran back into the exercise-class-in-progress and queried Dana. Did she know about this turn of events?

She did! She was not surprised at all. And there, and then, I knew the title of today's post. Exit-us. Because I'll bet that the sign in the classroom leading to the lobby was not a new sign at all. The signs are migrating from one point to another within the club. They're taking on a life of their own. They must be Jewish and they're looking for their homeland. Amazing. They don't look Jewish. And the one that clunked Dana on the head? It must have been trying to make a connecting flight.

Well, I suggested this theory to Dana. She acted as if she was shocked. Or maybe she over-acted, that is. I think she knows that I'm on to something.

Poor Richard. It's true. Bad luck can be transferred. It's his bad luck that I not only noticed the sign, but that I can't resist posting about it.

I know funny when I see it.

Vennie's AdVenture, Day 4

Good Morning! Vennie's cooking early!!!!!
Bon Appetit!

Chicken Soup with Sweet Potato, Onion, Broccoli, Carrots, and Celery.

Vennie hugs her first man of the day. She likes them with hairy backs.

And then she found herself another lawyer. Unlike day 1, this one has a small practice. But he advertises on TV with the moniker "We are here to serve you."

Back home, and Vennie receives Ian, a Gentleman Caller.

However, Ian quickly deserted her in lieu of the dogs. Here, he's trying to teach Sunny how to use the dog stairs, aka "Stairway to Heaven."

And, unlike Laura, he is successful in the venture! From this point forward, Ian is to be known as "The Stairmaster!"

Happy smiles all around signifies a job well done.

Come evening, and Vennie is at Slimmons, exercising her heart out.

She insists that it's only water in the bottle.

Look at this! Dana's "Exit" sign has not been replaced. Slimmons. You can check in but you can't check out.

And once again, happy smiles all around signifies a job well done.

Thirty posts in thirty days. This is day 19.

She's a Brainiac, Brainiac on the Floor!

It was a normal night at Slimmons. Well, actually it wasn't so normal. I was late because the streets were tied up by the Gay & Lesbian Coalitions protesting the ban on Marriage, good for them. I was half-tempted to skip class and join them.

But other than that, it was a normal night at Slimmons. Well, actually it wasn't because I was on my feet for the whole class and I can feel my energy and strength starting to return.

But other than that, it was a normal night at Slimmons. Not.

We were following Richard's moves, dancing our hearts out. I was on my side of the room, Dana was on hers. Dana dances closer to the lobby where all the thin people cluster and the mirrors are the "fat" mirrors. They're all thin enough over there that it doesn't matter. I prefer by the loading dock where the "thin mirrors" are.

Side to side we were dancing. "Four more!" Richard yelled. "Three more! Two more!" And that's when it happened. In the flash of the moment, the "Exit" sign over the lobby exit loosened from the ceiling and fell. Right on Dana's head!

I would say that Dana was shocked, but actually the electrical part of the unit stayed in the ceiling.

I would say that Dana was brained, but actually, it was closer to having her brain removed.

Dana needs to remember never to get a-head of herself.

The exit sign had a head trip.

Dana wanted to exit a-head of everybody else.

Dana exited at the head of the class.

The sign a-doored Dana.

It's a sign from above.

Dana is a target. Dana needs to go shopping at Target.

Dana was exit-cuted.

Exit, stage Right.

Was braining Dana Richard's a-sign-ment for the evening?

Was that Dana's exit strategy?

Hey Dana... if you're here, could you show us a sign?

(Click on picture for a larger image)

My dog Cosmos has had a long and bitter feud with the sky. It started with thunder and lightening, and escalated into full fledged battle when the sky followed up by throwing ice chips at him.

I came home tonight and told him the story of Dana. He was relieved that finally, after all these years, somebody else - specifically Dana - agrees with his point of view. The sky is falling.

Thirty posts in thirty days. This is day 7.

Halloween Mystery at Slimmons

Exercise class was fun yesterday. Despite my weakened condition (still recovering from the Cimzia), I did ok. Not great, but ok.

Saturdays are always well attended. People who don't come on other days show up then. I'm glad that the Halloween Decorations were still up so that they could enjoy them. But then there was the other thing that I first noticed on Halloween...


On the loading dock at the back of Slimmons. Shoes. Dozens of them. All in a pile.
They were there during the Halloween party. I thought about asking about them then, but didn't. They could have been some kind of joke and I would be falling right into it.
But then today when Richard showed up to class, he walked out to the dock to view them with a puzzled look on his face. Clearly, whatever was going on had nothing to do with him.
Sherry plans to ask the Chabbad that meets next door if they know anything about it. But based on the kinds of shoes that have been deposited there - cool shoes, cheap shoes, flamboyant shoes, I expect that they didn't have anything to do with it.
So what's the deal? Who left them? How? Why? Inquiring minds would like to know.

Thirty posts in thirty days. This is day 2.

A Slimmons Halloween

Halloween comes but once a year. Once upon a time, I dressed up my dogs (the ones from then, not now), handed out candy, and ate at least several bags myself over the course of the evening. But those days are gone. I know myself. I cannot have candy in my condo or I will go through it like nobody's business. And I know my dog Cosmos. Presented with repeated visits by unearthly beings at his door, he would probably swallow his own tongue in fright. And so we are locked up tight here, lights off at the front of my unit, windows closed against sound, and the patio gate barracaded. A quiet night.

But it wasn't so last night. Even though it was yet another Cimzia day, I had decided long ago that I was going to the Halloween Party at Slimmons, and I was a-goin'.

My costume started with "Duck" tape and tin foil. Am I nuts, or didn't this used to be "DucT" tape. For taping up air ducts and such? Is this like the "Unabomber" who started out as the "UnIbomber" for sending bombs to professors at universities, only to be misspelt by the media?
For the hat, I used the Elizabethan Collar that Sunny refused to wear after his surgery last year.
And my costume was "Crazy Tin Foil Person."

Halloween at Slimmons:









BOO!

Changing Plans

I thought, yesterday, that I would push myself this morning and go to exercise class. When I got home from visiting with Angie, I even did a single load of laundry - exercise clothes - so that I would not have any excuse when I woke up. But when I woke up, I did not need an excuse not to go. I felt absolutely horrible; like I had been run over by a steamroller. I did too much in the last two days. I was not physically ready to take that much on. Instead of going to class, I stayed in bed.

I thought this morning that I would be going to Christan and Hung's wedding reception with Eric. I was a little stressed about what I would wear because most of my clothing is tight and it was going to be a dressy affair. But I figured that my brown dress pants with my olive suede jacket would fit, and that I certainly had a tee and a fancy necklace to go with it. But Eric called, stressed out and coming down with a bug, and decided that he (we) were not going. My reaction is mixed. I'm tired and the event would be a stresser since I barely know anyone, so in that sense it will be easier not to attend. But this is a repeated pattern with Eric & I. We never make plans. We never go anywhere. We never do anything. Even when we (I) make suggestions, there is always a reason to end up not doing it, or anything. This pattern is old and established and I am a little tired of it.

I was fairly certain this morning that I would not attend the dance party at Slimmons tonight. That Eric's event was more important to attend, that it would be nice to do something with him, and that I would be drained of energy before the dance began. I was uncommitted to showing up, but still flexible and hopeful that we might stop by for a short time to say hello to the people that I know. But now that everything else in my day is off, I am going. On my own. For how long, I don't know as I am not in great shape, but I will definitely show. I will turn off my cell phone and not take calls. I will not decide in advance what time I will be showing up, or how late I will stay. I won't even determine whether or not I will go to any of the after-parties. I need to be amongst people, people who want to have a good time, and in the world.

What will happen tomorrow in terms of recuperation will be what it is. It's likely that I will pay the price for this evening's activity. But it's not like I have any other plans that I can depend on anyway.

Making It

All through this week, I had one out-of-the-home goal in mind. I wanted to go to Slimmons today.

It was a craps shoot at best. I am far from being well, running significant temperatures nightly and often during the day, and very weak. Last week I attempted GLASG, my spinning guild with mixed results. But truth be told, it was so nice to get out of my home (read out of my bed), that for all the negative physical responses, it was worth it. And so with trepidation, I planned in my mind to make an escape this morning.

To go to exercise class when I'm in this condition, on the face of it, is nuts. But Slimmons is an unusual place, and everyone there is quite familiar with my physical challenges. I'd been quite startled by an e-mail correspondance that I had with one of my classmates (read friend) earlier this week, and wanted to go even more because of it. But I was dubious. And so I didn't tell anyone other than Eric of my plans; didn't even e-mail Richard. I didn't want people expecting me and then me not showing up. There is very little that is ruder than being stood up. This is something that I have had a little experience with.

Last night was a good night. Unusual for me, I didn't have a fever, I didn't have night sweats, and I actually fell asleep within a reasonable time frame of taking my nighttime pills. I woke up at 7:30 which gave me a little over two hours to prepare. After laying in bed for about 45 minutes procrastinating, watching the news on TV, and finally being driven out by children's programming, I showered and put my make-up on. Made Oatmeal with 1 Cup Blueberries & 1 TB Raw Sugar for breakfast. Fed the dogs (before eating my own meal). Made my bed. At a quarter to ten, I left for the 45 minute Saturday-morning drive.

I was already fatigued upon leaving. Wondered at the wisedom of this move. Kept driving. But halfway through Coldwater Canyon - yes gals, "The Canyon' - somethng odd happened. I was listening to I-can't-remember-which radio station, contemplating turning around and coming back home, then a string of familiar songs were played all in a row. Not just familiar. Right out of
"Party Off the Pounds". The video that Richard asked me to participate in that was a watershed moment for me and changed my life. As Wendy always says, "It's a sign." I was meant to continue and attend. So I continued on.

Upon arrival, I happily greeted many that I knew, and was also astounded at how many new people had come through the doors. That's both a strength and weakness of Slimmons... the ever-changing cast of students. But I suppose the shuffling of faces is probably the same at all exercise forums and, in fact, I suspect worse in many. It's comforting to me to know that so many have stuck around over the years.

And so I attended "Project Me" and, not completely wasted, "Sweat" class. Don't get the 2nd part wrong. I am not capable of putting out enough energy right now to actually sweat. I spent a little of it shuffling around in slow speed, and more of it planted in a chair doing nothing. But even with the output of energy, I left with more than I came with, was able to do a little West Side shopping, and was home by 2;30.

I won't lie to you. I now feel like I've been run over by a truck. But it was all worth it. No kidding.

To Go or to Not Go...

To go or not to go... that was the question. Starting yesterday, thoughts started passing through my mind that maybe I should try a come-back at Slimmons tonight. The urge was even stronger today, and this afternoon, I even pulled out my exercise clothing in preparation for the decision. I finished a beaded bracelet (I'll post the picture soon), I took the dogs for two short (and I mean really short) walks, and I thought about it.

I also thought about the other things I needed to get done. I need to get the kitchen picked up (I actually cooked a very simple meal for myself last night), I need to get laundry done, I desperately needed to pick up a prescription that has been waiting for me for two days now and I'm out of that particular med. And I became exhausted thinking about just that.

My "good" times are now measured in hours instead of minutes. By good, I don't mean good like a healthy person. But I mean good as in I am not running a fever, I'm strong enough to sit up and get up to move around the condo as necessary, and my mind is functioning rationally. There has been a lot of time over the past four or five months where my illness was causing a short circuit in my brain. You couldn't really tell so much from my e-mails or posts other than a greater irritability factor than normal, but talk to me in person and there was no question but that there was something seriously wrong.

So I thought about the exhaustion. And I thought about Slimmons. It's an hour or more drive from my home on work nights; two hours round trip with no guarantee once I get there. (40 minutes on Saturday morning when there is no traffic.) And I thought about my prescription. Then my rational-thinking brain took over. It was not a good idea to try it tonight. I know that the time that I return - assuming that the Cimzia for which I am receiving another set of injections next Wednesday - is not the root of my problem, I think I may only be a week or two away from giving it a try. But it's not time yet.

So I went to the pharmacy and filled my prescription. I did a little marketing while I was out. And by the time I got home, my temperature had shot up to 101.3. Last night's lack of fever was a fluke. I've had a serious temperature every single evening for several months now. And on-and-off during the day too.

I'm looking at my computer screen's clock right now. 6:50 pm. Class has been in session for 20 minutes. I'm at peace with my decision to stay home. The last thing I want to do is go and provoke another health incident, especially the night before Richard leaves for New Orleans.

So I think I'll go get a hot bath running and spend some time warming up. I'll look at my beads and a newer beading book when I get out, assuming that my fever hasn't significantly risen and also assuming I'm up to it, then figure out their instructions how to do spiral beading. And I'll relax. The good news is that I don't think that Slimmons is going away soon.

Not Forgotten

Last night was an intensely bad one for me, but this morning, after recovering from the drugs that I took to counteract my symptoms, I feel remarkably better. Well enough that I finished up the bracelet that I pictured in yesterday's blog (except for the closure... I really need to hunt down my box of buttons which is who-knows-where?) and am going back to embellish the green/red one more. I thought at the time that it needed more but didn't trust my instincts. Now I know that I was right and will "fix" it. As Myra Wood said in the class that I took from her last year, "More is more." So true when it comes to beading. You know when it's time to stop, and there's no reason to limit oneself based on preconceived notions of propriety.



When I feel better, I am intensely lonely. As always, those who are worth talking to are at work during the day, and I don't want to invite the "crazies" into my personal life. I can call or e-mail messages to my friends and they respond, but in the evenings when I tend to feel awful and don't want to talk is when they call. And my response makes them feel bad. So the number of personal contacts that I am having are becoming more and more limited.

But then there are the surprises. This morning I stumbled out of bed, still hung over by the Neurontin that I chose to take last evening, and let the dogs out of the front door. There on my doorstoop was a small square brown-paper-wrapped package. "Huh?" I thought? I've already received everything that I've mail ordered. What's this?

And there I had it. A book and card from Vennie - "The Best Friend in the World" it's called - but more important than the gift, the sentiment. I burst into tears. A physical manifestation that somebody cares about my trevails right there on my front porch, and then on my kitchen table.



I've scanned the book and think I'll read it all at once, then keep it by my bed and read one section at a time every night before I go to sleep. To remind me that even when I am physically alone, I am not alone in spirit.

---

One of the most difficult things about the kind of illness I am dealing with is knowing when to let my body rest and when to start to push back. I'm at that place right now. I know that I tend to get ill - including fevers - every time I exert myself, but my "good times" when my mind is active and my body a little more willing to work can be measured by the hour now instead of the minute. Don't get me wrong; I'm not ready to run a marathon or even contemplate a shopping trip, but knowing that I need to change my bed and put away the laundry I did the day before yesterday is not enough to bring me to tears. I'm even thinking about putting on make-up before my therapy appointment today.

This go-around with illness has been remarkably different than those of the past. Then they were mostly about Crohns Disease proper and weight-loss went along with the package. Now I'm dealing with other auto immune issues like Eyrthema Nodosum and terrible chronic fatigue as well as flaring Fibromyalgia along with the Crohns, and also the side effects of the Cimzia. I'm able to eat. I'm unable to move about much. And I'm bored. End result? Eating too much and weight gain. (I also, in all fairness, don't know what effects the various drugs I'm taking have on weight, but I don't want to use that as an excuse. I know my transgressions of the past week.)

Which brings me to exercise class. What to do?

Since attending the wedding with Eric last weekend, I know that I might be able to get a good hour or two out of the home before becoming physically and mentally incapacitated enough not to feel safe driving. I know that I am bored and lonely and would love to be amongst people, many of whom already know about my health challenges so I don't have to explain and I don't need to be secretive. And I know that I desperately need help with my eating.

But is Slimmons a good idea anymore? I'm not sure. I lost my standing there when I went "Scholarship" and don't feel comfortable defending myself against inquiries that are out of line. Like Richard's line of questioning about my sex life the last time I was there and was clearly too ill to either have a sex life or mentally acute enough to respond with a quick "Quid Pro Quo," thus silencing him. I also know that even before the current circumstance, my only standing there was as a hood ornament. I lost the weight, I was the big number, therefore I was welcome. Well I'm up 10 pounds now and don't know what I'm going to do. I really don't know if I have the fortitude or the physical stamina to get it off again, and that brings my position at Slimmons even lower.

With others at Slimmons, they have been put to use in other areas (like the Retreat or the Cruise or the radio show or the P.E. in School campaign) so when they started struggling, they still had some value to the operation. Me? The only times I've been asked to do anything was when X- had me doing the "Database to Nowhere" on a volunteer basis and I was expected to watch and keep silent about things going on that I considered unethical (and I did maintain the secrets which bothers me to this day) until I quit, or when Richard needed somebody in front of the camera that he could crow about. Again, it's all about the number.

So I don't know. I feel like some movement and some social interaction might be good for me right now, as limited as it might be, but I don't know how to get it started. I do know that if something untoward is said to me again at Slimmons (and Richard knew he was being inappropriate even as he was questioning me), I will have to leave and never go back again. Would that be a bad thing? Would that be a good thing? Would it not really matter in the scheme of life at all? And if I left, is there a place for me in another setting?

LATER:

A therapy appointment behind me and the answer is clear. I am not ready to go back to exercise class at this point.

Dr. M- pointed out the following obvious facts which I know but got lost in my health drama:

1. Richard tends to get inappropriate in his line of questioning when he is feeling uncomfortable in social situations. With the way I'm feeling and must have looked that day when I made my way into class, it must have really thrown him for a loop. Ergo while there is no "fault" in this situation, there is a cause and effect, and I was the cause.

2. I have a long history of just picking up and going, before having permission from health care providers, when I want to go back to Slimmons. The fact that I am even questioning whether it would be appropriate for me to return yet (every time I get physically active, it results in a fairly high fever) is a strong indication that I should not be going.

Well, the pressure in that department is off, but I'm still scared to death about my weight gain. I know from experience that my mental health is directly tied to my body size and I don't want to return to the place from where I came.

Let's Make a Deal!

Last Monday, Iris and I made a deal. She is working intense hours at her job, neglecting her health and emotional well being. I am stuck at home, four days post-surgery, and bored to tears. She has not been to Slimmons for quite a while; I am supposedly sidelined for quite a while into the future. So we decided that if I would show up to exercise class tonight, so would she.

Since we are both women of our word, we were both there. Watching exercise class from the outside is a weird experience. I had promised Richard that, if he didn't keep me from coming tonight, I would stay out of the way and be careful. Additionally, despite the fact that I am getting out and about, it's by sheer force of will. My knee and foot really do hurt. A lot.
So instead of sitting at the back of the classroom, I parked myself in a chair in the lobby and watched from afar. And admired my classmates.

The thing about Slimmons that is so magical is that it doesn't matter who you are. What you look like. What size clothing you wear. Everyone is beautiful; everyone fits in. When I see my classmates, I don't see their physical beings. I see them.

Of course I saw them leaving me in the dust tonight. It may be a while before I can join them again.
But another nice thing is that they involved me, even from my perch in the lobby. Michelle and Iris came out and made fun of me.
And I made fun of them.
Jan dancd beside and behind me.
Michelle threatened to drop a weight on my "other" foot... the one that has not been operated on.
And everyone had to suffer with push ups. Except me!

Despite my personal challenges, I am a lucky woman.

Faceless People

I think that anyone with an income who works in a large city has seen them. Or "not" seen them on purpose. The homeless. They sit on the sidewalks in varying states of decay. Addicts of one sort or another. The mentally ill. The down-on-their-luck. I've done it too. Walked right on by, purposly averting my eyes while feeling bad, pretending they don't exist.

After all, what can I do about it? I'm barely in a home myself. Having been saddled with medical issue upon medical issue upon medical issue, and the bills that just won't quit, I live in quiet despair. Trying to pay my own way and not making it without help. Incapable of putting in a full day's work, or even a partial day enough of the time to generate a sustainable income. I'm on to something with my creative endeavours, but don't have the health and energy to make anything out of them. I'm trying...

Yesterday was "Injection Day." The medication that I have been taking for the past eight weeks is weighing heavier and heavier upon me. Almost from the beginning, I noticed changes. Unpleasant changes. Not only in my physical state, but my emotional and intellectual ones too. I reported them to my doctors, but they never take the side effects that I report seriously. Hence the great Cyclosporine indicent of 2000.

The effects of the medication are cumulative, meaning that each time I give myself an injection, the side effects get worse and worse. The problem being, of course that it's working well on the base illness. It's the rest of it that I can't handle. And again, nobody takes it seriously, no matter what I say or do. "It's that pain-in-the-ass patient again, complaining."

I'm at a point of intertia where a good part of the day, I'm not functioning anywhere near a normal capacity. I've tried to maintain a normal routine... doctor's appointments, classes, exercise class. But making myself go and interact with people is something akin to pushing a toy that operates on a flywheel. I rev myself up and take off. I go and go and go, blurting out the most inanine comments at the most inopportune times. Irritating people. Offending people. Driving them crazy. And then crashing. Barely able to interact. Barely able to move. Making them feel bad.

Most people can't stand to be anywhere near me anymore. I can't say I blame them. I can't stand to be around myself either. I dread any activity that requires personal interaction. Or physical exertion. Or worst of all, both.

I injected myself early in the morning. Getting up at around 6 am, I dragged myself to the refrigerator where the Humira is stored. Pulled a syringe and alcohol wipe. (I tried to use the pen; this medication is unbelievablly painful to inject and I wasn't able to stand not being able to control the speed at which it went in, so syringe & needle it is.) Carried it to my bedroom where the dogs were still sleeping. And, over the course of the next two minutes, slowly dispensed the medication into my right thigh. And waited.

Within the hour, the first signs were well in progress. Shortness of breath. Chest pains. A fluttering feeling something akin to an electrical charge running down my limbs. I remembered Dr V's instructions... I was probably having a slight allergic reaction. "Take a Claritin." So I did. For what good it did. Which was none.
By 10:30, I knew I had to get up and moving. I abhor laying around all day if it's possible not to, so although I was dizzy and had a headache as well as the other issues, I forced myself into the shower, got dressed and made up, and by 11:30, headed out to my Weight Maintenance class. Where they could immediately tell that I was not myself. I was starting to crash emotionally as well as physically by the time I had arrived.
This particular group is not terribly demanding on my emotions, though. They study food with Lucy on a more intellectual level, and have the good sense not to bother with the emotional aspect. so although I wasn't a full participant, I could still keep up. I just wasn't terribly enthusiastic.

Getting home took almost 90 minutes thanks to I-have-no-idea-what-caused-the-traffic-jam on the 405 freeway. And I debated whether or not I should attend exercise class. Ultimately deciding that maintaining my normal routine was important, I got changed and headed out to Slimmons.

Richard is unbelievably accessable. He arrives 30 minutes before class every Tuesday to talk to his students individually, privately, in his office. I know that these sessions have helped many of us in ways that is hard to describe. They've definately helped me. But I also know that at this point, I am persona non-gratis, so instead of waiting in the lobby for a chance to talk to him, I hid out in the dressing room until class began. And wondered if I had made the right decision in coming at all.

It didn't take long to figure it out. It had been a mistake. I knew it when I started to flush and turn red. I knew it more as my chest got tight and I had trouble breathing. And I really knew it when, all of a sudden, I got a new pain. Intense pain in both of my kidneys. I stumbled out of the classroom and into the bathroom, where I sat for quite a while until it subsided from excruciating to severe. Then I moved out of the bathroom and sat on one of the dressing room benches for a few minutes.

S- came breezing in. I know that she is tired of my ever-present medical issues. Looking at me quickly, she said "I know that you would tell me if you needed help." with disapproval in her eyes, and ran back out before I could respond. (I can't blame her for her attitude. I almost never want help. And I can't say that I would have asked for it last night either.) I muttered "I need to get out of here." to myself, and dizzily made my way to my purse and bag, purposely averting my eyes so that I didn't have to look at anyone. After all, I don't trust them to do what I need. Just help me to my car so that I can go home. No. They over-react and call the Paramedics. That's expensive and the net result of the last Paramedic visit was about $25000 in bills between the call and a bazillion follow up doctor's appointments and tests. And we still have no idea what causes the fainting spells. I just don't have the financial where-with-all to bear any more bills like that.

So I made my way out of the studio as the class continued, and out the front door before it happened. My head suddenly pounded so hard that I became momentarily disoriented. I remember bouncing against the locked left door of Slimmons and sliding to the ground. They hadn't seen that, thank goodness, and I knew I was glad I was out of there so that they couldn't call the medics. And I sat and waited for the moment to pass. But it didn't.

I tried to get up, but when I would try to bear any weight on my limbs, they felt like an electrical charge was going through them - intensely painful - and I got even more dizzy. I realized that I did need help, and tried to crawl my way back into the studio. And couldn't make it, so I lay on the sidewalk hoping that somebody would see me and assist.

The problem with these issues is that although I can't communicate coherently, I am acutely aware of what's going on around me. I remember the two people walking by on the sidewalk, strangers. I couldn't reach out or say anything and they pretended they couldn't see me. So did the joggers; one coming from my right, and the other from my left. The first one moved into the street and then back onto the sidewalk to avoid me; the other actually jumped over me. And as I lay there, I realized that this was exactly what the homeless experience. Purposeful neglect.

I wish I could say that somebody eventually came and helped me, but they didn't. I lay there, the music from class blasting out of the door, and slowly recovered. I was finally able to sit up, and then stand up - barely - as the class was fetching their weights for toning exercises. I stumbled to my car, vomited in the street, and then sat in the back seat of my car for a while before transferring to the front where I sat for maybe another ten minutes. Then, recovered enough to operate my vehicle, turned on the ignition and drove home with no issue. I did think about going to the emergency room for a couple of minutes. But to what end? I'd be there for hours and hours and then they wouldn't help me. They never do.

I also wish I could say that I got some kind of revelation from this experience. That I am more empathetic to the homeless and down-and-out now, but I know that's not true either. I still can't do anything to help them. If I look at them as I pass, then I take on some personal responsibility for their plight, and I just can't. Can't. I don't have the reserves in any way, shape, or form to do so.

And I sit here wondering if there is some higher purpose for my experience. Believing that there is would imply that I believe in a higher power, which I don't. If I did, then I would have to be mighty angry and I just don't have the strength for that. And I would also be required to believe that there is hope for my situation, which there isn't. My doctors avert their eyes as I plead for them to find something in their bag of tricks to heal me.