Friday, June 19, 2009

The best therapy

I'd have to say my little HuggaMutt is my best therapy.  I can really feel the difference, now that I cannot visit the River so often.

Truthfully, I rarely go to the Chemung without my little buddy.  She's good for my nerves when she's just being a dog.  Her latest thing, now that the water is warm enough, it to wade or swim out to inspect anything within range.  Usually it will be a log, a stick or some detritus, but often, I cannot understand what she thinks she sees:


Monday, June 15, 2009

And finally...

One door closes, but another opens.

The loss of feeling in my outer pelvis left me bereft, until I realized that I was more in tune with what was directly inside that area.

I hope you know what I mean.

There is a strange jumbling of feeling caused by MS. I believe this is called dysaesthesia. Boy, did that ever happen to me. It is the cause of "accidents" at time and the bane of my working life. A twinge, then a loss of control, all further troubled or even triggered by any physical or emotional shock or upset.

But, it's a little gift from heaven during intimacy. If we plan ahead, and protect against incontinence by a quick visit to the little girls' room beforehand, well, we can ring the bell nearly every time.

Not a bad little development in a middle-aged MSer's life, eh?

Little Pond

Friday, June 05, 2009

More about the naughty bits.

I started this whole "naughty bits" thing because I couldn't find a way into mentioning something delicate but important.

During the "first" attack of MS that hit me in, I think, 1995, I lost a lot of feeling in my body before we could staunch it with Solumedrol.

The numbness had moved all the way up my legs and arms. My very core was beginning to numb out. In fact, I knew the Solumedrol was working when I got my monthly period and began to have cramps. The doctor let me out of the hospital a few days later.

That attack left me with very little feeling in my pubic region. That is to say that what were once excruciatingly painful menses became just crampy, despite the monthly clogging of my pelvic varicose veins. That's right, varicose veins. And also cysts. AND endometriosis.

Much of which I have passed on to my unlucky daughters.

Of course, perimenopause, and finally, the real deal, menopause, have alleviated all that. I'm not finished in that department, either.

It was strange that there were actually benefits to the damage done by Multiple Sclerosis.

There's more, though. Later.

I have to go to work now.

Little Pond

Wednesday, June 03, 2009

More on shaving!

I honestly think that shaving is the best way to go. Even still.

In my Junior Year Abroad, I learned that the Spanish (at that time 1973-4) considered shaving disgusting for a woman. Interestingly enough, in medieval times, their Moroccan overlords would shave a harem girl from the neck down, just before she was presented to please her master for the night. That must have been quite a shock for the virgins.

Otherwise, I remember a time we were having a waxing party in the dorm. This involved copious wine, snacks, and waxing one another. Someday I may write a sexual fantasy about it, to pass it on appropriately to the men!

One of the girls got silly, and couldn't bring herself to continue the chore. She had drawn blood, which sometimes happens when a person must wax the same spot twice, and left my muy amiga Rosa with one (ONE!) hairy armpit, just before she was to go to a pool party with her fiance.

Rosa was furious, and enlisted the rest of us to take turns and pull the hairs with a tweezer. One tough broad, and the sweetest soul on the face of the planet, was Rosa. (I've often equated her with the Blessed Mother, who also must have been, to quote Fr. Andrew Greeley, "tough as nails.")

There was no convincing her to shave. All the girls thought that was disgusting. We never shaved in Spain.

One final note: I gave up waxing after I found that I still got shaving bumps. The hairs came back too weak to break the surface, and lay directly underneath, until they burst out.


Little Pond