I'm feeling better.

Actually, I was feeling a little bit better before I wrote that last post because the way my sanity works is that I have to start feeling better about something before I ever admit aloud that I was feeling bad about something in the first place.

When I'm in a bad place, I'm in no place to write about stuff.

Anyway.  Once I got it cut and once I gave it a week's worth of violent washings to shake the stragglers loose (contrary to popular belief, frequent washing for a short time is actually good for this type of thing) and the shedding slowed down, I realized I was at a point to start the moving on.

The rough couple weeks I've had at The Job helped too.  When you hear what some people's problems are your own can seem quite dumb.

Like, say, you know how you're worried that your kid is going to play "doctor" with the other kids?
We all know what that means, right?
Some kid giving the old once over to another?

Not always.

How about if playing "doctor" is a seven year old child collecting used needles off the street and administering shots to himself and all his younger brothers and sisters and other kids on the block, some of whom are his cousins?

Yeah.

All of a sudden hair loss seems to be not so important.

Disclaimer: I got permission from the mother of these children to share this story with other people in an effort to stress the importance of teaching children about infectious diseases and universal precautions.  I do not know the mother's name, nor do I know where she lives.  She and her children are under close medical and therapeutic care.

Best Practices says that by the time they are three or four years old, we need to teach our children to
*never touch anyone else's blood or open sores.  Boo boo's.  Ouchies.  Whatever.  Use a language that they understand if need be.  Always talk to your children in a language and manner that they understand, while teaching your child proper functions and names for body parts, rescue personal,emergency locations, etc.
*never touch needles or syringes.  Sadly, you don't need to live under the El train to find needles.  They are everywhere, in all sorts of neighborhoods and all sorts of homes.  From diabetic supplies to heroin works, needles are out there.
*if they see someone who is bleeding or if they see a needle or other "sharp", they are to find an adult.
*HIV, AIDS, and Hepatitis cannot be spread by playing with infected children or by hugs, kisses, sharing food, etc but other illnesses can be.

Most little kids understand what being "sick" means.  Most little kids don't understand what "forever" means.  Be sure to sit down and talk to your kids about communicable diseases and how you would like them to treat people who are sick or may be sick.  It's important for everyone to know there isn't a certain look or a sure sign to tell if someone is infected with something that you might catch.

My son thinks blood is gross, but I'm thinking that if one of his buddies had a cut or open wound (read: lesion.  Sounds bad that way, doesn't it?) he might try to help them clean it up or maybe even want to feel it to see if it's squishy or whatever.  Rest assured that we had the Big Talk about this sort of stuff as soon as I got home that day.

We have Big Talks all the time, so it wasn't particularly difficult or awkward.  For him.  For me, I couldn't stop wondering how it must feel to wait on HIV tests for all your babies,  hepatitis tests, tests for other bloodborne infections, or how to deal with the fact that your child may have infected another child, or how proud you were when your eldest boy started telling you he wants to be a doctor at age 3 and how he studies medical texts and watches Discovery Channel to learn more about anatomy and physiology and medicine, or the guilt that surrounds the fact you weren't there for those ten minutes, that you turn your back to answer the phone or check the roast or godforbid take four seconds to pee and this can happen.

The more you Talk Big, the easier it gets.
Start today.
Please.

Many thanks to the commenters who said they've seen me in recent months and didn't notice my hairloss.

Of course you didn't.  It's because I've been shampooing my hair with special stuff for volume and letting it airdry without combing it for lift and I've spent hours in front of a mirror finding the exact point where I can part my hair so you don't notice.  Luckily there isn't much gone from the top so I can cover the sides with what's left up there.  The part changes weekly.  I carefully determine which side has more hair and put the part in the exact place where you can't see much headskin through the sparseness.  Then I fill in all the holes and draw in a false hairline with brown eyemake up.  Specially chosen to exactly match the darkest of my hairs.  Go to light and it looks false.  Too shimmery.  Too made up.

I'm making it up as I go along. 

I place hair pins in all the sections that tend to be particularly shifty so they can't move if they tried.  If the wind tries.  If a hand tries.

Then I put eye makeup where it belongs, so you'll look there instead of looking up.  And a lower cut shirt than I normally wear so maybe your eyes won't travel northward. 

I know you can't tell because I've been spending time with people who are also losing their hair and I can't tell theirs is falling out either.  Until the breeze catches it or the light hits it just right and I can see their secret.  One you wouldn't notice but I'm studying closely so I can make it my own.  Save me a few hours of trying by stealing their time spent.

And have you seen me?  Not much.  I've been keeping busy with things that put me in front of strangers rather than people I know.

Losing your hair is bigger than just losing hair.  I'm losing confidence.  Beauty.  Self worth.  Self image.  Self esteem.

Self.

I don't dare speak up or speak out because someone will look at me.  They will see.  They will stare.  Point.  Ask.  Joke. 

They won't, of course.
But I feel as though they might.

Losing one's hair isn't about how one looks.  It's about how one feels.

It feels awful.

There is no right thing to say.  I prefer "Oh my God!" or "Oh, yeah I see it" or "Why? How? When?".
Anything other than "I wish I'd lose some of this mop" or "you can have some of mine" or "I can't tell".  Saying you can't tell makes me feel unvalidated.  Like I've looked like this forever.  Like I've felt like this forever.  Or should have.
But I appreciate you saying you couldn't tell because it means my tricks are working. 

You can't win for losing, can you?  Say you don't notice and I'll wonder why.  Say you do and I'll feel ugly.

How does it feel?
Like seventh grade.

Everyone is noticing.  Waiting.  Watching.  Whispering.  Wondering.

I feel huge.  Shiny.  More important and noteworthy than I really am.

You aren't supposed to feel this way twenty two years past the seventh grade. 

It started about a year ago.  I noticed that my hair wasn't the same.  Different texture.  Different color even.  I put it up to aging.  A doctor suggested it might be connected to some of the autoimmune problems I have.  Another suggested menopause.  Then it stopped.  Then it started again, giant noticable clumps in the shower.  I clogged the vaccuum while sweeping my bedroom.  The lint trap in the dryer was making sweaters.  Hair everywhere but on my head. 

You don't know how warm your scalp is until you can feel it through your hair.  Until you can put an entire finger- or two- down in a spot where hair used to be but is now gone.  It's a revolting warmth.  It makes me think about the time I was assaulted in a crowd.  A disgusting, unwelcome, violation of crotchtemp warmth.  My head reminds me of a shaved vulva.  Like looking at Geraldo without his moustache.  Unnatural.  Unnerving.

I think it's stopping.  Or slowing.  I'm not sure.  I had my hair cut short last week.  The long hairs all over the place were unbearable to see.  Half inch to three inch hairs are less horrifying.  And they slide down the drain a bit easier.  Get mistaken for cat hairs on the couch.  The vaccuum sucks them right up. 
There are tiny hairs along my hairline.  My hairline that receded over an inch in the past couple months.  I'm hoping they are new ones and not just what's left of the old. 

Hoping.
Hope.
There's always that.

I take a lot of vitamins.  Drink lots of water.  Eat the right foods.  Use the right shampoo.  The right comb.  Google combinations of "hair" and "loss" and "reasons" and "disorders" and "medicines I've taken/foods I've eaten/symptoms I've felt" and "women" and "female" and "baldness" and and and. 
You can ask, you can suggest, and I can almost guarantee the answer is "yes, I've tried that/thought of this/stopped doing that/started doing this.  I just don't know why this is happening to me."

"Are you experiencing any unusual levels of stress lately?", the doctor asked.
"I'm losing my fucking hair and I don't know why", I replied.  "It's the most stressful thing I've ever been through".

lately

1 Jake got his big bed.  Finally.  His giant bed.  We ordered a mattress and boxspring and the one in the store was normal height.  The one we got was huge.  The delivery guy said that the company shows them with a low profile boxspring that's six inches lower than the one they come with.  Jake's head is about 4 inches higher than his bed.  He needs a stepstool to get up there.  He loves it.  I envision him dive bombing off the thing and breaking his neck.  He's an edge sleeper but he hasn't fallen out of bed in years, probably since the first or second night that he was put in a toddler bed a few months before he turned two.

I'm not sentimental about baby stuff, but when I heard the sides and springs of his crib/toddler bed crushing in the garbage truck last Wednesday?  My heart crunched right along with it.

2  Along the same lines, Jake asked me how I knew he wasn't a baby anymore.  I said because I don't change diapers, wash tiny clothes, scrub bottles and sippy cups and shatterproof bowls, mix baby oats, mash foods, pick up toys, or worry about him putting stuff in his mouth anymore.  He said "yeah, that stuff too, but I was just thinking how I don't drink your milk anymore.  Man do I miss having boobs in my mouth all the time".

If you don't see Jake until he's thirty, it's only because I'm protecting your daughters.

3  We don't talk like in our house, I swear.

4  I just bought a case of Scott toilet paper and put it in the linen closet next to the few rolls I had left over from the last case.  Two new rolls stacked up are about a half inch shorter than two old rolls.  Scott took it upon himself to shave a quarter inch off each roll of toilet paper.  And raise the price 25 cents on a case of 36.  I like it because it's more Green than before, but I hate it because that means I have less green than before.  I'll be spending a dollar more on toilet paper each year.  It adds up, it's not just tp we are paying more for less.

5  You may or may not know, but I've lost about half of my hair since this past spring.  On my head, my moustaches are all just as thick as ever.  Good news is, the dermatologist told me that most of it should come back.  Bad news is it really did a number on my self esteem.  Used to be when someone looked at me on the street I was happy because my adorable face was brightening someone's day.  Now I want to find a crack to seep into because I'm sure they are staring at my scalp in horror. 
Why did I lose my hair?  Who knows.
Probably to teach me a lesson.
Or something.
Actually, probably as a result of a medication or allergy or some sort of trauma that my body went through that didn't make it to my brain so I had no idea what was going on until I started looking like Daddy Warbucks.

Truth is you probably wouldn't really notice that I am half bald.  You'd just think that what I was doing with my hair isn't really working for me.

Or maybe you wouldn't notice that I had bad hair because my skin has been acting completely rebellious and teenaged.  Pimples everywhere.

Luckily I have the best son in the world who says that pimples are beautiful, like "a crown of rubies resting on (my) forehead".

The dermatologist recommended a 5% benzoyl peroxide wash.  So naturally I bought the 10%.  PanOxyl it's called.  Miracle product I call it.  You can find it on the bottom shelf at the drugstore, next to the stuff that looks like it's been there since your grandma was your age.  Three days of using it and my skin is just about clear.
Who knew?

6  Speaking of grandma, it was pretty touch and go with mine for a few days.  But then she came back to life.  Like she always does.  If they could bottle her moxie I'd never have to worry about paying a bill for the rest of my days.

I didn't go see her last time I was home.  I was busy with the wedding and stuff, but truth is I just couldn't do it.  I know I'll regret it for the next 60 years and then burn in hell. 
I think since she pulled through that last death scare, I'll send her a little care package.  And maybe head up there for Thanksgiving again.  When I saw her last Thanksgiving, I sort of figured that would be the last time I saw her and I made peace with that and it was really hard to do.  After the summer that I had, I just didn't have it in me to do that again.

Why, I don't know.  She's been dying on and off again for 10 years.  I've done it countless times before.

I was tired.

But things are getting better.

7  Work.  Work work work work working working working.  Bad things are happening out there.  I hope it was just the weather and everyone goes back inside and leaves each other alone for a few months.

8  Soccer. 

9  Improv.

10  Halloween!  My decorations are up.  Jake wants to be a vampire.  I can't believe the vampire craze has filtered down to the Pre-K set.  I don't even know how he knows what a vampire is.

I dont' even know how he knows most of the stuff he knows.  (see #2)

I'm thinking about going as a witch. I've never been a witch before because I never felt old enough to be a witch.  Moms are witches.  Not kids like me.  Also, once you go witch, you never go back.  You just keep pulling that old hat out of the box every year until they put you in a home.  It's a fact.  I've seen it happen countless times before.

My favorite Halloween candy is Reese cups and Clark Bars.  What's yours?

***

Special thanks to Magaly and Katie Gates who have each given me a blog award.

Katie is writing a novel and shares bits of it on her blog every week.  Her writing has inspired me to get a move on a book of my own.  Whether I ever share it here or look to have it published, I don't know but I have been getting a little something down on paper.  It's hard.  I'm always putting pieces of myself in there and deleting them because I don't want anyone to know that it is a piece of myself.  Then I make some stuff up and delete that because I don't want anyone thinking that it is a piece of myself.  I feel like I'm giving away too much of me.  I feel slutty.  Even though there isn't any sexy stuff in there.  So maybe slutty is a bad choice.  I feel something.

If I ever write anything I publish, I want Katie to write my flap text.  On her blog she wrote this about me:
“Fever” is the appropriate title of Lora’s blog. And that word makes me think of Peggy Lee’s sensuous sounds. And jazz. That’s the type of writing you’ll find on this site. Lora’s narrative style is often reminiscent of musical riffing, and it can go deep. “Fever” posts can make you feel as if you’re in a cyberspace speakeasy. Rhythms, candor, and sometimes a wicked sense of humor take center stage when this resident of Philadelphia hits the keyboard.

Isn't that the nicest thing you've ever read about me in your whole entire life?



Magaly is also a real live writer, a real live student, a real live Pagan, a real live witch, a real live Marine, and a real live sweetheart.  If you don't know her blog, you should definitely check it out.  Ever hear that saying "never a dull moment"?  Magaly's mom surely made it up.  This girl is a wicked handful of amazing.



I made an off color joke on Facebook the other day.  It was in response to all the insincere and rote 9*11 shiz that is all over the site.  The "click like if 9*11 was the saddest day of your life"s or "we are all New Yorkers on 9*11"s.  Never mind the lives lost in DC or Pennsylvania.  Not to mention the soldiers and civilians who have given their lives since we retalited.  Or the families that suffer when their men and women are overseas fighting for us.  Or the sadness that so many people suffer every day.  In America and around the world.

September 11th has gone kitchy. 

"We're all Irish on St. Patricks Day!"
"Christmas is the hap, happiest sea-
son
of
all"

Wal*Mart (don't you dare tell anyone I was there on Friday) had a display of all the red white and blues- well, it's Wal*Mart, everything is maroon, cream, and navy.  They stylize and rusticize everything into Shabby Americana merchandise in the Chinese*Factory.  Probably because
a) they aren't allowed to make American stuff with real American colors and materials
b) it's cheaper
It's like those Phillies t-shirts you can buy outside of the stadium for $5.  Where the P isn't quite right and the Phanatic is teal. 

Wal*Mart (don't you dare tell anyone I was there on Friday) had a display of all the Amerikana stuff in the center of the store.  Step right up, step right up, folks.  Get your Patriot Day decorations. 
Next to the display was bbq tools and the sparklers.

What a way to dump all the leftover Memorial Day, Fourth, and Labor Day merch at full price!
Genius.

September 11th is officially cause for celebration and decoration.  All according to the powers that be at Wal*Mart.

Which, last I checked, are pretty powerful powers.

What was my tasteless joke?  I wrote on Dave's wall that I see a market in greeting cards.
Happy Patriot's Day, baby.  I love you more than all the other 9*11s put together
or
If I had to, godforbid, I'd spend the day crying in front of the television and trying desperately to get a phone signal with you all over again.
or
Thinking of your loss on September 11th and every day.

It's not too far off from the what people are wearing on t-shirts and putting on their status updates.

I spent last week talking to people about 9*11.  I'm sure most people did.  Where we were, how we reacted, who we lost.  I said to a few people, "I wonder how long it will be before we start getting the 11th off.  When the cook outs and beer guzzling will start.  Fireworks and cornhole.  Last day at the pool.  The new unofficial last day of summer.  I'll bet it happens in Jake's lifetime.  I don't think 9*11 is like 12/7.  I don't think it will fade into oblivion.  I just wonder how long it will be."

Answer: this year.

Maybe it has something to do with the eleventh falling on a Saturday.  Maybe not.

Once again, the all knowing Facebook cued me in to what some of my friends were doing yesterday
"heading to a bbq!"
"party!!!"
"going to the hall for some eats and drinks in memory of John Smith.  RIP Johnny, thankx for all you gave up"
"always remember my bro who I lost on 911.  This one is for you, Mikey. (insert mobile upload of Mikey's favorite drink)"

If you're on FB, you saw them, I'm sure.  I run with surly crowd, but I'm pretty sure that it wasn't just my people posting those things.

Did it upset you too?

I went to a party yesterday.  A Sweet Sixteen party.  Out in the burbs, totally not in relation to the (holi)day.  Jake needed a little break from the madness, so we took a walk around the block after dark.  A night walk.  We like nightwalks.

There were two familes doing sparklers, dads struggering (that's struggling and swaggering.  the drunken juggle) with the lighters and their beers.  The grill still smouldering in the corners of the driveways.  Mom eating a hotdog and taking a break.  One of them taking pictures of the kiddos.  Everyone wearing red white and blue.  I wonder if Old Navy has a $5 deal on those flag shirts in September.  Two teenaged girls in flag bikinis.  One stars and stripes, one confederate.

Klassy.

The church on the corner had a rememberance service and bbq on Saturday morning.  The service I'm okay with, but I wonder how many people came for the free food.

$1.50 Domestic Drafts at the bar across the street, September 11th only.  Go America.  Bottoms up.
Beer gets you smart, you know. 
Sure it does. 
Made ole' Bud weiser.

Back to the party until Jake lost it again.  I had a headache, it was a long day.  Pile in the car.  Headed home.  Down Lincoln through Prospect Park, on to 95.  Belly up to the City, and there it is.

Fireworks.
Real ones.  On the waterfront.

I'm happy to see that we've moved on enough to the point where we are okay to celebrate with explosives, booze, bikinis, and processed meat products.
Really effing happy.

About six weeks shy of a year ago, I sucked up everything I got in me and took an improv class.  I took an improv class because I had debilitating stage fright that was getting the better of me and butting into my personal and professional life and holding me back from doing some things that I always thought I'd be doing by the time I was this old and I figured that it was high time to get the hell over my damned self.

About six weeks shy of a year later, I am performing Live! and On Stage! in the Philadelphia Fringe Fest as part of a hand-selected Philly Improv Theater House Team in front of large(ish) audiences in a big(ish) theater.

If you would have stood in front of me on 09/09/09 and told me I'd be a part of all this- of any of this- I would have laughed.  Or cried.  Or slapped you and ran away.

Conquering your biggest fear and going far beyond what you ever imagined to set out to do is a pretty damned good feeling.  I recommend it to any of you.

hooligan

Hello, my name is Lora, and I'm a soccer mom.
Oh, the horrors.

Jake is playing in a 4-6 league.  His first practice was last week, and I was glad to see that he was one of the bigger kids on the team.  Not the biggest, but one of. 
His first game was tonight, and that rumor that they stuck all the new guys and the young ones on one team?  True.  The other team was huge.  Like almost 7 huge.  They killed Jake's team.

Rewind to last week before the first practice.  Jake was nervous about whether the kids would like him, would he like them, how good would he be, and what if he got hurt.  That last one was a big one. 

"Sometimes you get hurt in soccer", Dave told him before practice. 
"Sometimes you get hurt in soccer", I reminded him tonight.

Because sometimes you do.

Like when you play the big kids?

Maybe. 

Cut to tonight, midway through the game.  It's really hard to tell the kids apart, especially when the field is dusty and no one turns on the lights after sundown.  Just a bunch of rugrats bunched together all sort of doing the same thing. 

And then the dust settles a bit, and you see one little guy kicking the crap out of four big guys.  Including one girl. 

That's Jake out there, pushing and punching and pulling pigtails.  My little Zen Child Pacifist Wonder. 

After the game we ask him what was going on.  Dave thought maybe they hit him first.  I didn't, I saw it start.  I saw Jake start it.  Mr. Never Hit First, and Even then Maybe not Hit Back because Sometimes People Who Hit Might Have it Rough at Home and They Need Love More than More Hitting So I Know You Say it's Okay to Hit Back, Mom, but I Don't Really Think it's Always the Right Thing to Do.

He took a deep breath, put on his game face, and raised his hands in tiny little air quotes.

"Sometimes you get hurt in soccer... yeeeaaaaahh"
*fist pump*
*devil hands*
*bared teeth*
*smirk*

It's going to be a long season.

Yesterday was the first day of school.

Not for Jake.  Oh no.  I'm not putting that one in preschool.  I've looked into them, and there are no matches to be found.  They are mostly half-day programs, and the ones that aren't are thousands of dollars a year or run by a bunch of hippies.  Not that I don't pay thousands for daycare, but he is loved at daycare.  He loves it there.  It's structured, but not obnoxiously so.  Also, Jake has plenty of school in his future.  I'm okay with letting this year pass.

Have you met Jake?  He runs circles around socialization and making friends.  He'll be fine.  I'll be fine.  We'll all be fine.

A lot of the preschools around here teach colors and letters and numbers and opposites and cut and paste and all that crap.  Yeah, no.  My kid is doing arithmetic and spelling and sounding out words.  He would go ballistic if someone sat him down and tried to teach him what the number 142 and the word CAT looked like.
My kid would be a total asshole in school.  A behavior problem.  The fidgety bored kid the teacher hates.
So, he'll wait to go to school until next year.  Until the law sanctions his attendance.

Kindergarten was recently made mandatory in Philadelphia.  Before that, you didn't have to go.  Strange, no?  Pennsylvania has all sorts of weird school rules.  Until a couple years ago, you didn't have to be enrolled until age 8, and if you belonged to a certain sect, you could leave at 13.  I think the Amish were ruling our state.  Somehow.  Or something.

Every day this year, I'll be saying to myself "next year this time Jake will be in kindergarten".  There won't be any more back to school days that he won't be a part of for the next 12-20 years.  Only one more winter break that he will have the pleasure of not looking forward too.  One more summer that he won't count the days til.

Craziness.  They weren't kidding when they said this all happens fast.

Last weekend we took advantage of the Labor Day Mattress Sale and bought a big bed for Jake.  His crib converted into a toddler bed, and that turns into a full sized bed that he'll sleep in for the next 14 years.  At least.  I spent a few hours on Sunday doing the conversion (I rock at that sort of stuff, if you ever buy anything that needs to be put together, call me.  I'm a whiz at diy furniture as long as you leave me alone with the task).  I somehow managed to fit a full size bed into a bite sized room and still make space for a wagon full of toys and about six square inches to play with them.  Score. 

I can't stop staring at that big empty bed frame.  The mattress comes on Friday, and I feel like it's somehow about to change my life.

It won't, but it certainly stands for something that will.

I'm not dead.
Or even really that sick any more.
In case you were wondering.

I did have to switch antibiotics, which was another nachtmare.  I called into my Primary Doc last Friday who got back to my message about being on Bactrim for almost a week with little improvement with a "you're going to have to go back to the emergency room or call me on Tuesday, because I don't have room for you today and can't just call in something for you".

Eff you dude, guess who is getting a new doctor.  And yes you can, you've called things in for me thirty times.

Also?  Naught for nothing?  He is the same guy who birthed Dave.  So it isn't like he doesn't know who he's dealing with.  Dave's whole family has been going there for nearly 40 years.  The doctor has been nothing but amazing to me for the last 15, until this.  But he done fucked up.

Clearly the man has never had a kidney problem.

Because kidney problems hurt really bad, and they are really somewhat serious.

Oh, one more medical thing and then I'm done.
So I was at the GYN for a non-related, non-invasive in-office procedure.  As if.  I mean, can the GYN ever do anything non-invasive?  By definition, a gynecologist invases.  Invades?  Gets invasive.
She was looking over my record and asked when the last time I'd had a breast exam done.
"I'm not sure, but you can do one now if it's been a long time"
"Sorry, I'm not allowed to do that unless you are here for a pap.  It's against hospital and insurance policy because too many women have sued their doctor for touching their breasts when it wasn't medically necessary.  I can give you a script for a specialist, or you can pay out of pocket, but unfortunately, I can't examine your breasts today, not even with your permission."

Oh
My
God.

Seriously.

The world has boiled down to a state where I can't sign to have someone pay someone else to touch my breasts when I want my breasts to be touched.

Dammit.

Touch my breasts.
Someone.

Is there a doctor without scruples in the house?