Sew and sew

Since I have this fancy sewing room, I am using it.

I dug out a quilt top I made forever ago, and promptly screwed it up when I tried to put a binding on it.

So, I need to practice binding, so I made some runners. One of them....I had to cut the binding off and now it's an oddly thin scrappy runner with a terrible binding. Then I made another one from scraps and if you don't look closely, it's not as horrible. And I got to practice making strips and joining them to make a scrappy binding, which I think is actually pretty cute.

And then today I was feeling all kinds of sorry for myself and sad. But I figured out what this really pretty pre-quilted fabric I bought a while ago wanted to be.  A cute bag with pleats. So I gathered together some options and then looked all over the interwebs for a pattern that I liked.

I didn't see any I loved, so I decided to cobble together my own thing.


And then put it all together wrong.




Oops. The lining was inside out when I turned it. I had to rip.

And then I screwed up the lining again when I went to tack it down and I will have to fix it. But I can fix it tomorrow instead of tonight.

Not proud of myself.

I am feeling vulnerable and sad. Which means that instead of telling my husband, I just yell at him. Because if I let him know how sad I am, then he will be sad. And I don't want to deal with anyone else's shit right now.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

So it's OPK time here at chez Old Fart. So this evening I held it as long as I could to try and get a good sample to test the dipsticks. I managed to pee all over my hand and then drop the cup into the toilet. The cups are little tiny solo cups like shot glass sized, I think. And plastic, not paper.
I somehow managed to grab a second cup and catch a sample.

And then I flushed and remembered there was still a plastic cup in the bowl.You can't unflush the damn thing so.....I reached into the swirling water and snatched the cup out. The horror of that was nothing compared to the thousands of dollars in plumbing bills I envisioned when that little bastard got caught in the sewer lateral and the whole house started to back up.

I've mentioned the OCD a couple dozen times. I'm a handwasher. Not extreme, but I enjoy a good scour. I have only allowed myself to wash twice for this incident.
I would very much like to wash more.
I would like to reassure myself that I did a thorough wash with hot water twice and that is clean enough.
But instead I have to think "maybe they are clean, maybe not." Because them's the CBT rules.

This shit never happens on Martha Stewart.

So, it's summer and now I have the urge to make things and can them. And then  the OCD compulsion to not allow anyone to eat them. But I'm trying.

Last night I hulled a shitload of strawberries and mixed up some vanilla strawberry jam and stuck it in the fridge to macerate overnight. And then I pulled out some rhubarb I had picked and chopped and froze a few weeks ago. I tossed it into the crockpot with vanilla beans, really strong chai tea, and a lot of fresh ginger and let it cook down all night long.

This morning I woke up with big plans. I boiled the strawberry vanilla goop and then jarred it up and canned it. It didn't set, I thought it probably would not. So it's strawberry sauce instead. Then I blitzed the stewed rhubarb with the stick blender and put it on to thicken up. When it was ready I got the jars all ready to go and filled with super sour, but oh, so good rhubarb butter. Went to process the last couple jars and noticed the water level n the canner was low.

So I picked up the other large pot full of very hot water (boiling ten minutes ago) and went to add it to the bigger pot.

This was a mistake. The second I picked it up I knew some shit was gonna go down. And yet....I carried on. Like a DUMBASS. Yeah, I spilled it. On my wrist. On my leg. On my belly. And then I thought I should put the damn pot down.

I got my burns under cool water and then used vinegar to help take the sting out. Then I finished the stupid rhubarb butter. Then I called my doc's office and hauled ass over there to see one of her colleagues who had an opening. I have second degree burns on my belly and leg and a nasty scald on my wrist. I have the magical silver burn cream from the doctor and a lot of bandages. And I am not allowed in a pool for a week, possibly longer if she doesn't like how things look next Monday.
I think things will look just fine. :D Mainly because I want to be back in the pool, man.

Well, this is a thing that happened.

So since I was sick in January, I have acquired a fair number of medical professionals that I tend to think of as Team Annie. I have a new GP, a psychiatrist, a therapist and as of May, a new endocrinologist. It isn't a secret among those close to me, but I have struggled with anxiety and panic attacks for most of my life. In my thirties, it got worse. While in hospital for my evil gallbladder, I requested a psych eval while I was essentially stuck with no place to hide. Kind of a roundabout way to do things, I know, but I suppose desperate times call for desperate measures. All that matters is I finally asked for help. And I am getting help. And I'm no where near better, but the world is a tiny bit less scary than it was for me 6 months ago. I am sure I will talk about this more in the future, but it's some background on how these particular members of Team Annie were involved in this latest chapter of WTF Theatre.

Thirteen years ago I was diagnosed with a genetic disorder called Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia. There are different forms of it, if you have ever heard of it before it's probably been  the classic form where girls are born with ambiguous genitalia and the sex of the baby cannot always be determined by looking. It's more than that, though. The classic form can be fatal because it can cause salt-wasting. The non classic form, which I was told that I had, has symptoms like irregular menses, hair loss, weight gain and other delights. The symptoms are very much like Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome but PCOS is based in insulin resistance while NCCAH is based on a body that doesn't make enough of the hormone cortisol and in trying to stimulate the adrenal glands to make enough, too many other hormones are produced and things get out of whack.

So I was told I was essentially infertile on my own, and my husband and I would need genetic counseling if we did decide to have children with fertility assistance. CAH can be fatal in infants and children if there is salt-wasting or an adrenal crisis occurs. I was twenty six years old and had been married for three years. I grieved. I always wanted a baby, maybe two. My husband was less certain, I knew he was a fence sitter. But this seemed to close that door for me. But my husband, I think, was in some way relieved, he could now freely state that he was positive that he did not want children.  Ever.

For several reasons it was a rough patch for us at that time. There were growing pains for us. Some typical of young marriages, some maybe less so. And then we found this out and it seemed to help us find some common ground again and we worked out  some issues and moved on confident that not having children was the right course for us, the only course, really, since I was defective.

Fast forward to December 31st, 2012. As I am being triaged in the emergency room I have to make sure they know I have CAH, because I will probably need steroid support to keep me from having an adrenal crisis after vomiting more than I ever thought was possible for one human to vomit. It is noted in my charts, the next few days were a blur for me between dehydration and massive amounts of dilaudid for pain control. Things got more clear after a PICC line was started and I began to get hydrated for real 48 hours after I was admitted. CAH was not brought up again and I kept forgetting to ask. I assumed at some point, I was given steroids.

Seeing my new GP once I was sprung she noticed that I had not been given steroids, she asked some questions and we focused on the issues at hand. It kept kind of popping up in the back of my mind. So after a couple months, I asked my psychiatrist and therapist if it was possible that my adrenal issues could be affecting my anxiety levels. Their answers were a resounding YES. So I asked my GP if we could test that. We did, and holy wow did I open a can of worms. My results were not what we expected. So she referred me to a new endocrinologist.. Which made sense anyway, since I am now diabetic and have a thyroid that has decided to crap out on me as well. So I go. More blood was drawn. Saliva was collected. Again,the results were not adding up. He decided on one more test, an ACTH stimulation test, which would be conclusive once and for all.

It was conclusive, and the conclusion was that I do not have this genetic disorder. I never did. The labs all indicate that I have healthy and functional adrenal glands. My CT scans from pancreatitis were reviewed again to look at my adrenals glands, no lumps or bumps on them. Healthy. Which is good, do not get me wrong, one less thing that can kill me? Yeah, I am more than happy to take that.  Bring that shit ON.

But also, I was probably never infertile. I was never at risk for passing along a fatal disorder. I had choices that I never thought were going to be available to me. But I'm not 26 anymore. And my health has taken a serious hit this year. And my husband is more convinced than ever that he doesn't want to share his life with children. Just when I am realizing it's something I might have wanted after all. But if that door is still open at all, it's closing fast. And there is only one person I would want to have children with, and he is positive he doesn't want them.

How did that happen? There was a shitload of blood work to get that diagnosis, it's a fairly straightforward process. It's not really something that could be accidentally interpreted. And even if it was, I had follow up labs. I had followups after she began treating me with steroids. For a year. I was on corticosteroids for a year. For nothing. Steroids that can impair your insulin response. And that reproductive endocrinology clinic has since closed down and my records were lost in one of the floods in my house, and my new doctor could not get ahold of my original labs to see why I ever would have been misdiagnosed.

So that's where I am now. I have known this for nearly a week and the shock of it all still takes my breath away and makes me cry. What I am most angry about, I think, is that with proper treatment I might not have ended up diabetic at age 38. That we could have treated my insulin resistance and I could have implemented lifestyle changes 13 years ago that would still be benefiting me today. And I also feel like I have some more grief about choices I never had the chance to make. I am sad and I am angry. I am so angry.

I should feel wittier

or something. But I don't. I just feel this empty blog yawning before me, mocking me.
So I scrounged up a cute template. I wanted to add one of those kick-ass project-o-meters I see on all the cool knitting blogs. Oh yes, there are knitting blogs by the bajillion. But I had permanent fatal errors with my shitty code abilities. By which I mean my copy and paste in the right hole abilities. I don't write code. Oh, no. I leave that crap to the hubs. But thanks to computer genius knitters, I triumphed! And now it's cute, it has meters and all that's missing is some navel gazing. My speciality.

So here I am, world: a new blog, a new outlet for my bitchery, and my knittery. I might bust out into song, or tears, I never quite know what the hell is going to happen. If you're here, you probably know me. Or you think you know, but you have no idea...ahhh, remember when The Real World was something other than a drunken, spray-tanned herpes nest?

Here is a crazypants moment that is pretty funny:
At knitting group a while back my knitties Beth and Erin were discussing crockpots. Midwesterners love the shit out of some crockpots in case you never knew this. I think it's genetic. I use mine a lot and many of my friends do as well. I go through them a lot, too, sadly. They drown, they get smashed all to hell by the husband, I threw a dirty one away at 3 am during a basement flood just because, well, it seemed like a good idea at the moment (I miss that thing!) So knitting group, yeah...
My friends both have new traveling crockies. With locking lids. So no more spilling hot chili in the car as Beth explained enthusiastically (she makes some awesome chili, but it's probably less awesome to drive the chili mobile around for a few weeks)
I exclaimed how much I wanted one. And then added "Wait, why does the agoraphobic girl need a TRAVELING crockpot?" Because , yeah...not so much, really.
I got one, though. After The Man smashed my old one to hell by dropping a full third of my glassware into it I figured why not shoot for the moon? Big crockpot, big dreams and all that.